I hurt because I love

Dear Leo,

I know so many people who have lost a loved one this year. 2013 has been a tough one for many. Today, after speaking to a good friend of mine who recently lost her aunt to cancer, I started thinking more deeply about death.

We all know that our lives will end. We all know that death doesn't spare any of us. Yet, when it happens, it is so difficult to accept it. We are sometimes surprised, even though we knew it was bound to happen eventually. We are often angry, saddened, broken. If death means you finally go to heaven, then it's a blessing for the person who passed away. But it is incredibly harsh, painful, unfair for those of us who have to stay on earth and live on.

What I realized today is that death is only painful because of love. If I didn't love you so deeply, so truly, so earnestly, your absence wouldn't hurt me as much as it does right now. Love is a beautiful thing. It grows, it flourishes and it persists. It knows no boundaries. Isn't it simply amazing that so many people love you so much, even though you've only lived for one hour? Even though many have never met you? Isn't it simply amazing that I love you more every single day that goes by, even though you're not here with me?

I am still struggling with your death. It's still very difficult for me to say the words "my baby died". It pains me to know that I'm a mother with no baby, that I came home from the hospital with empty arms. But it only hurts because I love you so much. And that, in a way, is the most beautiful thing of all.

Running away doesn't stop the pain

Dear Leo,

Before you were born, your father and I had planned a trip to Hawaii in December; I would have been 6 months pregnant by then. Many of our friends asked if that was our 'baby moon'. I guess you could call it that - the last trip before our lives are completely changed by your presence. Instead, it became the first trip after our lives were completely changed by your absence.

We did end up going to Hawaii and we took your ashes with us. Not exactly what I had in mind for a baby moon....Although during the whole trip I was thinking how everything seemed to happen in a timely manner. You were born and passed away in late October. The weeks between then and our trip to Hawaii were tough. But I have to say, that running away to a paradise like Hawaii did wonders to us. It was wonderful to just focus on enjoying life, spending so much time with your dad, soaking the sun, lying on the beach, being active. I must confess that at times, I even forgot the nightmare we're living and that was wonderful.

Your ashes wrapped in banana
leaves and decorated with Hawaiian flowers

We spread your ashes in a sacred river in Kauai called the Wailua River (the world wailua means 'two waters' in Hawaiian). We had a ceremony by the beach at sunrise. We put your ashes on banana leaves, placed flowers all around it, wrapped it up, lit a flame right on top of the banana leaf and placed it in the water, right where the river meets the Pacific ocean. It was beautiful Leo. It was so serene, peaceful, meaningful. We watched the river take you, then we watch the ocean take you. Your ashes rode the waves and headed east. We watched until we couldn't see the burning flame anymore.

As I look back, it seems like the whole purpose of the trip was to have your ashes spread there, in the Wailua river. I'm not sure if God planned it this way...did God know that shortly after losing you, we would need to run away? Did he know that Kauai would be the place to spread your ashes? Did he plan it all knowing that Kauai has a temple that is very meaningful to your dad?

It did feel like the trip healed us...but coming back home was harsh. As soon as I came back, so did the sorrow, so did the pain, so did the tears.

Your dad and I watching the waves take
your ashes away. 

What to Say to Someone Who Has Lost a Baby

Losing a baby, no matter how young or how small, is a painful experience. Unfortunately, not a lot of people understand how much it hurts, how much it changes you. When your baby dies, a part of you dies as well and no matter how many days, weeks, years go by, you will never get over it. 

I know that friends, families, colleagues, neighbors, coworkers mean well and try to say and do the right things. Often they don't, but that's because they don't know what they should do, what they should say and more importantly, what they shouldn't say.

I belong to a number of support groups for parents who have lost an infant either through miscarriage, still birth, or who have lost their child a few hours/days after delivery. I asked them what they wish people had done and said to them. I hope this helps you as you try to comfort a loved one who is living through this nightmare. 

DO say something. There are no words that can alleviate the pain, but do say something, even if it's "I don't know what to say". What matters the most is knowing that people you care about are thinking of you. So try saying "we're thinking of you and your family" or "we are so sorry for your loss" or "we love you and we're here for you". If you're really at a loss for words, just listen to the grieving parents and offer them a hug. But please, don't pretend nothing has ever happened - that is usually really hurtful.

DO help the grieving parents. Many people say "let me know if you need anything", but the reality is, grieving parents rarely know what they need and they're not thinking about food nor about any other typical household chores. It's more helpful to say "I'm coming over with some lasagna" or "I'll come over and clean up while you rest" or "I'll stop by to drop some groceries". We had some friends call a bunch of religious establishments to find a priest that could perform our son's funeral, others brought us food, others came over just to listen to me. All these actions were  helpful and it meant a lot to us. 

DO attend the funeral, memorial or any other type of service honoring the child’s life. Attending the funeral shows you care and support, and your recognition that this baby was unique and loved, even if she or he didn't live long. This will be the only thing you'll ever be asked or able to do for the baby. Your presence means a lot to the parents. If you can't attend the funeral, send a letter or note.

DON'T tell the parents not to cry. Crying is a way of expressing grief and it typically makes people feel better. The smallest thing might trigger tears, so don't try to understand what caused it. It might be uncomfortable for you to watch a loved one cry, but don't stop them from doing so. What should you do if  grieving parents cry in front of you? Hold their hands, give them a hug, offer your shoulder to cry on or cry with them. 

DON'T say "You can always have another baby." I've had people say to me "you're young, you'll have another child." While I'm relieved that I will be able to be a mother again, having another baby will not replace the one I lost. Saying "you can have another" is not encouraging, in fact, it diminishes the mother's pain. If a parent lost a 10-year old child, you wouldn't say "you can have another" because kids are not replaceable...well, neither are babies. 

DON'T say "Everything happens for a reason." I am a big believer that things do happen for a reason, but after I lost my baby boy, I started hating this platitude. What could possible be the reason for having my baby die in my arms? Also avoid saying things like "it's for the best", "your baby is in a better place", "it was God's plan" or "things will be OK". 

DON'T say "At least you already have a child." Parents are grateful for the children they already have, but this does not eliminate or lessen the pain they feel by the lost of their baby and for the dreams they had for that child. They will forever think about how their living children would have had another sibling and how there will always be someone missing in their family. 

DON'T say "At least you weren't further along." Many women already love their baby, even before he or she is born. While some don't feel very attached to their baby during pregnancy, everything changes when they hold their little one in their arms. It doesn't matter how far along you are, your baby is your child and this child has died and that is a horrifying experience. 

DON'T say "Get over it". Do not pressure the parents to move on. Grief is a complicated emotion that takes time to process. Many of the women whom I have spoken to are still grieving, even after 5, 10, 20 years, even after having other children. Understand that, although the parents might slowly return to normal, the pain of losing a child will forever be present. There's no real way to get over it. 

DON'T say "I understand how you feel". Most of us have gone through the loss of a parent, a sibling, a grandparent, a pet, a dream. Although those are all painful and difficult experiences, they are not the same as losing your baby. Please don't say you understand how the grieving parent feels unless you have gone through a similar experience. And if that is the case, then please say so. It is helpful to talk to someone who truly understands. 

DON'T avoid the parents. Despite the confusion and blinding grief in the weeks following my own pregnancy loss, I remember every single person who acknowledged my loss -- and the notable silence of those who did not. Some of the grieving mothers to whom I talked to, mentioned feeling abandoned and alone after their loss because their family and friends started avoiding them. When I returned to work, I felt my coworkers were acting as if I had an infectious disease...many were afraid to even look me in the eye. Don't stop calling or visiting the grieving parents because you're uncomfortable or because you don't know what to say. Call, even if it's just for 1 minute and say you love them, say you care, offer your help.  Don't worry about reminding them of their baby or their pain. Trust me, they haven't forgotten that their baby died.  

DO talk about the baby. When a new baby is born, everyone asks you question about how your baby is, how labor went...but when your baby dies, no one says a word. I wish they didn't assume that I didn't want to talk about it. In fact, I love talking about my baby boy. Women in my support group also say that they enjoy talking about the dreams they had for their baby and showing pictures of their child. Also, if the baby has a name, do call him or her by his/her name. It makes it real and lets me know that others acknowledge his existence. 

DO listen and check in. We received many flowers, condolences cards and had so much support from friends and family the first few weeks after my baby's passing, but then, everyone moves on and assumes we are doing fine. But it can take several years for a mother and father to feel "resolved" over the death of their baby. I can't say how touched I feel when I receive an email or phone call from a friend who asks me "how are you guys doing now?" It shows me that they care and understand that the pain hasn't dissipated. 

DO be sensitive. Some women don't feel ready to attend parties, holiday festivities or baby showers. Some find it difficult to be around children, pregnant women and babies. Be sensitive to them and to their needs. Don't force or guilt-trip them into going out, attending events or being around your kids. And please, don't take it personally. It's not about you, it's about them needing more time to heal. 

DO remember. Parents who have lost their babies don't have many memories to cherish, but their baby is still their child. Do remember the baby's birthday and death anniversary. Typically, those tend to be difficult days for the grieving parents and any love/support you can offer will mean the world to them. 

Sadness is an Ever-Present State

Leo,

Every time I feel I'm doing a little better, I fall back into the abyss.

Many things happened today that made me angry, sad, hurt. But I think that what is hurting me the most is knowing that at exactly this time, 4 weeks ago, I was in the emergency room, not knowing what was going on. Not knowing what was going to happen to you.

Four weeks ago. So much has changed since that day.

I went to work today, but I probably shouldn't have. I am constantly surprised at how painful grieving can be. I never know when sadness will take over. I'm never prepared for it. Today, at around 2pm, I couldn't stay at my desk anymore. I grabbed my jacket and walked out. I took a walk on a trail nearby. It's a beautiful day today. It's a little crisp outside, but the sky is blue, the sun is shinning. Tears were coming down my face as I walked. I needed to find a little private space where I could just let it all out.

I found a bench near the water and sat there. The sun was shinning on my face, it felt wonderful. It felt like a warm hug. I just sat there, Leo, and wept. Every time I was ready to get up and leave, I felt another wave of tears surface. I sat there for about 30 minutes. I don't think I was thinking of anything in particular. You don't need to think to be sad. Sadness is an ever-present state. It's just there. You can bury it, hide it, ignore it...but it will find its way out and you just need to acknowledge it. That's what I did today. I sat on that bench in the park and dealt with the sorrow, the pain, the loss. I sat on the bench and cried my heart out.

Getting an Apology

Dear Leo,

Four weeks ago, you were born. Four weeks ago, you died. 

I was at work that day and when I started noticing that something was wrong, I went to a clinic that is attached to my office. I went there because that was the closest doctor/nurse office. I went there, because it made sense to me to go a healthcare institution. I went there because I thought they could help me. 

When I got there, told the receptionist that I was 23 weeks pregnant, bleeding and in pain. All she told me was "sorry, I can't accept you in because you're not a member. You should go to a hospital." Mind you I was crying because I was in pain and scared. And still, she didn't do a thing to help me. The only acceptable explanation for her actions (or lack thereof) is that she didn't have a heart. 

It's been 4 weeks since all this happened and although I'm not angry anymore, I felt like I needed to tell her that I wish she had behaved differently. I wish she had called me a taxi or an ambulance. I wish she had given me a glass of water and said "everything will be OK. We will help you."

Today, I went back in there to talk to her. As I was walking up the stairs, I almost turned around. I knew this wasn't going to be easy, but it really needed  to be done.  I don't really remember who she was or what she looked like. So I approached one of the receptionists who was there and explained to her what happened. This wasn't a complaint. It was a wish. I just want to make sure that in the future, they help whomever walks through their doors. Isn't that a fair thing to ask of a human being?  

The receptionist listened to me and I could tell that she was truly sorry. She asked me if I wanted to speak to the  manager and I said no. I thought I could talk to her without crying, but I couldn't help it. Saying the words "my baby died" always gets me. I'm glad that she wasn't defensive and that she didn't get mad. She just listened to me, and that's what I needed. I needed someone to listen and say "I'm sorry" and that's what she did. 

I too, dear Leo, am sorry. I shouldn't have even gone there. I should have called an ambulance as soon as I started feeling pain. I shouldn't have waited. There are so many things I would have done differently, but the truth is, I don't know if any of those things would have changed the outcome. I'll never know. 

Ask me How I Am Doing!!!

I'm feeling pretty horrible right  now...because I'm envious but mostly because this envy makes little sense.

My co-worker just came back to the office, after taking a few days off due to a torn ACL. As soon as he came back to the office, all our colleagues gathered around him, asking him how he was, saying things like "I'm so sorry, that sucks", "that's horrible, how are you feeling now?" and "I'll make you a lasagna since you can't really cook now."

When I came back to work, 2 women gave me hugs, but other than that, no one has said a thing to me. My coworkers didn't even look me in the eye. They didn't ask me how I was. They didn't say they were sorry. They didn't tell me "that's horrible." Nothing. Four weeks have passed and they haven't even mentioned my son's name, acknowledged my loss, acknowledged my pain.

Fair enough, my injured coworker is wearing a knee brace, which makes his pain very visible. But my pain is not physical. My pain is emotional, it's deep and yes, it is horrible. More horrible than tearing an ACL.

I know that these are two different things. I know that people feel awkward talking about death. It's easier to talk about knee surgeries than it is to talk about a dead baby. But I need their support. I need them to acknowledge that I gave birth and that my son died. Why do they pretend that nothing happened? That is so hurtful - as if losing my baby was an insignificant event...

Broken World

Dear Leo,

I sometime feel like I'm a spectator to life. The world continues to go on. People around me are living their lives, smiling, laughing, enjoying it. My world is different though. My world is bleeding, crying and trying to survive. My world is gasping for air, feeling weak at the knees, trying to hold it together. 

People around me know that my world has collapsed. They know that it's trying to rebuild itself. But no one cares. At first, a few people asked me how I was. Not everyone...no, not everyone. People are afraid to say something, to talk to me...as if what I have is contagious. Or perhaps they are afraid to upset me or afraid to see me crying in front of them. They would be uncomfortable if that were to happen. They don't want to feel uncomfortable. Well, who the heck cares if they are uncomfortable? Uncomfortable is nothing compared to what I'm going through. NOTHING! 

Well, it's almost been 4 weeks since my world fell apart...but to the others, I should probably be over it already. Few people ask me how I am now. At first, you get a lot of support and then, nothing. Do they really think that it's that easy? Do they think I can just snap out of this? Don't they know that this is not like having the flu...I can't just recuperate, heal, pretend it never happened. No! This is real, this is deep, this in inconsolable. 

I do put on a strong face though. I pretend to be part of their world, so that I can feel like I belong....so that they are not uncomfortable. But often, I retrieve to my little broken world. It's a painful place, but it's comforting and it's my world. I can be my true self there; I can fall, I can cry, I can be angry. No one there tells me to be strong, no one tells me that things will be ok. Because the reality is, things will never be ok. A world without you Leo, will never be ok. 

Drowning

My dear little angel,

Yesterday was a tough day for both your dad and I. When I woke up, I had a vague recollection that your dad had been crying, but I wasn't sure if it had really happened of if it had been a dream. I later found out that he was crying in bed. He had seen a picture of me while I was still pregnant and then he had spent some time looking at pictures of you. He just lay there crying. He told me that I woke up and said "cry as much as you need." But I don't remember that. I wish I had stayed up and comforted him. We need each other in moments like these.

On the bus to work, I typically read a book about bereavement or I browse through a few online support groups. Yesterday, someone posted a beautiful article that was published on Still Standing Magazine.  Sometimes, you don't really know what you're feeling until you read about someone else's anguish and pain.  I was trying to control my tears a little on the bus, but couldn't. The strange thing is that, there I was, in a bus that is completely packed, crying, and no one noticed me. No one noticed it! No one knows that I had a you, my darling baby boy, and then lost you! It's such a lonely world out here.

I got off the bus and it was cold and misty...just like me. I love it when Mother Nature agrees with me. I feel like maybe she understands and is feeling the same way.  I was just walking to work, in the rain, lots of cars passing by, but I was the only pedestrian around. I don't quite know what happened at that moment, but I just started to sob uncontrollably. I pondered whether I should stop, sit on the sidewalk and just let it all out. But I didn't. I kept walking and sobbing and couldn't stop.

Some days, things are going really well. I can think of you and smile. I can remember holding you in my arms and find comfort in that memory. But then, there are days when things are just so tough. It feels like being in the

ocean...at one moment, the water is calm and you're having a grand time swimming around. And then, a wave hits you and you're drowning, gasping for air. It's painful, frightening and you feel like you're dying. And then you're faced with a choice: do I give in and let myself be swallowed by the ocean or do I try to fight these insurmountable waves and swim back to shore?

Yesterday, I was able to swim back.

Quotes

Here are a few quotes that brought me solace.

Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita

Imagine me; I shall not exist if you do not imagine me.

Ernest Hemingway, American author

I didn't want to kiss you goodbye, that was the trouble; I wanted to kiss you goodnight. And there's a lot of difference. 

Charlotte Bronte, English novelist and poet

There is, I am convinced, no picture that conveys in all its dreadfulness, a vision of sorrow, despairing, remediless, supreme. If I could paint such a picture, the canvas would show only a woman looking down at her empty arms. 

Stephanie Paige Cole

I held you every second of your life.  

From the movie "Last Love"

Sometimes you meet someone who requires all the love you have to give.

And if you lose that someone, you think everything else is going to stop too.But everything else just keeps on going.Giraudoux said, "You can miss a single being, even though you are surround by countless others."  
Those people are like....extras. They cloud your vision. They are meaningless crowd. They are unwelcomed distraction. So you seek oblivion in solitude. But solitude only makes you wither. 

Didn't Fail as a Mother

I read an article today that touched me so deeply. It is entitled "Why You Didn't Fail As A Mother" and was written by Angela Miller for the Still Standing Magazine. I encourage all of you who have lost an infant to read this. I've also pasted it here. Enjoy! 

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Why You Didn’t Fail As A Mother

JUNE 26, 2013 BY ANGELA MILLER

       I have to tell you this.  You didn’t fail.  Not even a little.


      You are not a horrible mother.

You didn’t choose this.  You didn’t want this to happen.  You didn’t do anything wrong.  It just happened.  To you.  Despite your begging, pleading, praying, hoping against all hope that it would not.  Even though everything within you was screaming, no no no no no no no no no no!!!!

God didn’t do this to you to punish you, smite you, or to “teach you a lesson”.  That is not God’s way.  You could not have prevented this if you:  tried harder, prayed harder, or if you were a “better” person.  Nor if you ate better, loved harder, yoga-ed more, did x, y, z to the nth degree or any other way your mind tries to fill-in-the-blank.  You could not have prevented this even if you could have predicted the future like no one can.

Even if you did nothing more, you are already the best mom there is because you would have done absolutely anything to keep your child alive.  To breathe your last breath to save theirs.  To choose the pain all over again just to spend one more minute with them.   That, is the ultimate kind of love.  You are the ultimate kind of mother.

So wash your hands of any naysayers, backstabbers, or anyone who sprinted in the other direction when you needed them the most.  Wash your hands of the people who may have falsely judged you, ostracized you, or stigmatized you because of what happened to you.  Wash your hands of anyone who has made you feel less than by questioning everything you did or didn’t do.  Those whose words or looks have implied that this was somehow your fault.

This was not your fault.  This will never be your fault, no matter how many different ways someone tries to tell you it is.

And especially if that someone happens to be you. Sometimes it’s not what others are saying that keeps us shackled in shame.  Sometimes we adopt others’ misguided opinions and assumptions about our situation as our own.    Sometimes it’s our own inner voice that shoves us into the darkest corner of despair, like an abuser, telling us over and over and over again that we failed as mothers.  That if only this and what if that, it would never have happened.  That you woulda,shoulda done this or that so your child would not have died.  That is a lie of the sickest kind.  Do not believe it, not even for a second.  Do not let it sink into your bones.  Do not let it smother that beautiful, beautiful light of yours.

Instead, breathe in this truth with every part of yourself:  You are the best damn mother in the entire world. 

The kind of mother who people write books about.  The kind who inspires the world.

No one else could do what you do.  No one else could ever be your child’s mother as well as you can, as well as you are.  No one else could let your child’s love and light shine through them the way you do.  No one else could mother their dead child as well as you do.  No one else could carry this unrelenting burden as courageously.  It is the heaviest, most torturous burden there is.

You have within you a sacred strength.  You are the mother of all mothers.  There is no one, no one, no one that could ever, ever replace you.  No one.  You were chosen to be their mother.  Yes– chosen.  And no one could parent them better in life or in death than you do.

So breathe mama, keep breathing.  Believe mama, keep believing.  Fight mama, keep fighting, for this truth to uproot the lies in your heart— you didn’t fail.  You are not a failure.  Not even a little.

For whatever it’s worth, I see you.  I hear your guttural sobs.  I feel your ache deep inside my bones.  And it doesn’t make me uncomfortable to put my fingers as a makeshift band-aid over the gaping hole in your heart until the scabs come, when and if they do.

It takes invincible strength to mother a child you can no longer hold, see, touch or hear.  You are a superhero mama.  I see you fall down and get up, fall down and get up, over and over again.  I notice the grit and guts it takes to pry yourself out of bed every single day and force your bloodied feet to stand up and keep walking.  I see you walking this path of life you’ve been given where every breath and step apart from your child is a physical, emotional and spiritual battleground— a fight for your own survival— a fight to quiet the insidious lies.

But the truth is– you haven’t failed at all.  In fact, it’s quite the opposite.

You are the mother of all mothers.

Truly the most inspiring, courageous, loving mother there is– a warrior mama through and through.

For even in their death you lovingly mother them still.

New baby in the group

My lovely Leo,

On Saturday, I went to visit my friend and her 2-week old baby. I have so many friends who have just given birth or will give birth in the next 6 months...you would have had so many little friends...

I was a little worried about how I would feel seeing another baby, holding another little boy, grabbing someone else's little fingers. It went well though. I'm glad I didn't feel envy, I'm glad I didn't burst into tears, I'm glad I didn't feel sad.

I have to say though that no other baby compares to you. Your little face is just so perfect and you are so adorable. If anything, this visit to my friend made me feel really great about you. I know I don't have you with me and that will always be painful...but as the pain subsides, my love for you grows; and I like that.

Clinic and Church

Dear Leo,

On Friday, I went to the clinic. It was my first checkup since the delivery. The good news is that everything is good with me, physically that is. My cervix is close and my uterus is back to normal. I'm feeling good and recovering normally.

The hospital did a pathology on the placenta, just to test if there was something wrong with you. They found that there was a 'late infection'. The doctor said that the placenta probably got infected during or after the delivery. We would worry if the diagnostic was 'chronic infection'. I'm glad nothing was wrong with you. I knew this wasn't your fault. It was mine...I bet you would have stayed in my uterus for much longer if my cervix wasn't incompetent.

Your dad came to the doctor with me. We asked her a lot of questions about my recovery, about 'cervix incompetency' and about getting pregnant again. I will need to be followed by a high-risk OBGYN from now on. Unfortunately, a lot of our questions have no answer...which is frustrating. No answers means there's nothing I can do and if I can't do anything, I don't have control....and if I have no control, I feel helpless. How do I ensure this doesn't happen again?

On Sunday, I went to mass. For some reason, I always end up crying there. I think mass is the only place that forces me to sit down and just be. No cell phones, no tv, no computer...just me and my thoughts. That can be scary at times, believe me. This Sunday, I was sitting in the 3rd row and signing along to this beautiful religious song, when suddenly, the sun shone in through the stained glass windows and onto my face. I looked around and only I had the sun on me...no one else. I took that as a sign. I don't know if it was you Leo or God shining light on me, letting me know that things will be ok...that I will soon be out of the darkness.

After mass, I talked to one of the church's volunteer and she promised to connect me with the priest, so that we can talk about you. Today, I got an email from the priest. I am trying to find ways to make me feel better, so I'm trying everything. From going to mass, talking to the priest, going to support groups (first one will be this week), talking to friends....etc. I am a little worried about meeting with the priest though. Will he make me feel better? Will he tell me that God had better plans for you and that you're in a better place? Because that does not help me at all. Your place is here. There is no better place for you than in my arms. 

Love/Hate relationship with my body

My dear son Leo,

From what I've read so far, there's not much I can do to fix or help the fact that I have an incompetent cervix (gosh I hate that term). But, I've told myself that I would still try to get my body stronger. I'll workout more (as soon as I get the doctor's green light), I'll eat really well, I'll take better care of myself. Not that I haven't - I'd say I'm a really healthy person, but maybe there's more  I can do? Maybe I can be super super careful about everything and treat my body like a shrine; respect it, take care of it, worship it.

But most days, I hate my body. I hate that it has an incompetent cervix. I hate that it also seems to have incompetent breasts...why does my body not realize that I don't have a baby? Why do I have to keep producing milk, even 3 weeks after losing you? I mean, why this constant reminder of what I lost? I also hate that I'm 10 pounds heavier than I was a few months ago, even with you no longer in me. Sometimes, I think to myself "why bother?". Why should I take care of this body that has failed me, that has hurt me? Sometimes, I just feel like punishing this body. It deserves it. It did something horrible to me, something that cannot be forgiven, something that cannot be forgotten.

If you were born today...

My lovely Leo,

I'm still getting notifications on my phone every week to remind me where I'm at, pregnancy-wise. So today, I got a notification that I'm at 27 weeks of gestation. The notification was the following:

"This week,  your baby weighs almost 2 pounds and is roughly 14 1/2 inches long. 

He or she is sleeping and waking at regular intervals, opening and closing those little eyes, and perhaps even sucking on his or her fingers. 

With more brain tissue developing,  your baby's brain is very active now. The lungs are still immature, but they would be capable of functioning - with a lot of medical help - if your baby were to be born now. 

Chalk up any tiny rhythmic movements you may be feeling to a case of baby hiccups, which may be common from now on. Each episode usually lasts only a few moments, and they don't bother your baby, so just relax and enjoy the tickle." 

I like getting the notifications, because it reminds me of where I would have been, if you were still in me. But today, reading this made me a little sad. If you were born today, instead of on October 22,  you would have been 2 pounds instead of 1 lbs, 8 ounces! You would have been 2 inches longer! I would have seen your eyes, you would have seen your parents looking at you with love. But most importantly, if you were born today, instead of 3 weeks ago, you might have had a chance. Your lungs weren't ready when you came out...but they might have been able to retain oxygen if you were born today. And if you were in me still, I would have felt your hiccups...something I'll never be able to experience now. 

But, you were born when you were born.  I'm a mother, with no baby. My belly is still a little full, but there's no one in there.

Your little hands and feet

Three weeks later...

My dearest son Leo,

Yesterday marked 3 weeks since you were born. Your existence in this world, as ephemeral as it was, left an everlasting mark on my life. I don't think anything in my life has ever been so wonderful, so powerful and so difficult as your birth and death.

Yesterday, while I was at work, I texted a friend of mine and told her about you. Her reply was "that's fucked up!" I think that's the best reply I've gotten so far. It is fucked up! That is exactly what it is!!! For some reason, I have a harder time writing about it than talking about it. So, I started to tear up and ran to the restroom. The last thing I want is to cry in front of my coworkers and be seen as the 'sensitive girl'. I was surprised at how fast the tears came and how hard I cried in the restroom stall. It felt good to let it all out. I then wiped my tears, looked at myself in the mirror, and went back to work.

I got a call from a friend earlier this week. We haven't seen each other in years, because we live so far apart, but we keep in touch. Last week, she emailed me asking how my pregnancy was going and I told her what happened. I often find that, when telling others what happened or when telling them about you, I need to be the strong one. I know people ask about you because they want to be nice. They call to see how I am and I know that's a little uncomfortable for them. So I feel that I need to be strong so that they're less uncomfortable.

This is the little hat you were
wearingat the hospital

Yesterday, I started thinking about joining a support group for parents who have lost a baby through miscarriage, stillbirth or infant death. The thought of talking to strangers makes me a little nervous, but at the same time, I think it will be easier to talk to strangers. Plus, maybe it will be good to hear other people's stories and share mine with people who truly understand what I'm going through. I know that most of my colleagues, friends and family think that I'm over it already. Sometimes, I too think I'm over it, but then sadness and pain hits me like a truck - such a heavy load.

Last night, I was in bed, reading my bereavement book and I felt so sad. I took the little hat you were wearing at the hospital and fell asleep with it, clenched between my fingers....but eventually, that too slipped away from me.

Ashes and Tears

Dear Leo,

A few days after your passing away, I bought myself a pendant that is also an urn. It's a heart-shaped silver pendant with your name engraved on the back. I purchased that because I always want to carry you near my heart. I know it's just a symbol and that, with or without the pendant, you are always in my heart. But the thought of carrying your ashes with me, wherever I go, brings me comfort.

A few days later though, your dad and I thought it would be a good idea to spread your ashes at the Hindu temple in Kauai. We're going there during Thanksgiving. You were supposed to go with us, while in my belly...instead, we're taking your ashes with us, in a little box. I am ok with spreading your ashes there. I know it's a beautiful place. Plus, this temple means a lot to your dad. I do want to keep just a little of you with me. Although your father thinks it's best to let go, he is ok with me putting some of your ashes in the pendant and spreading the rest. I'm wearing the pendant today (the ashes are not in yet). I know it's a little silly, but I love wearing it. I keep touching it and thinking of you. It's like the little hat you wore at the hospital. I have that by my bedside and I bring it to my cheek everyday. I know it makes no sense, but it makes me feel good and a little closer to you.

This past weekend, I had the courage to open the box in which your ashes are stored. We've had it with us for 7 days and I still hadn't touched it. The box is a little big, but inside it, there's a smaller plastic box. I saw the plastic box and thought "wow, your ashes only fill this much?". But I was wrong...inside the box, there's a little plastic bag and in the bag are your ashes. There's really not much. Maybe just a handful of it. That is all that remains of you.

This weekend  I spent some time looking at the pictures and videos that your dad took of you. Looking at your pictures doesn't make me cry anymore; in fact I love looking at them. While you were still alive, you had your mouth wide opened, and your fingers near your mouth. This past week, I regretted not telling you that I love you while you were still with us. I told you later, when you had passed...I know how important it is for a newborn to hear his mother's voice, and I didn't even talk to you. I just caressed you and looked at you...but I didn't say a word to you, I didn't say I love you, I didn't say your name. I hope that you know that I love you though, even though I never said it.

I'm still reading the book Empty Cradle, Broken Heart and it's making me feel better. I do feel like crying while reading the stories of other parents, other mothers. But it brings me a strange sense of relief to know to read that others are or were feeling the same way as I am. I typically read on the bus and I enjoy those minutes alone; just me and the book. Last Friday, on my commute to work, I was reading the book and had tears in my eyes. When I reached my office, I had to stop at the entrance and take a moment to cry. It feels good to let the tears come down.

I wish I was allowed to exercise. All I want to do is go on a run, run really fast, push really hard and make my body ache. I'd rather feel the physical pain than the emotional one.

I love you, always.

If I were you....

Dear Leo,

Yesterday, your dad and I had dinner with some good friends. They helped a lot, providing your dad with a lot of information, when we were in the hospital.

The guy (our friends are a couple) talked mostly to your dad, but the lady, talked to me a lot. She asked details about what happened, about how I felt, about my bump when you were still in me. I really enjoyed talking so much about you. When your dad started listening in and the 4 of us were talking about you, he started to cry. I don't think your father has taken time to process everything yet. I have cried a lot when I was off from work, but your dad hasn't had a chance to really take time off. He's working  a little less, but he is still working. I'm worried about him, but I'm glad that he doesn't bottle it up and that he is able to cry. Although, it does hurt me to see him suffering. During those times, I hate that my body didn't work as it was supposed to. I hate that I'm the reason  your dad is suffering. If I was like every other woman and had a normal cervix, this would have never happened. Gosh, I never knew I could be so mad at my cervix...a part of me I never even thought about before your birth.

Our friend told me that if she were me, she wouldn't be able to go out for dinner after 3 weeks. Other people have told me that I was strong for going back to work, because they wouldn't be able to do that. Others have said similar things, comparing my ability to return to normalcy to their perceived ability to do the same. I know that in a way, it's a compliment. But I started asking myself whether it's normal that I can bounce back so fast. Does that make me a bad mom? Does that make me a strange human being? Does that mean I don't love you as much as I think I do?

Leo, tomorrow I'm visiting my friend who gave birth last Sunday. She had a little boy. I remember thinking that it would be so cool for you, because you'd have a little friend who's just 4 months older than you. Plus, my other friend is pregnant too, and her baby is due 3 months after your due date. You would have had so many little friends! To be honest, I'm excited to see the new baby, but I'm also scared. I'm worried that when I hold him, I'll start crying. I'm worried that holding him will remind me of holding you and that I'll feel envy. I don't want to cry, because visiting a new baby is a happy event and I don't want to ruin it with my sadness. It would be horrible for the new mom. If you are watching over me, please give me the strength to go through this and to be a good friend. Stay close to my heart, so that I feel your presence while holding another baby.

Things that Remind me of You

Dear Leo,

It seems that everything around me remind me of you and of the day you were born. I was sitting with my coworkers for lunch today and someone was eating a Jimmy Johns sandwich. That's what I had after labor.
During lunch, ambulances stopped by our office and it reminded me of when I was put in an ambulance and rushed to the hospital, with you still in my tummy.

I have your picture saved on my lock screen on my phone. Every time I see your little face, I smile. Gosh, you are just so cute. When I saw the picture of my friend's newborn, the first thing that came to mind was "oh, I wish that was me with a healthy newborn in my arms". The second thing that crossed my mind was "Leo is wayyyy cuter". This thought made me smile. I like that I'm acting like the typical mom, thinking that my child is better than everyone else's. This reassured me. I am your mom after all and will always be. And to me, you'll always be cuter and sweeter than any other kid I see out there.

Back to Normal? Hardly!

Dear Leo,

It's been 3 weeks since you came and left this world. To me, it already seems like so long ago. The past few days and weeks have been really long and intense.

This past Monday was my first day back to work. I took 8 days off in total, which was a little bit more than I wanted, but your dad wanted us to spend more time together, and that was a good idea. As I walked from the bus stop to my office, I hated myself for a moment. I was thinking "how can I just be walking to work as if nothing had happened? How can I just go on and do exactly the same thing i was doing before you were born?" My walk is only about 10 minutes, but that was the hardest walk to the office ever. I know I need to go back to work, but it seemed like i was denying your existence by just going back to normal.

When I got into the office, I know a lot of my coworkers didn't really know what to do. I got hugs from 2 ladies at work and a few 'welcome back'. But some people, didn't even look at me or say a single word to me. I keep telling myself "they just don't know what to say....they just don't know how to act...they don't want to hurt you".  But at the same time, I'm thinking "I don't have leprosy,  you can come close to me!" It just felt so weird. It's Wednesday now and still a couple of people haven't said a word to me. It's a small office (about 13 people) and we all sit in a large open space, so it's not like they haven't seen me. Anyway, I don't know what to make of this.

Monday was a tough day. I stayed at work late, until 7pm. In a way, I wanted to stay at work, because it kept me busy. I was also a little worried because I had a lot of catching up to do and I don't want to be seen as a liability. I got home pretty tired and the kitchen was a complete mess. I think I was upset that your dad didn't empty the dishwasher, wash the dishes in the sink, take out the garbage...so I got home, took off my jacket and started cleaning up. Then, your dad tells me that our friend delivered her baby the day before. I was happy for her, she is my friend after all. But as I was doing the dishes, I fell the tears coming. Was I just frustrated because of the messy kitchen? Was I jealous that my friend has a healthy baby who is alive? Was I upset with the whole coworker situation? I don't know what it was.

On Monday, I also contact a lawyer friend of mine and told her about the clinic that refused to help me on the day of your birth. I had walked into a clinic, told them I was 23 weeks pregnant, bleeding and in pain and they didn't help me. After a few quick online searches, I found out they are not allowed to refuse me. I didn't think of suing them at first, but on Monday I thought I should do something. I know that suing them will help future patients and women...but a part of me thinks I'm doing this because I'm angry at them. I can't believe the receptionist didn't help me. As a human, she should have offered me some assistance. She just sat there, as I cried in front of her!!!! Argh.

I finished reading a book called "Grieving the Child I never Met". It was a mix of help for grieving parents and religious passages. I didn't find it very useful. Now I'm reading a book entitled "Empty Cradle". It has stories from other grieving parents. The book makes me cry, but it also allows me to validate how I feel and I feel better knowing that I'm not the only one going through this pain.

I just saw some pictures of my friend and her newborn baby on Facebook. My friend looks so beautiful and so happy and her baby looks healthy. I teared up seeing this picture.I immediately thought "I wish that was me". On the pictures of me holding you, I look so worried and sad...so different from my friend.

I miss you Leo.

Thank You

Dear Leo,

This morning was a little tough for me. I woke up and laid there, my face covered in tears. I'm not even sure what I was thinking about, but I felt sad, empty...

I had more time to think today and I realized that I needed to thank you. Your quick time in this earth has completely changed me and in the 1 hour that you were with us, you taught me so much.

You taught me that life is precious and that family is the most important thing in this world.

You taught me that all the little things I was upset about were really meaningless and so trivial in the grand scheme of things. Sometimes I get upset at someone or something and then think about you and tell myself that I shouldn't let such small things affect me.

You taught me what it means to be a mother and to love a child. I feel in love with you when I held you in my arms and at that moment, I didn't think of losing you. At that moment, all I wanted was to fully enjoy you. I didn't know how long I would have you with me, but I knew it wasn't going to be long. I wanted to enjoy every second, to stretch out those minutes and enjoy being your mother.

You taught me more about your father. During the few minutes before delivery, I saw a completely different side of your dad. I saw how strong he was. I saw how rational he was during a high-stress situation. I saw how supportive and loving he was. He was so protective of you and I, Leo. He was doing everything he could to make sure we were both ok.

I'm a completely different person now. I am seeing the world through different eyes. Everything has been put into perspective. You made me a better person Leo. I am a stronger, wiser and better version of my old self. I am enjoying the little things, like how beautiful the sun rays are, how fresh the air feels, how great it is to have friends. I'm grateful for the people I have in my life, the people who love and care for me. I have been telling my friends that I love them....I never used to say that before. You made me value life, appreciate the good things I have, not focus on the negatives, let go of my frustrations...

You've given me so much Leo, and for that, I thank you.

Finding Peace in Faith

My dearest Leo,

In the past few days, I've been seeking God a little more. Today, I just went to church and sat there alone for a good half hour. I didn't pray. I just sat there quietly and felt at peace. 

I found some comfort in the words of the priest who was there at your cremation and I found comfort in the hugs of strangers after Sunday Mass. I've been feeling like seeking God might be the only way to heal right now. 

I contacted my ex boss and will be having lunch with him tomorrow. I just felt like I needed to talk to him since he's such a kind person and is also religious. For some reason, I have a feeling that talking to him will help me. Today, I also met another friend of mine who is very religious...but from a different faith; I've been finding that it doesn't matter what religion you follow. Words from anyone who has faith have provided me strength and insight. 

When I lived with my parents, my dad would force us to go to mass every Sunday. I haven't been to church regularly ever since I left home, but now I feel like I need to get back to my spiritual life. It's like I'm craving it....it's like it's the only thing that could feel the void you left in me. 

All I Wanted Was a Little Family

My dear little angel,

You're dad left early to go on a business trip today. He'll be back later today, but this is my first day completely alone in the house. I've planned to meet a friend for lunch and am trying to find someone to meet for dinner, so that I'm not entirely alone.

This morning, I really felt like talking to someone about you. I called my dad, but he didn't pick up. I texted a friend and asked if I could call, but she didn't answer. I stopped in front of the mirror a few times today and looked at my belly. When I was pregnant, I didn't really like that I was getting 'fatter'. I always wanted flat abs, and being pregnant is the opposite of flat anything. But now, I miss my bump, I miss you. I feel sad that my stomach is getting back to its original size and that there are no signs that you were ever inside me.

Today, I noticed that my breasts, while still full, didn't leak with milk like they have in the past few days. The fuller breasts were painful but now I'm also sad that I'm losing that. I know it doesn't make much sense because you live in my heart and that will never go away. But I'm struggling with things going so quickly back to normal. Although I feel like I'm dealing with all this pretty well, that I'm being positive and all, I also like feeling the pain. I worry on days where the pain seems less intense.

Many of my friends and family have been saying that your dad and I are strong, that if it was them, they would be on the floor crying. I don't know what to think when I hear such a comment. As if we had the choice. What else are we supposed to do other than be strong? We need to be strong for each other, we need to be strong to continue our lives. Your dad and I are trying to spend a lot of time with friends, which has been so good for us. Being with other allows us to laugh, have fun, live normally. But no one knows how deeply our pain is when we're at home, alone or with each other.

Yesterday, at your cremation, the priest was saying that you were only meant to suffer a little bit in this life. The shock from labor is the only pain you were meant to experience. That is apparently a good thing. You came and left this world without a sin. He said you must have been a saintly person in your previous life. It's so selfish, but I wish you hadn't been so saintly. I wish you had come to us and given us what we were expecting: a life full of joy and frustration, pride and stress....the whole parental package. Yesterday, at the funeral home your dad said "it must be so scary to take your kid to his first day of school". To that I replied "not scarier than this."

I would have given my life, everything I have, to have had you with us Leo. All I wanted was us to be a happy little family. Nothing extraordinary...just a normal family, like all the ones we see around us. 

Your Cremation

Dear Leo,

Today, Wednesday, Oct 30th at noon was your cremation. Your father and I arrived there at 11:30am and we got a change to hold you one more time, caress your cheek and admire your perfect little face. I am still amazed at how long your fingers are. I was telling your dad that you couldn't have probably become a great pianist. We also laughed at how much hair you had on your little head. Oh Leo, you are just so beautiful and so perfect!

A hindu priest arrived at 12:20 and performed a ceremony. Your dad and I were a little lost, since we've never gone through this before, but the priest was explaining everything he was doing to us. We sprinkled holy water (from the Ganges) on you, the sprinkled some special herbs, camphor and some other things. Then, we placed flowers all around your body. Your dad then carried you and placed you in the crematorium. It was this large industrial machine. I was scared as soon as I saw it. It hurt me to have you placed in there. Then, your dad pressed the button.

When we left the room with the industrial machines, we cried. We will never see your perfect face again. The priest explained to us that we just placed your body in the crematorium, not your soul. I know you'll always be with us, in our hearts. That does make me feel a little better, but it's still hard because I can't kiss, hug, hold, caress your soul.

This morning, right before the cremation, we got an email from a swami from a temple in Kauai. That temple is of significance importance to your dad, since it follows his traditions. We've never been there, but we are planing to go when we go to Hawaii in November. You were supposed to go with us, while in my belly...but now we decided to spread your ashes there. The swami said that they'll do a ceremony there today at the same time as your cremation...the ceremony is for you Leo. Then, they'll do another one for your dad and I. Apparently, today is the biggest celebration they've had in 12 years. Here's an excerpt of his email:

"As it happens, tomorrow , we will be in the middle of our biggest celebration in 12 years: marking the 12th anniversary of the passing of our Satguru, Sivaya Subramuniyaswami whom we called Gurudeva. One cycle of Jupiter, exactly, since he was cremated. It is a week-long festival with devotees from all over the world. It is noteworthy that, right in the middle of our marking that event, our devas here will be informed of Leo's cremation and asked to attend it and to look after everyone involved. We think probably Gurudeva and Leo will be aware of each other in the marvelous world where they are."

I didn't understand all of it, so your dad had to explain it to me. Sivaya Subramuniyaswami was the person who started the temple in Kauai. He passed away on this day. The Tamil calendar works according to planets, which is why 12 years is a big event. 

My father too has been emailing me saying that he feels your presence near him. I do wish you were with us, but your life Leo, as short as it was, has already touched so many lives. 

We love you,

Ta maman qui t'aime fort 

It's Been a Week Since We Lost You

Dear Leo,

It's already been a week since you came into our lives. To me, it seems like time has stopped since last Tuesday...

I have been keeping myself busy by doing random chores around the house and watching plenty of TV. It's when my mind is at rest that I think of you. I'm not crying as much anymore. When I think of you, I mostly smile and think of the hour we spent together.

Last night, I was watching TV with your dad - a show where one of the characters is a guardian angel. I then said to your dad 'you're my guardian angel' and he said 'I can't be, I need to die first'. I broke down into tears. Just the thought of losing your dad, especially after losing you, really upset me. I can't deal with another loss.

Tomorrow is your funeral. We needed to choose something for you to wear - but where do you buy clothes for a baby that is just 1 lb? So,  I went into your drawer. Yes, you already have a drawer in our dresser. It has all the clothes I bought for you and all the clothes your maternal grandma got for you as well. The smallest item in there was a onesie that says "born free".  Isn't that just perfect for you?

I am not looking forward to tomorrow Leo. We will get to see you again, so that's a good thing, but to be honest, I'm a little scared. I don't like thinking that your little perfect body will be cremated and reduced to ashes. The thought of it pains me and I don't know how I'm going to deal with it when I actually see it happening.

Sometimes, all this still seems like a bad dream. It all happened so fast. Exactly 7 days ago at 8:19pm I become a mother and at 9:21pm I lost my son. And here I am now, telling you about your own cremation.

I wish you were here with us Leo.

Les Petits Pieds de Léo

Dear Leo,
My friend sent me this Celine Dion song called "Les Petits Pieds de Lea". The song really captures what I feel and I find it so fitting, especially since it was written for a little girl called Lea...and you're Leo.

Here is the song along with the English translation.

English translation

Lea's Small Feet

I didn't know you,
But you made me roar with laughter
With those little mouse-like hits
You gave from behind my navel

Even without knowing you,
I love you so much, already
All of my being
Felt this strong desire to take care of you

Why won't Lea's small feet
Ever take their very first steps?
Why won't her small feet grow?

A little shudder in the universe,
As if life changed its mind
And in a gust of wind, of dust,
Happiness was swept away

I would have given everything
For you to grow in my arms
Bad luck had pointed its finger
So that's what misfortune really is...

Why won't Lea's small feet
Ever take their very first steps?
Why won't her small feet grow?

Asleep in the palm of my hands,
A being that's so light
But so, so heavy
In my motherly heart

Not a trace of small fingers
Or of kisses blown
To your daddy through the window
As he's leaving for work

And it breaks his heart
To look at the blossoming tree
He planted there, thinking
He'd see you both grow at the same time

Why won't Lea's small feet
Ever take their very first steps?
Why won't her small feet grow?

My God, tell me why
I'll only have sung to her a single time
"Goodnight sweetheart, close your eyes and sleep"

Sunday Service for Leo

Dear Leo,

Sunday, October 27th I asked that mass be dedicated to you. Your dad and I went to the 9:30am service. We don't go to mass very often, but I felt that I needed to do this. When I am at church, I typically feel a sense of peace and I needed that this week.

Sitting quietly with my thoughts is always hard. I don't know how many times I cried during mass. Random words in the readings made me tear up. One reading had the words "God is the giver of life". That got me. God gave you to us, but God also took you away.

When they mentioned you, they didn't do it the way I was expecting. They didn't pray for you, they prayed for me and that's not what I wanted. But instead the priest said "let's pray for Natasha and her stillborn son." First of all, you were not stillborn. You lived for a little while, you were in this world with us! Secondly, you're not just my son! I wish they had also said your dad's name. I know it was a mistake, I know they didn't mean any harm, I know I'm overly sensitive right now.

After the service, your dad and I went to light a candle for you. I knelt down and prayed for you and couldn't stop crying. Some people came to me and asked if we were the parents of the baby who passed. Saying to people that you died is the hardest part for me. I can't do it without crying. I rather speak of your life, of the precious moments we had with you.

Your dad and I got many hugs in church from strangers. I'm not going to lie - it helps to get hugs. I like knowing that people are sad with us. Somehow, knowing that others are sharing in our pain helps me and makes me feel like we're not in this alone.

Your dad talked to the priest about resentment. I'm not sure what the priest said but your dad said it made him feel better. That's what counts.

I felt like I needed some air, so we left and walked home in the rain. I'm glad it was raining. I'm glad the skies were as gloomy as I was and that the rain drops mixed with my tears.

Funeral Arrangements for our Son

On Saturday, October 26th, my husband  and I had to go to the funeral home to discuss arrangements and sign some documents. We took a cab there. It was the first time I left the house since giving birth to Leo.

On our way to the funeral home, looking through the car window, I saw the world going on. People walking around downtown Seattle, enjoying the sunny Saturday, having fun, carrying on with their lives. It made me mad. How can the world go on? How can these people be walking around as if nothing had happened? I know I can't expect the world to stop because of my loss...I know this is not rational. But my world had collapsed and it felt unreal to see that the world had not changed.

The funeral arrangements were very mechanical. We were just going through the motions. My husband and I have never witnessed a burial or a cremation. Our son's funeral will be our first funeral ever.

We decided to do a cremation, so that we could keep his ashes with us. I know that anything we do right now is not for Leo, it's for us. We're trying to find a way to somehow feel better. So, we decided to just have a very simple cremation. It will just be the two of us and a priest.

After the funeral, we walked to a restaurant to have lunch and then went grocery shopping. It feels good to do normal, mundane tasks. Grocery shopping made me feel normal. We called some friends to pick us up and drive us back home. Then, we prepared dinner and invited ourselves to our friends' house. We shared a meal with them, played a board game, laughed and talked. It felt so good. I don't know if I should feel guilty for having fun that night - I mean, I had fun on the same day that we made funeral arrangements for our baby.

I have my moments at home, when I'm really hurting and sad. The mornings are the worst. You wake up after a good  night sleep and remember what happened. But I also don't want to seclude myself from society, stay at home crying all day long. I want to move on, I need to move on. This doesn't mean I love Leo any less. I don't want to pretend this never happened nor do I want to forget this. I want to live on with the sweet memory of my baby boy.

The Scariest, Happiest, Saddest Day of our Lives

Tuesday, October 22, 2013 - that is when our lives changed forever. The weird thing is that we weren't expecting it to happen. It was a regular day. Good old, normal day. How I underestimated how great a boring day can be sometimes!

In the morning of October 22, I had a regular checkup with my OBGYN. As I was walking up the hill to my Dr.'s office, I felt a sharp pain in my stomach. It lasted 5 seconds and then I was all better. I thought that it might just be due to the fact that I was walking up a steep hill. My appointment went fine. We heard my baby boy's heart - it was beating strong and fast, as it should. 

I then got on a bus to go to work and felt that same pain again. This time I also felt like peeing, but after a few seconds, I felt fine again. I thought these might be Braxton Hicks contractions. I started googling that, trying to learn more about it. I was at 23 weeks, in my second semester. I read that Braxton Hicks typically happen around week 30, but that some women do get them during the second trimester. Ok - good! I felt relieved. 

When I got to work, I felt a couple more of these 'practice contractions'. They were a little painful though, and Braxton Hicks are not supposed to be painful...just uncomfortable. During my lunch hour, I kept feeling the pain more frequently. At least 5 times and it was really painful. I went into the restroom. The only thing that made me feel better was peeing or trying to pass bowel movements. But then I noticed I was bleeding and knew right away that that was not normal. I got so scared that I started to cry. I got myself together and went back to my desk....but I couldn't work, still in pain. 

My office is attached to a Group Health clinic. I told my colleague that I wasn't well and was going  to try to see a Dr. at Group Health. I went in there, in tears (a mix of fear and pain) and told the receptionist that I was 23 weeks pregnant, in pain and bleeding. I asked if I could see a doctor. Her response? "Sorry, we don't take patients who are not registered with us." I was so mad, but had no energy to argue with her. When I think back though, it infuriates me. She could have offered to have a nurse talk to me or offered to called an ambulance. SOMETHING! Don't just leave me there when you can clearly see I'm in pain! 

I went back to my desk but was feeling too hot so went outside for fresh air. One of my colleagues saw me and I told him I needed to leave, since I wasn't well. He asked "do you want a ride to the bus stop?" and I said "no, I need to go to the ER". He drove me to the nearest hospital and I told him it was ok to leave, that I would email him to let him know how I was. 

The doctor took me right away. The ultrasound showed that my baby's heart was still beating and that the baby was moving. I felt relieved. At least it's not a miscarriage! Phew. But the doctor did say that I was bleeding a little too much. I called my husband at that point and told him what was going on. I couldn't really speak. I was a mess because I was really scared and just managed to tell him that I was in the hospital and was being transferred to the hospital near our house. Within minutes, I was put into an ambulance and sent off. 

When I got to the ER at my local hospital, they gave me some medication to lessen the contraction pains I was feeling. I'm not sure that really worked. Then, I got an ultrasound done. The ultrasound showed that I was already at 6cm dilated. I asked the doctor "at how many cms do I need to be to deliver?" I felt stupid...I didn't even know that piece of information. But I wasn't ready to deliver, I hadn't done all my reading, all my homework... I still had 18 weeks to go! The doctor said "10 cms". They gave me a drug called Magnesium, which is supposed to slow down the labor. Best case scenario, I was told, I would be on this drug for  1 week at the hospital. But the drug didn't work; my contractions were getting closer and closer together and were more intense. 

I was transferred to the labor and delivery unit and told that I would likely deliver that same night. I always thought I was strong and had a high pain threshold, but the pain was getting hard to handle. In the meantime, the doctors were telling us that when a woman delivers before reaching 24 weeks, the parents have to decide whether or not to save the baby. After 24 weeks, the hospital has to do everything they can to save the baby. I was in so much pain, I couldn't think straight and couldn't make such a big decision. My husband was running around, talking to the NICU doctor, calling friends who have gone through this, gathering all kinds of information. He asked me what I wanted and I remember saying "I don't want this baby to have a hard life". At that time, I didn't know my baby, I didn't know what it was like to feel love for your own child. I am almost ashamed to say that I didn't  want to save him....but that was me before becoming a parent. 

Finally, we decided we would try to save him. I asked for an epidural because I just couldn't cope with the pain anymore. I was hot, sweating like crazy, in pain...I just wanted to get this over with. I told the doctors I was ready to push. They got set up...it all happened so fast. Before I knew it, our baby boy was born. I didn't feel him coming out and I didn't hear him. My first question was "is he alive?" He was, but he wasn't developed enough to know how to cry. The NICU doctors took him right away and tried giving him oxygen...but his little lungs weren't ready for that....he just couldn't retain any of the oxygen. The doctors informed my husband that there's nothing they can do to keep him. 

My baby boy, Leonardo, was placed into my arms. He was still breathing and his little heart was beating slowly. He smiled, he put his fingers on his lips, he made some sounds. He was perfect; absolutely perfect. The cutest little nose - like my husband's. He also had my husband's chin and long arms. He had my big eyes and my dad's big ears. His fingers were long, his head was full of dark soft hair. We had him with us for about an hour before he passed away in my arms. I knew he had left us, but I kept stroking his cheek with my fingers. 

The nurse asked us if she could clean him and weight him. She did all that in our room. He was 12.5 inches long, 1 pound 8 ounces.  Born at 8:19pm, passed away at 9:21pm. The nurse took some hand and foot imprints, took some pictures, filled out his birth certificate. Then I got Leonardo back in my arms. I kept him with us overnight in the hospital. We had our dead son in our arms, but we kept kissing him, holding him, loving him. Finally, we fell asleep. When we woke up, we held him some more, sang to him, took more pictures. At 11am we were told that we could leave the hospital...but we stayed until 3pm. We just couldn't put Leo down. We couldn't leave him. When we finally gave him to the nurse, we broke down into tears. How horrible is it to give birth and not be able to take your baby home with you? I felt so empty. 

I am grateful to have had 1 hour with him, to have heard his voice. I feel happy knowing that Leo felt our love for him. I am grateful to him to have shown me what it means to love your child so much, what it means to be a parent. This also showed me how strong my husband is, how amazing and calm he was during this stressful situation. I'm in awe of  him right now. I think he had a much harder job than I did during the whole delivery period. He had to make the tough calls, he had to inform our families, he had to talk to many doctors and friends. I saw a really amazing side of him and love him so much more for that. 

 I haven't asked myself or God why this happened to me. I think that's a useless question and know there's no answer to it. I have never felt so much pain though. This really hurts. I do feel it's unfair that this happened.  Oh it's so unfair. I followed all the rules, I was eating healthy, kept active, stayed away from alcohol, caffeine, lunch meats, etc. I did everything! I do feel guilty even though the doctors told me this was not my fault...my cervix was weak, it opened too quickly, it's genetic, I was born with a weak cervix. But I am angry at my cervix, as ridiculous as that might sound. I also miss feeling him in my belly, I am mad that in just a few days my bump has disappeared. There are no signs that I was pregnant, that I delivered a baby boy, that I am a mother. No signs of any of that. I sometimes feel that this was all a bad dream and then I come to the tough realization that no, it wasn't. This was real. It happened to me, to us. 

Leo, I love you. I know you weren't meant to be in this world, but I miss you and wish I could hold you longer. I wish I could show you how much I love you and how great of a mother I would have been. I wish you had met your dad and seen how amazing he is. 

You will forever be in our hearts.

Leonardo, born on October 22, 2013 at 8:19pm.
Passed away on October 22, 2013 at 9:21pm.