Grief

This past Sunday was International Bereaved Mothers Day. It got me thinking about the timeline of grief and how long it lasts.

 
I am a list checker. I write things down, then cross them off. It helps me to remember what I need to focus on and gives me a sense of accomplishment when I complete the task.

The tricky thing with grieving is that it isn’t something you can just “do” then cross off the list. There is this unspoken (and often times spoken) idea that you will be better after a few months or a year. That could not be further from the truth.

There is no timeline, no date when it ends and no gold star on the calendar. It’s a forever process. I will never fully move on from the death of my sweet boy, or ever get over it, or ever forget. I will always be a bereaved mother. 

There are good days, ok days and then days where that nasty grief reaches up and bitch slaps me right in the face. It is tough work, this grief business, but I keep on working through it. One day at a time, one minute at a time and sometimes one second at a time. 

Great Expectations

A family we know experiencing their own devastating loss gave Robert and I one of the best pieces of advice to navigate the sea of grief we live in these days. They told us to give up the expectations we have of those around us.

I had to mull this one over for a bit because I generally have high expectations; of those around me and of myself. I am a do more, do better, love fiercely, be your best, be there for your friends and family, put it all on the table kind of gal.

But I have found in the face of major life altering event two things will happen:

1. You will be disappointed and heartbroken by those you had high expectations of. People we have known for years, who I thought would be there to hold our hands, send a text or a card, or words of support, weren’t. Regardless of the reason it stings. My hospice counselor said it best when she told me not only was I mourning for the loss of my son I was also mourning the loss of relationships I really valued.          
2. You will be incredibly amazed by the support you receive from places you didn’t expect it. My coworker who didn’t have the words slipped a Hershey bar on my desk every few days, friends of friends sent emails and asked how we were doing, Amish women worked endlessly to finish a quilt in record time. It came from people and places we could not have imagined. It lifted us up when we couldn’t lift ourselves.

And I haven’t even touched on the support from our parents, close family or other special people because there isn’t enough bandwidth on the internet to say thank you for all they did. One day I will try but it will probably never measure up. 

My goal for 2013 is to let my expectations go, of others and myself. I am giving them up and moving on. 

It’s hard as hell. I am not going to lie; sometimes I want to cling to them fiercely.  But I have found that when I do incredible things begin to happen. Relationships come easier, I am gentler on myself and others, and I feel lighter. Those damn expectations weigh a ton. It’s like my instructor says in yoga class: “Leave what does not serve you outside your mat”. They were not serving me so I am checking them at the door. 

Here is to a brighter and lighter 2013. 

Just because she is the reason I get up every morning. 

Robert Weldon Hill III

I love a good birth story. When you hang out at LLL and Birth Circle meetings you get to hear lots of great birth stories. It just makes you feel good, listening to mothers gush about bringing their babies into this world. 

While the finale of baby Roberts story is heartbreaking, how he came into this world was completely amazing and is a story I will treasure always.

Robert Weldon Hill III was born on December 13th at 8:55 am, accidentally at home, on the toilet (no he didn't fall in), surrounded by his loving family. We got to share one amazing hour with him before he left this world. 

I woke up at 3 am having contractions and could not get back to sleep so I went downstairs to the living room, watched some trash TV and just tried to hang out. Labor with Lenora was 24 hours so I figured we had plenty of time. Plus I had an epidural so I wasn't exactly sure what natural childbirth would feel like. I was getting pretty restless so I went back upstairs woke Robert up and took a shower. Since I still figured we still had lots of time I made him swear not to wake anyone up or tell anyone. I just wanted some time to let it all sink in. I laid back in bed and rested until Lenora woke up at 7. Robert made us eggs for breakfast and drove Lenora to daycare. 

It was around 8 am and by this point it was getting pretty intense but still bearable. I was on all fours in the living room and was making crazy mooing birth noises, which I found out later my neighbor heard every last one of. The doula was on the way and I figured when she got there she would tell me to head to the hospital. My MIL was up and milling around and Robert was eating a bowl of cheerios, which stunk to high heaven. Your sense of smell in labor is 10000 times stronger. I don't think I will ever look at cheerios the same again. 

Then I had to poop. I should have known he was almost here but I had been pooping all morning. Again, I had never done this before the good old fashioned way and wasn't planning on it happening at home so I just went with it. My mom had made her way over and I was sitting on the john yelling for Robert to wipe my rear. I made him swear a few days before no matter what happened he would be the designated rear wiper. No one else was allowed in that zone. 

This is when all hell broke loose. My mom is standing there with a bottle of Purell and "how to give birth at home" instructions she printed off google, Robert is calling to find out where the doula is and I am making crazy noises in the bathroom. I remember yelling at someone to take my pants of, yelling at my mom to stop reading the birth instructions and yelling at Robert to get in the bathroom. 

When they tell you your body knows what its doing during natural childbirth they are right. There was no stopping this birth train, I was on auto pilot. All the sudden there I was pushing him out. 3 pushes later and he made his grand entrance, my accidental home birth baby. 

It was AMAZING. Its hard to put into words just how (please forgive my language) completely BAD ASS it was. I was woman. I roared. I delivered a baby at home with no drugs. And you bet your sweet bippy I plan on doing it again. 

Due to his condition we didn't know what to expect but he was perfect in every way. Even his tiny little crooked foot was perfect. He made one small squeak and that was it. He never opened his eyes, but he did take a few breaths. He was so peaceful and the most beautiful baby I had ever seen. 

His one hour with us was filled with family and love and kisses and promises that we would never forget him. I could feel my heart split wide open with the love I have for this child. He knew exactly what he was doing and his birth and life were a gift to us all. 

Not a day goes by that I don't wish he was still here with us, and when I get all sad and weepy I just think about how he came into this world and it brings a smile to my face.

ps. If you want the un-edited, play by play, laugh your pants off version of this story, call my mother. I think she remembers it even better than I do. And she still has her copy of how to give birth at home if you need some pointers. 

pps. Professional photos were done by Jillian Mills (through NILMDTS), a special soul, at Heart Love Photography.

Ready As I'll Never Be

I have hit the 38 week mark today.

Recently I woke up thinking I was in labor 2 days in a row. Turned out to be just gas pains and I had to go to the bathroom. Lovely, but it got me thinking just how close we are to meeting this little baby and it scares the living daylights out of me.

I am torn. In a way I am ready for the next chapter, to finally get to meet him, and to not be pregnant anymore. I am puffy, my hip hurts and getting out of bed 300 times a night to pee involves grunting and rolling.

But I know what giving birth means this time around. He will pass on. I will have no snuggly newborn to bring home, no cute pictures to take or funny I have been crapped on 3 times today stories to share. What I will have is a giant ass grief hole I get to try not to sink into every day.

My bag is packed, not with diapers and baby stuff, but with things to make memories in minutes with. And I have spent a small fortune on all sorts of holistic stress and grief remedies since I am not a huge fan of prescription drugs.

So we wait, and I try to fill my days with good things and good memories; finding the joy, decorating for Christmas, playing with Lenora, sewing and eating way to many bowls of ice cream.

 

It’s hard to believe we have made it this far, but I know in my heart I have given this little babe a chance at life, however long that may be.

Thankful

These are the moments I am thankful for.

At the advice of the wonderful ladies at the Chesapeake Hospice Life Center we purchased a couple of mini recorders at the Build a Bear store. We had the baby's heartbeat recorded at our last sonogram and placed them into two bears, one for Lenora and one for me. Lenora has been carrying the bears around non stop since we brought them home and every time she presses the button to hear the heartbeat she breaks into a huge smile and hugs them close. 

Thanksgiving day she fell asleep with one in each arm. How precious a sight this was. I have two babies and moments like this to be thankful for. 

In the Kitchen

When life stresses me out I tend to go into hibernation mode. I want to stay in, putter around my house, cook, eat and then fall asleep. Usually in that order.  I have been doing much of all of these things lately. I takes a constant effort not to turn into a total recluse. The closer I get to my due date the more inward I turn. I know some of that is to be expected but I am not sure complete isolation is the answer either. Oh, the struggle to find balance.

 
 
I have been cooking up a storm these days.

 
I made these Pumpkin Cinnamon Rolls by Smitten Kitchen. They were delicious but I would have to say I wish they were gooeyer (is that a word). I like my cinnamon rolls all soggy and squishy in the middle. 

 
Then I made this Salted Caramel Apple Pie by Ashley English. Hands down the best apple pie I have ever tasted. We devoured every last slice. I will be making it again this year for Thanksgiving and every year after. It is that good. I did learn this is not a pie you can just throw together in an hour. There are steps, it takes some time, so set aside a day when you can slowly work your way through the recipe. Put on some music and get into it. You will not be disappointed. 

And here I am doing the 2 things I love to do the most, lay in bed and eat home cooking. Can you see the joy?  

Oh yea. Shovel it in. 

The Bomb

Robert and I have affectionately coined telling people about our situation “dropping the bomb”.

That is how it felt when the specialist first gave us the diagnosis. It left us reeling, we went to bed, I puked and I am certain the aftermath is going to last, well, forever. Not so unlike atomic fallout. We will spend the rest of our lives recovering from this.

(completely unrelated, but too cute not to share)

You never realize just how many people you know, be it co-workers, friends, family and casual acquaintances when you have to share such horrible news. It’s not something we can keep a secret either, because one day I will not have this huge ole belly and I will not have a snuggly newborn to show off either.

So when we run into folks who don’t know yet and innocently inquire about the baby, we just turn to each other, suck in a breath and “drop the bomb”. It doesn’t feel good, because we know we just pretty much ruined their day. And no one wants to be the messenger of death. It’s a loose, loose situation for all parties involved.  I feel like Debbie Downer all the time. I get tired of my own story, the broken record of having to share it, over and over and over. Some days it’s easier to hole up in the house, rather than leave and chance having to talk about it.

Then what do you do about all the people you don’t know who just love to love on a pregnant woman? The little old ladies in the grocery store, the other mothers in the coffee shop, the checkout gal at the Target. When you have a giant baby bump everyone wants to talk to you, share in the (what under normal circumstances would be) excitement and tell you about their own children.

We call that selective bomb dropping. Sometimes we just don’t even want to go there. It’s too hard. When asked about the due date or the sex we just cough up the generic answers, December 26^th, pretty sure it’s a boy, yes we are excited. All the while shaking our head and thinking…if they only knew.

(It was all his idea and for the record no dogs were harmed in these events)

Sometimes there are people you just get the itch to share your story with. For some reason there is a little spark, a feeling they might understand, just might say the right thing at the right time that you so desperately need to hear. I told someone at the grocery store a few weeks ago. She hugged me and made me write down the baby’s name. She was taking it to church the next day to pray for us. In that instance it felt good to share.

I am leaving on Wednesday to channel my inner artist at Squam by the Sea in North Carolina with 80 other people whom I have never met. I planned this trip a year ago before this all happened. I am excited but TERRIFIED. What if they don’t like me? What if no one wants to paint with Debbie Downer? I will spend 4 nights under the same roof with a bunch of strangers. How will I drop this bomb? Certainly I can’t keep it all to myself, I just might explode. I guess if I can put my business out there for all of the world to read, 80 people is nothing, right?

They also have a blog and today’s post about the upcoming retreat is titled “this healing place”. Maybe its a sign? I can only hope the next few days will be just that. A time to get away, recharge, get lost in paint, awaken the muse, and just be. 

Wish me luck. I’m jumping in. 

Blessingway

After I had Lenora I struggled to find mom friends to connect with. Most everyone I knew didn’t have children and once you have one everything is different. I didn’t fit into their world and they could not relate to mine. So I reached out and joined a local moms group and the La Leche League. I went to the first couple of meetings terrified they wouldn’t like me, I would never make new friends and I would be a new mom alone covered in crap and drool. 

I could not have been more wrong. I was blessed to meet the most wonderful group of gals and their children. I have not known them long, a little over a year, but they just gave me the best gift ever.

A few weeks ago they threw me a Blessingway. It’s an alternative version of a baby shower based on Native American traditions of blessing an expectant mother.

There are lots of different activities you can do to send the mother good birth and baby juju.

We ate tons of yummy food. What else could a pregnant woman ask for?

They did reflexology and rubbed my feet. You know you have good friends if they are willing to get down and dirty on your footsies. They also rubbed Lenora’s feet which she fell in love with. Now at every bath time she grabs the soap, lifts her feet up and points to them. Little bugger is expecting a foot massage. I give in every time. They also painted my foot with henna in a pretty design.

Each of the women brought beads they thought symbolized me and this pregnancy. They went around the room saying why they picked the beads they did, then strung them into an amazing birth necklace. It’s like a magical talisman. I want to wear it and dance naked in the woods. Seriously, it makes me feel that good every time I look at it.

They braided my hair and put lots of fresh flowers in it. I felt like a goddess and looked like one too. I should have gone dancing that night. I would have looked fantastic in my mug shot photo for being arrested for naked dancing in the woods. 

They also left me with a handmade book filled with letters of support and encouragement. I was scared to read them. I thought I would cry like a baby but the words they wrote were inspiring and lifted me right through the roof.

It was an amazing day and the perfect balm for my wounded soul. They believed in me and they believed in this baby and acknowledged him (a post on that coming soon).

The juju was overwhelming.

Most people will never get to meet this baby and hold him and experience his life. The past few months there have been people that barely acknowledge the fact that I am carrying a child. I guess to them since he will not live long it doesn’t count. It’s a horrible feeling to know that some people think that way. This day was completely the opposite. It was a celebration of birth and mothers and life. 

It was perfect. 

Thou Shall Not Compare

It has been really hard for me to relate to other mothers/parents/people lately. Heck, it’s hard for me to relate to anyone these days. I find myself comparing the events in their lives to my kidney-less baby.

When I hear someone talk about how terrible it is that their kids have hand foot and mouth disease or their dog crapped on their bed again or their husband is being an asshat (man I love that word), I want to scream “YOU THINK YOUR LIFE SUCKS, MY BABY IS GOING TO DIE. PUT THAT IN YOUR PITY PIPE AND SMOKE IT”. I would gladly take on all that you think is crappy in exchange for a working kidney. Just one, we only need one. Bring it on sister.

But I know that is not the answer and it would be a particularly nasty and insensitive thing for me to say.

Being in a situation like this really slaps you in the face with a dose of perspective. What I used to think was bad is nothing compared to this. Not even close.

Nevertheless, life isn’t about comparing. Comparing will make you bat shit crazy, be it my soon to be dead baby to your live one, or your parenting choices or even the way you comb your hair. Nothing will ever seem equal or fair. And it’s not supposed to. My path is not the same as your path, nor would I ever want it to be. 

Which brings me to the point of this post.

This is one of my mother’s favorite nuggets of wisdom.

“Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.” Longfellow

If you saw Robert, Lenora and I walking down the street you might think what a nice, all American, 1.5 children family we are. You would have no idea the personal hell we are living. The same can be said about each and every one of you. Your bought of hand foot and mouth disease or asshat husband only scratches the surface. Who knows what secret sorrows lie just below, or what crap cards life has dealt you.
 

So I have to keep reminding myself every time I want to compare and scream and throw one holy mother of a temper tantrum that is not necessary. This is my path and my (not so) secret sorrow. And each of you has your own.

 

Trying to compare will only drive me crazy, bat shit crazy. 

Funeral Homes and French Fries

It's strange how life is different after receiving a death sentence. It's also strange how much of it stays the same. Like when it rains only on one half of the street, or Bell's Palsy, or standing on the border of a state line. You are one foot in normal and one foot in a whole new crazy, jacked up world.

Something is profoundly different yet life just keeps going on around you. It makes me dizzy.

Last Monday we went to the funeral home to sign some paperwork and make the cremation arrangements ahead of time. I called Robert to let him know I was on my way. He was at the McDonalds getting a burger so I told him to get me some extra fries. We sat in his truck in the parking lot eating fries and chatting, just like any other ordinary couple. It was a beautiful day. It was normal.

The we walked through the doors into another realm. Signing cremation papers for your unborn child and talking about the different flavors of death certificates for babies is not normal. Not normal at all. Not normal like eating fries in a pick-up truck.

Surprisingly it wasnt as bad as I thought. That is after I cried the whole drive there. I might have freaked out the funeral director when I walked in and burst into giggles at the sight of the wall of urns. Is giggling like a 15 year old girl in a funeral home normal? Not sure about that one.  It was just so surreal. Its like walking into a store to pick out shoes. They come in small, medium and large sizes. You want wood or marble or a little sculpture, they have it. And what is with all the Asian inspired urns? If there are any funeral home peeps reading this here blog of mine you need to step it up a notch in the urn department. Just saying. Something cheerful would be nice.

(me at 26 weeks)

This is how we live our lives these days, straddling the abys. One foot in normal and one foot in a whole new crazy, jacked up world.

Strength

People keep telling me how strong I am.

I am going to be really honest here. I don't feel very strong. I feel like a total weenie most days, a blubbering fool or Gumby, ready to fall over at the drop of a dime.

I didn't make the decision to carry on with this pregnancy based on my unrelenting strength, die hard religious conviction or anti abortion sentiment. It was becuase I coundn't make any choice. I just could not decide how long this baby got to live or when it got to die. It wasn't my choice to make. I figured I would let the baby or nature decide for me.

That doesn't feel very strong. Sometimes it feels like a sissy way out.

There are days I beg nature to decide already and put me out of my misery. Days where I think I cannot do this one second longer and it would be better if this child passed away. Days I think that might be the answer to ease this pain. 

Then I feel like a total asshat for even thinking thoughts like this. 

I know the only time I am going to get with this child is while it is still in my belly and the very short moments after birth, if we even make it that far. I try to make the best of it. To relish in every kick, every movement, every bout of killer heartburn. I try to be positive, to be brave and not complain. But damn it is hard. 

Some days I wish I had a better reason for my decision, other than it wasn't my choice to make. Would it be easier if I could shout at the top of my lungs "Jesus loves the little children" and believe without a shadow of a doubt this is part of Gods master plan. Perhaps. Would it be easier if I had spent years picketing abortion clinics and this was a true test of my beliefs. Maybe. Is there anything that could possibly make something like this easier and give me strength. I really don't think so.

So I am going to hike up my big girl panties and soldier on and stand by my choice to not make a choice.

Maybe someday I will let out a fierce roar and feel the strength, but for now I am just going to try not to fall down.

You know what's really strong; spider webs, cats that run into burning buildings to save their kittens, vegans who never eat bacon, Marines and Kevlar.

But not me.

Kill A Kitten

The day we found out our little nugget had no kidneys I walked out of the doctors office broken and angry. I turned to Robert and said "I am so mad I just want to......." then racked my brain for the most horrible thing I could think of to release this anger I had boiling inside me. Then it came to me "I am so mad I just want to.....run over a kitten". Terrible I know, but please don't judge. If someone just told you your baby was going to die I bet you could think of worse things you would like to do. And running over a kitten is something I would never, ever, act on. I love kittens, all animals and defend the little slugs that live on my porch every time Robert threatens to off them. I even say prayers for the little squished animals on the side of the road, that they didn't die in pain and they are in a better place. 

Imaging my surprise the other day as I am driving down the road listening to my ipod on random and this song comes on, Kill a Kitten by Stephen Lynch. I didn't even know I had it loaded and it was the first time ever it came up durning the random shuffle. 

I laughed so hard I almost pissed my pants, which really isnt all that hard to do when you are 5 months pregnant. It just goes to show you sometime laughter is the best medicine. It certainly beats the socks off of white hot boiling anger. 

You Are a Child of the Universe

This photo was taken a week before our world came crashing down. 

We were on our first family vacation in Nags Head, NC and waiting the arrival of our 2nd baby due the day after Christmas 2012.  Life was grand, Robert was home from work travel and we had 2 healthy kids...so we thought. 

When we got back from vacation we went for our 20 week ultrasound on August 6th to find out the sex of the baby and put to rest the great circumcision debate Robert and I were having. The tech found something wrong, called in the doctor at the sonogram office who mentioned I had low fluid and called my midwife. At this point we didn't think much of it and waited for what to do next. The midwife sent me straight to a specialist in Annapolis to get a better look. It was at the specialists office they dropped the bomb. 

Bilateral Renal Agenesis, also known as Potters Syndrome. Our baby had no kidneys, nothing, not even a speck of a kidney. That is what was causing the low fluid. They told us it was "not compatible with life" and there was zero chance our baby would live. I could feel the baby move, it was most certainly alive. What happens with Potters Syndrome is that the placenta keeps the baby alive until birth. Once born, due to the lack of kidneys and no amniotic fluid the baby's lungs are underdeveloped and the baby will die. There is also greater chance the baby will die in the womb or during birth, but if born alive will live only a few hours. 

We were given two options, carry on or decide on an early induction and end the pregnancy. This has got to be the biggest mind fuck ever in the history of all mankind. My baby was alive, its heart and brain were all there and working perfectly, I was keeping it alive but when it is born it would die, and they were giving me the option to make it happen sooner. We went home and I cried myself sick and spent the next few days trying to figure out what to do. Ultimately we decided to let the baby decide how long he/she was going to live. It was not our place to decide to take this child's life. So now we wait and while we plan for a birth we are also planning for a death. We love this baby and we wanted this baby and we are going to give it all the love we can until it grows wings and flys away. 

Never in a million years could I have predicted this and I would not wish this kind of pain on anyone but I keep telling myself there is a reason, there has to be to all this, this baby will change our lives forever and perhaps the lives of others and for that it will all be worth it. 

I keep coming back to one of my favorite poems, Desiderata, and a line in it gives me great comfort:

"You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should."