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.

I hurt because I love

Dear Leo,

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

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

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

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

Running away doesn't stop the pain

Dear Leo,

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

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

Your ashes wrapped in banana
leaves and decorated with Hawaiian flowers

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

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

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

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