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.