New Blog (CherLeo.com/)

Hello readers,
Please note that I've migrated this blog to a new address. It's the same content, but with an updated look. I'll be writing on http://www.cherleo.com/ from now on.

Thanks!

The Pain-Happiness Combo

This has been a week of reflection for me. I've been struggling with little things that often seem not so little. And then I think back...so many things have gone wrong this year. How much more can I take?

It's sometimes when we are down that we come up with uplifting lessons for ourselves, isn't it?  I realized that this is my life. Of course, had I been given the choice, I wouldn't have chosen it exactly the way it's been given to me. I would have kept many things the same, but I would have deleted the part where my son died. But for reasons that are beyond me, these are the cards I've been dealt. This is MY life. It's not perfect and I'm sure, many look at me and feel relieved that this is not their lives.  I have to work with what I have, I have to somehow, overcome all this. Overcome losing my son, overcome any job problems, overcome the sadness and the pain and any other crap that might come at me.

I'm in no way a hero or a strong person. Going through something this horrible doesn't make you stronger. In fact, it breaks you in a million pieces and you patiently need to piece yourself back toghether.  And you don't always put all the pieces in the right places. Sometimes, you lose a few of them in the process.

This has been the toughest year of my life. Toughest than anything I've ever faced before and I hope to God that I will not face anything harder than this. And I'm not going to lie: there has been times where things got so horribly tough that the tought of ending it all seemed like the only possible way out for me. But despite all that horror, despite all that pain, I am happy. Yes, I am. I'm not sure how to explain this, it makes little sense, I know, but there are great things happening in my life. The thing is, bad things don't happen in isolation, they are often accompanied with a few good things. We just don't see them sometimes because in our minds this equation is always true: BAD > GOOD.

One of the things I am eternally grateful for is the fact that this tough year has brought my husband and I even closer together. We have a new appreciation for each other and our shared loss somehow solidified our love for each other. It's almost like we needed to fill the whole in our hearts with something positive, something sweet...and that's what our love for each other has done. In a book written by Anne Dauphine, a woman who lost her daughter at the age of 2 to a fatal genetic disease, wrote "when you cannot add days to your life, you should add life to your days." Inadvertently, this is what we have been doing.

Parents have grand dreams for their children, but mostly, we all hope our kid has a normal life. We all wish to see our kids take their first steps, go to school, graduate, get married, have kids, land a good job, lead happy lives. Those are universal wants. Those are simple wants. And yes, some parents will see their sons and daughters become president or Nobel Prize Winners...wouldn't we all love that for our children? But mostly, all we want is for them to have a normal and happy life. And it's this simple desire that makes the loss of a child so increadibly hard. Bereaved parents like me had those exact same dreams for our babies,  but we never got to see any of them come true.

As I sit here, pondering about life and death, I ask myself, 'what's the point'? When most adults die, we can say "he or she had a full life", "he or she accomplished so much". I can't say that about Leo. All I can say about him is that he was born a perfect little boy, that he smiled and that he died in my arms. What did he accomplish? What can we remember him by,  especially when none of our friends and family got to meet Leo?

Leo obviously changed our lives. And while his death is something I would eliminate, if I could, I am grateful for his short life. A lot of pain came with his death, but a lot of joy came with his birth. Those feelings were often mixed. I gave birth to him knowing that he would die. But I was also in awe of this little being, in my arms. This human being that we created.

I still don't know why this happened (will I ever?).  I do know that Leonardo has changed our lives, that knowing him has made me better person. I also understand now that the pain will never go away, but that it is something that I have started learning to live with. I can be happy and hurting at the same time. It's possible. In fact, that's my everyday now.

Got my pictures

Dear Leo,

Well, it's officially been more than 10 months that you were born. It's hard to believe that a whole 10 months have gone by. I think your dad and I are doing fine, but often, things creep up and surprise us and suddenly, we're back to where we were the day we lost you. Back to the same pain and suffering. It's always unexpected though and sometimes, I am surprised at how little things affect me.

Today, we went to a church event. The members of my church have been very supportive and caring. We are known as the couple who lost a baby. People often come to us and tell us their loss stories. Tonight, an older man told us he lost his 23-year old grand-daughter and soon later, he lost his son. The losses are a little different, but they're just as painful. The one thing about the church, is that people do mention you, which I like.

A few weeks ago I wrote about a great organization called Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep.  I finally got some pictures back from the photographer. I received them on a day where I was really struggling with work, and then, all of a sudden, I saw pictures of your sweet face and it reminded me that work doesn't matter. Work is just work and it means nothing compare to what you mean to me. You always help me put things into perspective.

Here are some pictures we got. I'll share a few more a little later.

I love this picture of you. You've got the sweetest little lips and
you're so hairy! 

Me and you the day after you were born

Kid's Birthday Party

Dear Leo,

On Saturday, I went to my first kid's birthday party after your passing. I didn't think much of it. I was going because it was my friend's child, he was turning 3. I've known him all his life and I wanted to be there to celebrate his life and life in general.

Everyone there had kids. Babies (from 4 months to 9 months), a bunch of 3-year olds and a few older kids (5,6,7 yr old). I was the only one without children. Everyone was busy feeding their kids, watching over them, or talking about parenting. I felt alone, empty, out of place. And then, came in my friend whose baby was born just a few weeks after you. I kept hearing 'he's 9 months'. NINE MONTHS. That's how old you are or would have been. It has been 9 months. I watched that baby and kept imagining how you would be. Would you be crawling like him? Would you be just about to talk like he was? For a moment, I thought about leaving. I seriously considered it. I really didn't belong there. Though I too am a mother, all the parents present had kids that lived. That's the main difference between us.

The best part of the party, was meeting a doula. She was a guest at the party. I learned a lot from here and am strongly considering hiring a doula for my next pregnancy. I need someone to be there with us, to help us think clearly and to really worry about our well-being (it seems that doctors worry more about not being sued than about their patients well-being).  I also told the doula about you. It felt great taking about you. I'm not sure many people would be willing to listen, but she did. So I too got to talk about my baby during this party.

Towards the end of the party, I was having a decent time. I played with some of the kids. I held some of the babies. I felt like I was able to overcome a huge obstacle. It wasn't easy. I'm not sure if I'm ready for another party. But I'm glad I took this step.

Your Picture & Complete Silence

Dear Leo,

We had some guests over yesterday for breakfast. One of the couples brought their twin boys with them. They were also supposed to be born in February 2014, like you, but were born about a month prematurely. It's a little weird to be around kids who are about the same age you would be. It just reminds me of all the things you would be able to do by now: roll over, laugh, smile, crawl. It still pains me that I will never see you do all that. I missed all your 'firsts'.  I am, however, still grateful for the smile you gave us when I  held you in my arms, shortly before your last breath.

A framed picture of you is proudly displayed on our TV unit. There's a picture of your dad and I back in 2008 and one picture of you. On that TV stand, we're really close to each other, all together, the 3 of us. I always worry a little when we have people over. Will they go close to the picture frame and ask us who that is? Will they say that you're adorable? Or will they ignore it completely? Well, nothing was said by our guests. I'm not sure if they didn't see it (highly unlikely) or if they just didn't know what to say. It saddens me a little. I wish they had said something, I wish they had acknowledged you.

Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep

There is a wonderful non-profit organization called Now I lay Me Down to Sleep. Their mission is : 

To introduce remembrance photography to parents suffering the loss of a baby 

with a free gift of professional portraiture.

Basically, when parents lose their baby (or babies), they can call Now I Lay Me Down to Sleet (NILMDS) and they will send a professional photographer who will take beautiful pictures of the baby and family free of charge. To some, this might sound a little morbid, but to parents who will never again have a chance to take pictures of their child, this is a God-sent!  Unfortunately, I didn't know about NILMDS before and the hospital staff didn't talk to me about this wonderful service. 

Being part of a Parent Support Group, I've seen many beautiful pictures of my friends' babies that were taken by NILMDS. The pictures, are all we have of our deceased child, and it means so much. I'm grateful that my husband took so many pictures of Leo, but I wish we had someone taking professional pictures...with the right lighting and setting. The right  clothes. Someone who would have taken a picture of the 3 of us. 

Last weekend, when I was sharing with another lady from the baby-loss community, that I regret not having professional pictures of Leo, she told me that I could send the pictures we took of him to NILMDS and that they would retouch it.  So I contacted NILMDS and they will do it! I'm so happy. The photographer said it would take a few weeks. I can't wait to see what the pictures will look like. 

I know I don't have the final product in my hands yet, but I am so incredibly grateful for this organization. I can't wait to hang a picture of Leo in our apartment. 

Your Name on the Big Screen

Dearest Leo,

Return to Zero movie poster

A few months ago, I contributed some funds for the making of a movie titled "Return to Zero". It's a movie about a couple that have a stillborn son. It's a movie that is meant to break the silence, to help parents who have lost a baby and to help others understand what we all went through. The movie played on Lifetime TV a few times, but I was not able to watch it. Two weeks ago I received the DVD in the mail. I was so excited. I had been waiting a long time for it and it felt surreal to finally have it with me. There it was. I held it for a long time, wondering when I would have the courage to finally watch it. I had seen many previews, I knew this was a story that I would identify myself with...unfortunately. But I also knew that the message was powerful and that I had to watch it.

Well, I finally did. Today was the day. I sat in front of my screen, with a box of tissues by my side, ready to cry. Don't get my wrong, crying is not a bad thing. Sometimes, I need something to help me cry, something that will encourage me to let those feelings out...the feelings of pain, of suffering, of anger. And the movie did that, but it also made me laugh and it made me think. But mostly, it made me feel grateful. When I lost you Leo, I looked online for videos, movies, music that could help me. I looked for ways that could validate my feelings and comfort me...and found very little out there. I'm grateful that this movie came out, that it will help many bereaved parents and their families.

Obviously, I knew how the movie was going to end. I knew their baby would die. It's a little bit like watching the Titanic. You know there will be a catastrophe, and you're watching mostly to see how the events unfold, what happens after, how people get through the tragedy. While my story is different from that of Aaron and Maggie in the movie, our endings are the same: dead baby, suffering, confusion, anger.

It might be strange for me to say this but I loved the movie. I am thankful for the director and actors for having the courage to produce such a beautiful and raw film. But I have to say, that to me, the most beautiful part was at the end...when the credits rolled. There it was, in white on a completely black screen: your name! Because I helped fund the movie, I was blessed to have the opportunity to put your name in the credits. It is so rare to hear your name, and even more rare to see it in writing. I was reading all the names of dead babies on the screen - gosh there were so many and that is so horrible! But I imagine that those babies' parents feel like I feel: really moved, grateful and happy to see our baby's name very clearly written in black and white on the big screen. It's a wonderful feeling.

This movie is for you Leo. 

Return to Zero credits. In memory of...

Getting to know grief

My sweet darling Leo,

I have been reading so many articles written by and for the baby loss community, trying to understand and validate my own feelings and somewhat crazy thoughts. And thank God, I know that most of what is going through my head and heart is normal. 

But there's something new that I'm learning now, something that I haven't read about yet. I'm slowly getting to know grief, but most importantly, I'm getting reacquainted with the bereaved me, the me with grief. You know how 2 people in a relationship tend to change? Either through influence or through an active effort to become better or to please one another? Well, Grief is now my daily companion and she is changing me. 

Last night I went to a party where someone said "I've heard what happened. I'm sorry. You'll have another one soon." A few months ago, that comment would have upsetted me, but I've grown past that. I've always understood that people don't really know what to say because they can't comprehend the suffering that comes with losing a child, even if the child was in this world for a brief moment. But even though I understood that, it would hurt me deeply to hear others say that I could make everything better by replacing you Leo, with another baby.  It would sting and aggregate me. Yesterday though, it didn't affect me at all. I genuinely smiled, grateful that someone had said something to me about you that night. I know it came from a good place and that it must have been hard for her to approach me and say those words. 

 

One of my friends brought her 2-month old baby to the party. I couldn't wait to hold him. While I was playing and taking to that sweet baby, I also realized that I didn't feel any sadness. I didn't wish he was you. I was fully in the moment, enjoying that little boy. No negative feelings or thoughts came to me. It might seem trivial, but this is a huge step for me. 

I have had 30+ years to mature, but with grief in my life, I need to go through that process of growth and maturity again. I am making baby steps, but at least, those steps are going forward. I feel somewhat pround of myself for this growth.

Feeling happiness for others

Dear Leo,

I'm a little ashamed to say this because I'm your mother and mothers should be mature and strong...but here goes: I have a hard time feeling happy for all my friends who are announcing pregnancies or who are bringing perfect little babies into this world. It's horrible, I know. It's such a happy moment for them. I should know...I was happy too not too long ago. 

It's a weird feeling. In a way, I'm relieved that things are going well and that they don't have to experience the gut- wrenching pain of losing a child. But at the same time, I wonder why it's so easy for others. Why wasn't it this simple for me? Why? I'm still struggling with this one.

I got a call this week from a friend announcing a pregnancy. I said all the right things and asked the usual questions: "congratulations! How far along are you? When is the due date? How are you feeling? Do you know the sex? Will you find out? Etc. etc." I think I was able to hide the fact that deep down my heart was aching and my entire being was screaming "why!?!". 

This grief is complex to say the least. It brings out the worst in me, but occasionally brings out the best in me. Last week at my monthly parent support group meeting, one of the ladies who suffered a series of baby losses told me she was pregnant. I was genuinely happy for her! After all that she went through she deserves this and I hope that this time, things go right. I'm praying for her, her husband, and this new baby.  But why is it that I have no problem being happy for her but struggle to be happy for others? For those who haven't suffered what I suffered? Most of them are deserving of a child too. (Most of them). 

If I'm being honest with myself, I think I'm a little jealous. Jealousy is such and ugly and useless feeling. It doesn't amount to anything. But here I am, jealous of all the little perfect families out there. Jealous of those who get to take their babies home, jealous of those complaining about sleepless nights and the terrible twos. 

I'm not proud of it. I'm not entirely sure how I'm going to get over this ugly feeling. 

Something Else Could be Wrong

At this point, a late period is usually a good sign. I'm 6 days late, but the pregnancy tests are all negative. I tested many times. They all display the same words "not pregnant." 

Every time I take the test, I tell myself "this will be it...". Everyday that goes by without my period arriving gives me a little hope. But now, my doctor says that something could be wrong. It could be thyroid...it could be early menopause...it could be something else. Seriously?

What is frustrating is that child bearing is something that millions of women all around the world have done. Some without any care or without any planning. It should be as natural as losing your baby teeth or learning how to walk. But somehow, I'm learning how to walk in a land mine. I carefully try to find my way and BOOM! There's another mine. 

I try so hard to be positive. I am telling myself that I can't possibly have thyroid or early menopause (did I mention I'm 33 years old?). I eat healthy (always organic, always home cooked meals), I exercise, I take care of myself. What else can I do? I don't understand. I'm losing so much control of my body and I hate that. I feel at a loss...and the sad part is that I know things could get worst...I'm almost expecting them to get worst at this point because I'm so used to bad news these days. 

I do pray to God that nothing is wrong and that somehow I get the strength to get through this, on top of everything else. 

An ounce of hope...

I think that's all I have left...just an ounce of hope, and that keeps getting smaller and smaller. This past few days have been hard. It's been almost 8 months since Leo passed away. That means, that I would have been holding an 8-month baby in my arms right now. It's painful to think about all that would have been. My life would have been so different. It would have probably been chaotic and exhausting but I would have taken that any day...anything is better than this. 

To make things worst, I just got another negative pregnancy test. There goes another drop of hope down the drain. Why is this so hard? I've had so much hardship in the past few months, why doesn't God just grant me something good right now? I need it so bad. I need some good news, something positive, something that will bring me an insane amount of joy...something that will bring light into my now dark heart. 

I know I shouldn't compare myself to others, I shouldn't look at their lives and envy the little perfect families they have. I shouldn't be holding their baby and be thinking 'I should be holding my baby'. I shouldn't, but I do. But then again, I shouldn't have lost my son Leonardo, and I did. 

Nightmares

Dear Leo,

I haven't had any dreams about you yet. It saddens me a little. I wish I could see you in my dreams. I would take that as a sign that things are ok with you and I'm sure it would bring me comfort.

Last week, I dreamt that I was about 36-38 weeks pregnant. It wasn't you though...I was pregnant with your little sibling. I was excited that I had past the 23 week mark, which is when I lost you. But this dream wasn't a comforting one. The baby I was carrying stopped moving. I then had to deliver him or her and it turned out to be a still birth. Another dead baby!

I sure hope this is not a sign. I know that in my next pregancy, my only concern will be to get to the 37-40weeks mark...but even that doesn't guaranty a living baby. Most people, when they think about pregancy, they don't worry about giving birth to a baby that will live. But for me, that is all I want. I want to bring my baby home.

Another baby is born...

It’s strange how a day of joy for many can make my heart feel heavy.

One of my best friends had hear baby on Sunday. He was expected to be born 10 days ago. I was beginning to get worried for him, as I know, from my support group, that bad things can happen when the baby is overdue. I was worried that he would be stillborn – because of course, now, whenever a baby is due, I can only imagine the worst. So, I was happy that baby Ari was born healthy and perfect. I am happy that my friends have this beautiful baby in their arms and that they are discovering the joys of parenthood.

But I’m also sad. I know that it  is a horrible thing to say, but it is the truth. As soon as I got the text message, announcing Ari’s birth, I was excited but that feeling got quickly replaced by sadness. I don’t know if it’s jealousy or sorrow, or perhaps both. I asked myself then and there what makes others more worthy than us? Why can they have a healthy baby in their arms and we can’t? What have we done to deserve this? I’m at loss. I’m happy that they have their baby, but in a way, I’m sad that they did. Why is it so easy for everyone else?

My heart feels heavy and dark right now. I am also very conflicted. I’m happy, but I’m not.  These are my friends, I love them and I’m sure I’ll love their baby. But, I’ll also always remember that Ari was supposed to be Leo’s friend. They were supposed to play together, grow together. Instead, I get to watch Ari grow instead of watching my own son grow. 

Return to Zero will bring me back

Dear Leo,

I wish I could go back to being the happy go lucky person I was before I lost you. But in a strange way, I want to continue feeling the pain. I fear that stopping to feel it means that I'm over it or that I'm forgetting you. 

Most parents feel love, joy, pride, marvel, etc. towards their kids. They feel these things over and over again and everyday. As a loss mother, I only know two feelings: love and deep sadness. And I think the sadness is more intense than the love. Or maybe they go hand in hand? Or perhaps I just can't tell which is which anymore.

This pain is all I have left having and losing you. I read loss articles, knowing very well that it will make me cry. I read them anyway. I seek things that will help my tears flow, that will help me focus on my grief. 

On May 17, Return to Zero, a movie about a couple who have a stillborn son, is coming out on Lifetime (tv network in the US and UK). I know it will be hard to watch. I know it will take me back to a dark place, that it will take me back to those hard days following your death. I know all this but I need to go through it. I need to feel the pain. I need to relive it over and over again. As crazy as this might sound, I feel that the only way to deal with my grief is to be exposed to other stories like mine. This is what Return to Zero will do for me.

Six months, 21 days

Six months and 21 days or 29 weeks. This is how old you would have been. This is how long it has been since we lost  you.

Sometimes I think I'm doing so well, especially when I compare myself to other grieving moms. I don't have a hard time seeing babies or pregant women. I don't mind being around kids. 

But lately, it's been tougher. I wake up and remember that you're dead. I can't focus at work and that is hurting my performance. It's a struggle to go to work everyday. I count the days to the weekend. I get anxiety on Sunday evenings thinking about Monday. I just go through the motions: get ready, jump on the bus, read emails, write reports, leave work and stress out at the though of doing it all again the next day. So many times this past week I ran to the restroom to cry because the pain of losing you is still so real. I would love to just walk away from it all and spend my time focusing on myself. 

Plus, I'm so discouraged lately regarding getting pregnant again. I took a pregancy test yesterday. It's a little too early, I know...but it was negative, again. I was so convinced that I was pregnant. I was feeling some symptoms. I was so sure this time would be it. So sure. 

This is not how I imagined my first Mother's Day

Dearest Leo,

I didn't really feel like celebrating my birthday this year - it could be because I'm getting older, but mostly because it falls on Mother's Day...my first mother's day.

It was not at all like I imagined it would be. In my mind, my first Mother's Day was going to be me, holding the little 3-month you and having your dad spoil both of us on that day. It would have been posting perfect pictures of you and I on Facebook, like all the other mother's out there. It would have been getting calls from friends and family, wishing me a happy first Mother's Day.

But no, that is not what was in store for me. I had planned on running a 5K race on my birthday. I wanted to start this new year with something a little intense, something that reflects my life right now...just running from the reality, running from the pain - running makes me feel light and free. It makes me forget. So, I woke up early and started getting ready. Then I walked to your picture that is placed in the living room beside a picture of your dad and I. I touched your face and broke into tears. This is not how I imagined I would spend Mother's Day - caressing your cheek through a framed picture. This is not what I wanted.

The race itself was fun. I ran with a few friends and had a great time. Then, I went for brunch with a few friends. A few friends didn't show up. Everyone at the restaurant was with their mothers or their kids. And there I was, sitting with a few friends 'celebrating' my birthday and secretly mourning.

We ended the day by going to an evening mass. Of course, the priest wished all the mothers or women with motherly roles. At the end, he asked all the mothers to stand up for a blessing. I didn't know what to do, but your dad asked me to stand. I started my day with tears and ended my day in tears.

A few people did wish me Happy Mother's day and offered me flowers. It felt good to have others acknowledge that I am a mother, even though you're not here with me. Even though I don't get to post pictures of our perfect first mother's day together.

I did post something on Facebook though. I did post that I celebrated mother's day. I posted pictures of flowers, a picture of you and one of my mom. People might think I'm going crazy or lingering in the past. But I don't care. You will forever be my baby and I will forever be your mother and, as hard as it might be, I will celebrate every single Mother's Day from now on.

Carrying you longer

Dear Leo,

When I hear stories of women who gave birth at 40 weeks but had a still born, I feel like that is worst than what I went through. They were ready to have a baby, they told their friends and family they were about to delivery, they had a baby shower, the nursery ready, the clothes and toys purchased. They were so close to becoming parents.

Then I think about our story. Giving birth to you at 23 weeks was unexpected. I still wasn't ready, hadn't had a baby shower yet, had not purchased all the thigs you need, had not assembled your crib. 

But lately, I am a little envious of those who got to carry their babies full term. They had 40 weeks with their baby, I had 23. I wish I got to carry you longer, I liked knowing that you were with me. Unlike those who went full-term, I didn't get to feel your kicks, your hick ups, your summersaults. I missed out on all of that. I had just started feeling some flutter. That is all I felt. 

I regret not talking to you while you were in my belly. I regret not singing or reading to you. Had I known our time together would have been so short, I would have taken more time to really be with you. 

These past 2 days I've begun feeling like I'm carrying a baby. I don't know if I'm going crazy, because I'm not pregnant. Maybe I'm feeling something else...whatever it is, I like the feeling. It reminds me of when you were in me, growing safely. It reminds me of my excitement and hope for our future. 

I really miss you Leo. 

Hospital bills

Dear Leo,

It's been over 6 months that you've been gone and I am still receiving hospital bills. It makes me so angry and upset when I receive these medical bills. When will they stop coming? They are a constant reminder that you died there - what exactly are they charging me for???

The latest one was $4,000 for nursery fees. You never even went to the nursery! You stayed in our room the whole time we were in the hospital. I hate that they are trying to cheat us and I hate having to call the insurance company to fight against these charges.

Last week I called my medical endurance and they told me they are charging me because the patient (you) is not listed as a dependent and is therefore not covered. I then had to explain to them that it didn't make any sense for me to add a dead baby to my insurance. 

I make those calls every 2 weeks. Explaining over and over again, to complete strangers, that you died. I hate doing that because they don't care about you. They don't care about me. They just care about getting their money.

I also find myself getting overly angry with the insurance customer reps just because I can. Just because it's easy to be angry with someone you don't know, someone who you don't see. It's not their fault, I know, but it's much easier to be angry with them than with myself.

I envy the old me

I lost count of how many times I've attended the parent support group. It's probably been at least 5 or 6 times. Every time is different but one thing remains the same: there are always new people in the group. 

Every month, more grieving parents join our "club". My heart always sinks to see that more people went through this. When I hear their stories, I cry for them. It reminds me of the sharp pain one feels the first few weeks after losing a child. I see myself in them, I know they will eventually feel a little lighter, but I can feel what they feel. I relive the experience. I feel their pain, their anger, their despair.

The first weeks and months after losing Leo, I didn't know if I was going to be able to make it through life. It hasn't been easy. Leo's birth marked a major milestone in my life - that day changed me. I envy the old me, the me that never lived through a tragedy, that never lost anyone that was close to me. But that seems like so long ago; though it's  only been 6 months.

 Tomorrow is National Bereaved Mother's Day and I'll be volunteering at the March for Babies - I am doing this for my baby but also for all the other little angels.

Mouths to feed

Dear Leo,

Yesterday, I went to a work happy hour and people were talking about trips. At one point someone said that I'm lucky that I don't have to worry about mouths to feed when in traveling, that I can sleep in and eat when I want. 

These people look back at the time they had no kids and remember their freedom. I, however, look back at the day I lost you and feel trapped. What I wouldn't give to have to feed you and be awoken by your crys!

Last weekend, your dad and I had a little weekend getaway in Vancouver, BC. It was lovely. I have many trips planned for us this summer and I think it's because I don't want to constantly be thinking of what the summer would have been like with you or I don't want to feel what it will be like without you. I just feel like running away from this reality I'm stuck in.

Photo taken on the train during our Vancouver trip 

Six months without you

My dearest son,

It's been six months. It's hard to even grasp that thought. 6 months since you were born, 6 months that I've been a mother, 6 months since you died. 

In a certain way, time has gone by so fast. I can remember the fear I felt the day you were born, the worry that I experienced. It was the first time that I really worried about you. It was the first time I thought of the possibility of losing you. My memories of that day are so clear. It's painful to remember certain parts of it. Like going into the hospital not knowing what was going on. Or giving you to the nurse and watching her take you away...to the morgue. 

In another way, it feels like a lifetime has gone by since you came into our lives. I feel like a completely different person. I've gone through so much, felt so much pain, felt so many new things in the past few months. I think I've grown older, wiser and perhaps a little more cynical. I've got more grey hair too. I blame you for that Leo, just like my mom blamed me for all her grey hairs. :)

What can I say to you right now? You changed my life. I want to say that you changed it for the better because your loss did lead to a few positive things that wouldn't have happened otherwise. But it's still hard for me to convince myself that this happened for the best. I am still wiping tears off my face and comforting your dad in the middle of the night...how can losing you be for the best? I am still searching for an answer.

In the meantime Leo, happy half birthday.  I love you and am already thinking of ways in which we'll celebrate your 1st birthday. 

Ta maman qui t'aime fort.

I wish I had the world's toughest job

This video has been going around social media.  Take a look.

It's really beautiful and of course, makes all of us think about our moms. But the first thought I had was how much I would like to have this job right now. If everything had gone as planned, Leo would have been born on Feb 13, 2014 and would be 2 months old now. All I can do is imagine how he would have been, what it would have been like to be a real mother to him.

The video is a reminder of mother's day and how important it is to show your mom how much you appreciate her. I'm getting a little anxious about it though. May 11, 2014 is going to be my first Mother's Day. I'm mentally preparing myself for seeing pictures of all my mommy friends get pampered and loved by their kids. What should I do? How do I celebrate this day? I did give birth, I do have a son, but he is not here. I love him so much, but I'm not really being a mother to him. In fact, he's gone because my body didn't work as it should have, he's gone because of me. Should I even celebrate this day? I couldn't even bring him to this world safely....I couldn't even do that right! Do I deserve to even be called a mother?

Children are Fleeting

My dearest son,

Every now and again I see, hear or think of something that makes me think "oh, I should write about that." Days go by and I end up forgetting. So sometimes I just come here and start writing and then see where that takes me. Today is one of those days. 

Your dad and I went to the tulip festival in Northern Washington last weekend. There were so many families, so many kids. We are rarely surrounded by so many. It was beautiful to see the young kids run through the rows of tulips, see them pose for pictures and marvel at all the colors they were witnessing. It was also sad when I realized that I'll never see you do any of that. 

I read a quote today that made me think of you. "Sunsets, like children, should be viewed with wonder, not just because they are beautiful, but because they are fleeting."  - author unknon 

Fleeting...I'm too familiar with what that means. I know that you are with me. I just wish I could also be with you. 

It Did Happen

Dear Leo,

Yesterday, as I was walking home from work I felt that losing a baby couldn't have happened to me. It sometimes does feel like it happened to someone else. It's just too awful for it to have happened to me. 

This feeling is pretty surreal. For a split second I forget that we went through this. It feels like a bad dream. The return to reality is always harsh: "our baby did die". Take in those words "our baby died". It sounds so horrible...It feels even worse.

This is the Happiest Story in the World with the Saddest Ending

My dearest baby, 

I almost didn't go to the support group tonight. I felt like I had enough of being sad and being surrounded by sad people and sad stories. Like someone once said, "something tragic happened to me, but I don't want my life to be a tragedy." Ironically, this was said during one of my support group meetings. 

But I did go. Everyone goes around telling their stories and sharing the hard moments they had since our last meeting. We sit in a circle. We start by saying "Hi, my name is _______and I lost my baby on such and such date". It's like an alcoholics anonymous meeting, except that we all understand that we will never recover from this.  While we were going around, each person sharing their own stories, I started to get nervous. "What am I going to say? I'm feeling pretty good these days, I have nothing to share."

It's funny how I can even fool myself into thinking that I am doing ok. I told my group about how I am surprised at things that will trigger my emotions and make me cry. I shared with them the story of my friend whose baby registry contains some of the same clothes I bought for you. As I was sharing that story, I began to cry and had a hard time finishing what I was saying. I know it makes zero sense. People who have never lost a child must think I'm crazy. And yes, I know that everyone shops for baby clothes at Amazon.com and Carter and that I would eventually have seen a baby wearing the same clothes you were supposed to wear. I don't know what it is about this that upsets me so much. They are just clothes. When I bought them, I thought you'd look so adorable in them - but you never got to wear them. 

One of the loss books I read recently had a line that said "this is the happiest story in the world, with the saddest ending." That's your story Leo. Announcing your arrival brought so much happiness to so many people around us. But this is a sad ending. The story has ended, but the pain is still here. 

I love you.

Why did this happen to me?

I have been trying to keep a positive outlook, to focus on the good things that are happening to me and around me. I think I have done a decent job at that. But though I try to be strong, though I try to be positive, I am human. I fall, I cry, and I fail at time; I fail many times. 

This weekend I started to wonder why this happened to me. Why did I have to go through the loss of a child? If God didn't mean for me to become a mother, why did he allow me to get pregnant and give birth, only to have my baby die in my arms? Why, why, WHY? What did I do to deserve this? Is there anything more painful that He could have put me through? I don't think so. 

Yes, everything happens for a reason...but what is the reason? When will I finally find out what the reason is for losing  my child? How long do I need to wait before I start to understand this? 

People look at me and tell me I'm strong. But I have no choice but to be, or should I say, to 'act' strong when I'm in public. No one wants to see a grown women crying, no one wants to talk about a dead baby. If I didn't act strong, I would make others very uncomfortable. So I reserve my moments of weakness, my moments of pain for when I'm alone. I am not strong - I'm just someone who learned how to be in public if you don't want others to start avoiding you. I do lead a double life - the one other see is of a strong and happy woman. The one I see if of a wounded and lost girl who is not too sure what to do or how to carry on.

Ephemeral as Cherry Blossoms

Dear Leo,

Cherry blossoms are blooming here now. They're so beautiful. There are two trees by our apartment and we always see people taking pictures of the flowers. Everyone wants to capture them while they are here. Cherry blossom flowers bloom for a few weeks and then, they disappear. The tree goes from a soothing pink to the typical green. Your dad said the other day that cherry blossoms reminds him of you: they're so beautiful, so precious, but are only here for a short while. And while they're here, everyone enjoys them, everyone marvels over them. And then, they're gone. Just like you.

I'm always surprised by the things that remind us of you and even more surprised by the things that make us burst into tears. One of my friends is having a baby shower soon. I'm genuinely excited for her and am taking a big part in organizing the event. Last week, I went onto her baby registry to purchase her little baby boy some gifts and was taken aback. I saw some of the same clothes that I had purchased for you and that are now sitting in your drawer. Cute little outfits that you never wore..he will be wearing them. For a second I thought of giving him your clothes, but I quickly rejected that thought; I can't bring myself to do that. They are YOUR clothes. I didn't even want to purchase him any clothes. It makes no sense, I know, but the thought of buying clothes for another baby boy is just so difficult for me. So I bought him wipes and diapers.

I was at the dentist earlier this week and as he was looking at my chart he said "I see you have a history of miscarriage." It took all that I had to not cry as I told him "it was not a miscarriage...it was premature birth." I was so upset. I HAD to correct him and let him know that you were born, that you came into this world and then left. And people talk about miscarriage as if it was such a light topic. That too is painful and hard to deal with. It's not 'just a miscarriage'. As soon as I got out of the dentist's office, I broke down in tears. I can't even explain why, because I don't really know. I didn't expect the dentist to mention you, I didn't like that he said that in passing, as if it was nothing. I didn't like that he got it wrong and referred to your death as a miscarriage.

Like a cherry blossom, your existence was real, but ephemeral. I'm grateful that I got to cherish  you while you were with us.

Let him under your skin, then you begin to make it better

I spent the last 4 days in Las Vegas with 2 of my childhood friends. It was an attempt to run away, to have fun, to reconnect.

My flight there was mostly uneventful. It was a small plane with no in-flight entertainment. It was just me, my book and my thoughts, which of course, is never a good thing. As expected, I started thinking of all that I gained and lost in the last few months and then just burst into tears. 

The trip itself was good. The sun, the heat, the friendship, were all things that made me feel a little better, a little lighter.

Last night, we went to see a Cirque du Soleil show called "Love". It was centered around The Beattles music. It was so beautiful, so breathtaking. I loved every bit of it. But then came the song "Hey Jude" and, though it's a love song, it spoke to me. So there I was, in tears in the most unlikely of places. But it reminded me that all I need to do, is let Leo under my skin so that I can start to feel better. 

Hey Jude

Hey Jude, don't make it bad
Take a sad song and make it better
Remember to let her into your heart
Then you can start to make it better

Hey Jude, don't be afraid
You were made to go out and get her
The minute you let her under your skin
Then you begin to make it better

And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain
Don't carry the world upon your shoulders
For well you know that it's a fool who plays it cool
By making his world a little colder
Nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah

Hey Jude, don't let me down
You have found her, now go and get her
Remember to let her into your heart
Then you can start to make it better

So let it out and let it in, hey Jude, begin
You're waiting for someone to perform with
And don't you know that it's just you, hey Jude, you'll do
The movement you need is on your shoulder
Nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah yeah

Hey Jude, don't make it bad
Take a sad song and make it better
Remember to let her under your skin
Then you'll begin to make it
Better better better better better better, oh

Hard to Conceive

Dearest Leo,

I have said many times that saying "you can have another baby" to someone whose baby died is a major faux pas. I read somewhere a post that said "My baby is not like a cookie, I can't just have another one". I think people say that to me because they believe I'm sad about not being a mother, that I'm sad about not having a baby...and to some extent, that is true. But more importantly, I'm sad that I lost you. I'm not sad that I lost a baby...I'm sad that I lost you Leo.

And I understand that another child would bring me happiness. So much happiness in fact, that I would hardly have time to think of how sad I am about not having you with me. But not thinking about being sad doesn't take away the pain that I feel about losing you. Not thinking of being sad is just a way to ignore or dismiss a fact that only a few understand: I will always be sad about losing my first child, my son, my baby. This is part of me now, it's part of my life.

But I can't pretend that I do not want another child. I do! I want a baby so bad. The kind of baby that I can take home  with me from the hospital. I want a child that I can cuddle with, kiss, hug and play with for the rest of my life and not for just 1 hour.

The making of this new child has become my whole world now and has been far from easy. My weeks are consumed by looking at the calendar, tracking my cycle, calculating my most fertile days, getting all anxious about my ovulation, and putting a lot of pressure on my husband and I to make it count. And then, impatiently waiting for the time to pee on the stick. Crossing my fingers and toes, hoping for the double pink lines. And then, not seeing the lines. And testing again and again until my period comes in...as if the result would be different with a new pregnancy test.  Next comes disappointment, anger, frustration, despair. A few days later, I'm back to wishing that days would go by faster so that I can finally be at my most fertile days again. My husband and I text each other about ovulation kits and pregnancy tests. It's so different from the texts that we used to send each other just a few months ago.

I've had 2 months of this trying to conceive cycle. I know, it's not much. Some people try for months, some even for years, before getting pregnant. But I can't wait that long. How can I be patient? I was pregnant and I didn't get to keep my baby. It's unfair that I'm back at square 1, which really feels like square -100 because I lost so much.

Now I'm waiting for a few days to go by before spending $40 on a series of pregnancy tests. I don't like this game of trying and trying and not seeing anything come out of it. I don't like this waiting game. I don't like getting a negative result on the same week that someone else announces their pregnancy...or their healthy newborn baby.

I don't like any of this.

Grass must grow and children die

You remember learning a new word as a kid? For some reason, unknown to me, whenever I learned a new word, I kept hearing it everywhere.  Or perhaps you remember being excited about purchasing a new outfit and then seeing it being worn by dozens of people around you. What I feel with Leo's death is similar. Now that I am what they call an 'angel mommy', I see or hear of other angel parents all around me.  

In high school, I wrote a long paper about Victor Hugo, a French poet from the 1800s. I studied his works and his life. I analyzed his poems and read many of his novels. But how is it that I completely missed the fact that out of the 5 children he had, only 1 outlived him? He lost his first child, a son, in infancy. His second child, Leopoldine died at the age of 19. Many of his poems were dedicated to her. And who can say it better than Hugo? (Scroll down for English translation):

Les mois, les jours, les flots des mers, les yeux qui pleurent,

Passent sous le ciel bleu;

Il faut que l’herbe pousse et que les enfants meurent;

Je le sais, ô mon Dieu!

(…)

Hélas ! vers le passé tournant un oeil d'envie,

Sans que rien ici-bas puisse m'en consoler,

Je regarde toujours ce moment de ma vie

Où je l'ai vue ouvrir son aile et s'envoler!

Je verrai cet instant jusqu'à ce que je meure,

L'instant, pleurs superflus !

Où je criai : L'enfant que j'avais tout à l'heure,

Quoi donc ! je ne l'ai plus !

------------------------------------------------------------------

Months, days, billows of the sea, eyes that weep
pass under the blue sky;
grass must grow and children die;
I know it, O God!

(…)

Alas! turning an envious eye towards the past,

inconsolable by anything on earth,

I keep looking at that moment of my life

when I saw her open her wings and fly away!

I will see that instant until I die,

that instant—too much for tears!

when I cried out: "The child that I had just now--

what! I don't have her any more!"

-          À Villequier, 4 septembre 1847.

Last Love

Tonight, I watched a movie called "Last Love". The main character, Matthew Morgan, is a recent widower who is trying to find a way to live now that he's alone. Approximately halfway through the movie, he said something that struck me. It was so beautiful, so poetic, so touching - tears started streaming down my face. I rewound the movie and listened to it again and decided it needed to be written down.

It so beautifully portrays how I feel at times. Here's an excerpt:

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. 

Unexpected Acts of Kindness

I spent so much time being disappointed at friends and family who haven't been there for me. Disappointed at those who heard the news and never called me. Disappointed at those who called once and never called nor emailed again. Disappointed at those who are still in touch with me but pretend nothing has happened.

For every person I have been disappointed with, there has been someone who surprised me with a random and unexpected act of kindness.

People in my church have been so supportive, people I never even talked to before losing Leo. They have shared their own stories of lost, they have hugged me, they have squeezed my hand when they sensed I was going through a tough moment. 

The florist near my place, gave me a dozen roses on Valentine's day, the day after Leo's due date. He just grabbed them from this buckets of flowers and said "this is for you guys." It took me everything I had to not cry right there in front of him. A few days later I gave him a thank you card and he hugged me saying he really likes us.

People we don't even know, but who have heard our story email us saying "you don't know me, but I've been through this too and I'm thinking of you."

These are small but meaningful gestures. Random acts if kindness coming from random people all around us is what gives me faith in humanity. 

It's not such a bad world after all.

Four Months

Dear Leo,

It's strange to think that 4 months have already passed by since you were born. To me, it already seems like a lifetime. The past few months have, without a doubt, been the toughest months of my life. Maybe that is why it seems like so much time has gone by. When you're having a good time, time seems to fly by. When things are tough, everything slows down, every molehill seems like a mountain, every second without you seems like years.

When you died, I was only 23 weeks. I kept keeping track of my 'would be pregnancy'. Every week I would tell myself "I would have been 30 weeks", "I would have been 36 weeks", and so on. I missed having you in my belly. I felt sad for not being able to experience what most pregnant women do: feeling you doing somersaults, feeling your hiccups, knowing when you're sleeping and when you're awake. I did that until about 40 weeks. But now that your due date has passed, I feel sad for what would have been. For example, if you were here right now, I would probably be watching you sleep, I would probably be taking millions of pictures of you, but be too busy or too tired to post any of them.

Yesterday, someone told me that they loved the picture I posted of you on Facebook. That made me so happy. Most people look at your picture and just feel sad or sorry for me. When they see you, they see what I've lost. So it was nice to hear someone say that you looked so cute - it's nice to hear someone acknowledge your existence rather than your lost.

I wish you were here.

Seek beauty in everything you see

That is how I am trying to live my life these days. It is so easy to see the negatives and the ugly. It's so easy to say "this is an awful day", "I am fat, I am ugly", "my life sucks". It's also easy to be constantly disappointed with others and think "why is everyone pretending this never happened?", "why didn't anyone call?".

When life is unfair to us, it's easy to be angry. It feels good to hate the word, hate everyone around us, hate everyone who is realizing their dreams while yours came crushing down. Staying positive is hard and it takes a lot of energy, frankly, it's exhausting. 

After Leo died, I realized how precious life is. Not everyone gets to live as long as I have. Not everyone has the opportunity to enjoy it. So, why not focus on the beautiful things that surround us? Why not see the beauty in people instead of focusing on their faults or failures?

Of course, it's easier said than done and some days, it seems like there's nothing worth celebrating. But we should all give it a try. Enjoying little moments, thinking positively, seeking beauty in everything we see - that's my goal this week.

Today, it's grey outside. But it's a nice winter day. The kind of day where winter doesn't seem so bad. Today is a good day.

You'll have more babies...

How do I respond to people who tell me "don't worry, you'll have more babies"? I know they are trying to be encouraging, trying to be comforting, trying to be nice. I know they don't realize that, instead of helping, they're hurting me, they're angering me, they're devaluing your life. 

What do I say to this? I've tried to respond and I must admit that sometimes, my response is not exactly kind. I'm struggling. How do I tell them that you are not replaceable? How do I tell them that no one, not even another baby, will make things better? No one will ever be you, replace you or make me forget you.

It is so strange to me. When you lose a spouse, no one says "don't worry, you can re-marry" When you lose a 10 year old child, no one will dare say "you can have another kid". People don't even say that about pets...imagine: "sorry your dog died; you can buy another one right?" No one says that. 

What is it about babies that make people think that a new baby can replace the one that died? Is it because their lives were so short? Do they believe their existences are insignificant? 

Perhaps, if I had not gone through this loss, I would have said that too. But here's something I learned on October 22, 2013: the love you feel for your child is immense and unconditional. I didn't expect to fall so deeply in love with Leo right at the moment I held him and I didn't expect this love to grow even after he left us. My love for Leo is what makes him irreplaceable. I could never love anyone the way I love him. 

Today is your due date

Dearest Leo,

You were supposed to be born today, February 13, 2014. I had a different vision of what this week would look like. I imagined preparing my hospital bag, making sure we know how to operate a car seat, making sure your crib is all set up and beautiful, that we have enough diapers, clothing, and the other million things I needed to take good care of you. I imagined being so big, so uncomfortable, so impatient, so anxious, so excited about meeting you...but probably a little scared about giving birth - probably deciding that, I didn't want to go into labor after all.

Never could I have imagined that I would be sitting here, with empty arms, with the crib still its box, the baby clothes tucked away in a drawer that hasn't been opened in a while and an aching heart.

I decided to post something about your life on Facebook today. I had never announced my pregnancy on Facebook. I had never announced your birth nor your death. But today, I wanted to honor you in some way. So I shared it with the world. I put it out there that you came and that you left.

I'm not sure if I sometimes tell myself great things about you, just as a coping mechanism...but I do feel, Leo, that your short life has had a tremendous impact not only on our family, but many people around us. I decided to speak up, to tell the world that not every pregnancy leads to a healthy, living baby, that the pain of losing a child is real and should not be a taboo. I've been overwhelmed by stories that have been shared with me today. So many babies, so many losses, so many heartaches. It's depressing, no wonder people don't talk about it - but it's all too real and we shouldn't just sweep this under the rug.

So many strong women, women whom I admire have come to me to tell me that they admire my courage, my strength. I owe all this strength to you Leo; after all, your name does mean "lion-strong" or "lion-hearted". Oh and how this name suits you!

Leonardo - I think I would have called you by your full name whenever I would have had something serious to tell you. So here goes: Leonardo, you have made me a better version of myself. I do have my moments of failure, moments where all I want to do is be angry, scream at some innocent soul, give a piece of my mind to mean-spirited parents... But, in the 62 minutes that you were with us,  you have thought us many important lessons.

Life is short. Life is precious.
 I am grateful for all that I have. 
I am grateful for you. 

Due Date Approaching

My dear Leo,

I should be 39 weeks pregnant right now, making final arrangements, making sure we have everything ready for you. I should be huge, I should be resting ice cream bowls on my belly, asking for help to tie my shoes. I should be excited, nervous, impatient to see you. I shouldn't be sad, I shouldn't be crying for you, I shouldn't be mourning you.

I know a due date is just an estimation of when you should have come. You might have been born a little before or a little after....but your due date represents the date that my life would have changed. It represents the time I would have gone from being a carefree adult to a worried mom. But mostly, it represents the time that I would be holding you in my arms, feeding you, signing to you, bathing you, changing you.

It's been less than 4 months that you came and left but it feels like a lifetime. I am just going through the motions: wake up, eat, go to work, come home, eat, sleep. I've become pretty good at that. People who meet me have no idea of what happened to me, they have no idea that I went through the most tragic thing in my life, they have no idea that I'm hurting.

I know I shouldn't define myself by your loss. I shouldn't be known as the woman who lost her baby. But in a way, I want people to know. It's the only way they'll know that you were here, that you existed. Why shouldn't I talk about you when others talk about their own children?

I miss you Leo. I wish you were here. 

Feeling better, feeling guilty

Dear Leo,

I haven't written to you in a while. The truth is, I'm feeling better now. When I think of you, I don't feel sad that I lost you, I feel happy that I had you. I can cherish the 1 hour we spent together and feel ok. I'm holding on to that moment, I'm holding on tight; it was, after all, the only moment we had.

I am also feeling a little guilty for not being as sad, as broken as I was in the first few months after you left us. The pain I felt, was excruciating, but in a strange way, it was also comforting. It was a pain that came from love. Now, I don't feel that deep sharp pain anymore. It doesn't hurt as bad. I can go days without crying. I worry that this means that I'm moving on. I know I need to continue living, but I certainly don't want to forget you. 

This week, I couldn't remember how much you weighted when you were born. I can believe I have already forgotten that!   I am so afraid to forget more and more. I already don't have many memories to hold on to! 

I am so grateful for all the pictures and videos we have of you. 

Going to Group

Dearest angel Leo,

Yesterday I went for my second "Parent Support Group" meeting. The sessions always evoke a mix of emotions for me. On one hand, it feels so good to talk about you to people who truly listen and truly understand how much this hurts. On the other hand, it breaks my heart every time I hear about someone else's loss.

In a way, I'm glad I'm not alone in this. It brigs me comfort to know that others have gone through a loss and that they are able to carry on. But I am learning about the million things that can go wrong during pregnancy. The million reasons women like me lose a child and leave the hospital with empty arms. And gosh, there are so many women like me! So many!

Our stories are all different. We come from different paths of life...paths that normally would have never crossed. Some of us wanted to get pregnant, while others were surprised. Some had easy pregnancies, others struggled. Some were married, divorced, single. We are all so different. Unfortunately, our different stories all have the same ending: a dead baby.

I am just so confused about how this can happen so often. We always hear about child mortality rates going down, doctors being able to save babies who are born at 22 weeks of gestation, all the technological advances in medicine. Why, why is this still happening? Why did I have to lose my precious little boy? I just don't understand.

I don't wish this to anyone and I am so afraid that I might experience it again. But despite all the pain, the agony, the sadness, I'm grateful to have had you Leo. I feel blessed to be your mom and I love you. I would rather have you and lost you, then to never have had you at all. 

My Baby Died

I am happy to have an outlet like this to express myself…but I hate that I need this, I hate that I have a reason to come here and write about my story.

I have told my story so many times already. Sometimes I feel I’m reciting a script; the same words, the same intonations, and of course, the same ending. I went into labor at 23 weeks, I held my child, a beautiful baby boy, for 1 hour and he passed away in my arms. I heard his voice, I saw him smile, but I never saw his eyes. He couldn't open them yet. He never saw me. I never fed him, I never dressed him, I never told him I love him. But I’m grateful for the 1 hour that we spent together.

I can recite this to friends and family and keep it together. What I cannot say though is “my baby died”. Those three words, those very simple words, are so hard to say. They are so matter of fact, so direct, so real. They are horrifying.

Often, this whole thing seems like a dream. It happened so fast. My son’s birth and death happened within the same hour. But that hour, was not difficult. In fact, it was the most beautiful hour of my life. I gave birth to our first child and as scary as the minutes preceding his birth were, holding him felt like an incredible gift. It’s the hours, days, weeks, months after his passing that are a nightmare.

I remember the weekend after Leonardo’s birth. It had been four days. Most new parents, at that point, are feeding, bathing, changing their new baby. They’re watching their child sleep, complaining about their own lack of sleep, and probably a little overwhelmed by it all. But not us. Four days after our son’s birth, my husband and I were heading to the funeral home to make arrangements for our baby’s cremation. We had never been to a funeral before; our son’s funeral was going to be our first funeral.  

On our way to the funeral home, looking through the car window, I saw the world go on: people walking around the city, enjoying the sunny Saturday, having fun, carrying on with their lives. It made me angry. 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 that is not rational. But my world had collapsed and it felt unreal to see that the world had not changed all.

It’s been almost two months since I lost my precious Leo. Some days, I feel like I can do this. I can think of my baby boy and smile. I can remember holding him in my arms and find comfort in that memory. But then, there are days when things are just so tough. People tell me that I'll be ok. But in which world is losing your baby ok?

New Normal

Dear Leo,

I tried going back to normal after you left us, but the truth is, things will never be the same. I will not be the same. I need to find a 'new normal', a place where I feel comfortable and a place where I can live happily, despite the fact that you weren't able to live.

I am faced with many tough choices lately. Should I be just as friendly to those who have let me down during the hardest period of my life? These friends that I have, who haven't called me to ask me how I am, who haven't sent flowers nor a note. Who haven't even said a few comforting words. Should I keep them around? Or should I distance myself? I feel so hurt by their actions, or lack thereof. I know that many just don't know how to act, but all I wanted was for them to be good friends.

What should I do with family members who have disappointed me? Of course I don't want to distance myself from family, but I don't know if I can just let this go. Why haven't some family members called me yet. It's been over 2 months that you passed away. Why have they been calling my parents or in-laws instead of my husband and I? How can they send me Christmas cards with the pictures of their kids and babies on it, knowing that I'm spending a Christmas mourning my baby?

I can't go back to normal after all this. Things will forever be different. 

So naive

I sometimes feel pretty stupid for sharing my pregnancy with others. I was so excited, so happy. I did this whole thing where I announced my pregnancy through fortune cookies. And to my parents and in-laws, we waited for them to come visit and video-taped the announcement. I made such a huge deal out of it. Finally, it was my turn to be a beautiful pregnant woman and a soon-to-be-mom. And what do I have to show for it, but a broken heart?

It's like those times when you're excited to share to the world that you will do something great: 'I'm going back to school" or "I'll run a marathon" and then something happens, you don't do it and you feel like a loser, a failure.

That's how I feel now. I did wait about 18-20 weeks before I started telling people I was pregnant. I didn't want to share the big news and then have a miscarriage during the precarious first 3 months.  I thought I was in the clear after that 3-month mark. I thought all was good. How could I be so naive?

What will happen next time I'm pregnant? Should I even share the news before I hear my baby cry? Will I enjoy my pregnancy or constantly be praying for 'just one more day' until I finally hit the 40-week mark? As much as I look forward to being pregnant again, I'm nervous. I've read about so many women who have had multiple losses...now I know not to say "this won't happen to me". The truth is, it could happen to me, heck, it HAS happened to me.

Giving birth is such a natural process, millions of women have done it. Why couldn't I get it right? 

Hope of Being a Parent Again

Dearest Leo,

I thought the holidays would be tough, but your dad and I ran away to Hawaii again and that was just lovely. It was good to be away, to not really celebrate and to not be around people who knew what we had gone through.

During our trip, we returned to the Hindu Monastery and talked to many of the monks there. Such wise and loving men they are! One of them, specializes in astrology. While reading my stars, he said he can see children in our future. He said that it will be a very active child. I typically don't believe in these things, but when I heard those words, I couldn't help but to shed a few tears of joy and relief. It gives me hope that one day I will be able to be a mother for more than just one hour. 

Last night, I dreamed of holding a baby girl, my baby girl. Everyone was amazed at how beautiful she was. Then, really quickly, I saw the same little girl, but a little older. She was rushing to brush her teeth because she wanted to go play. Then I told her that she has to brush for a whole 2 mins, and I stood there, watching her brush. It's the first time I dream of a child - I sure hope that is a sign.