I hurt because I love

Dear Leo,

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

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

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

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

Running away doesn't stop the pain

Dear Leo,

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

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

Your ashes wrapped in banana
leaves and decorated with Hawaiian flowers

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

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

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

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

What to Say to Someone Who Has Lost a Baby

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sadness is an Ever-Present State

Leo,

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

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

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

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

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

Getting an Apology

Dear Leo,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ask me How I Am Doing!!!

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

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

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

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

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

Broken World

Dear Leo,

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

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

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

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

Drowning

My dear little angel,

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

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

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

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

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

Yesterday, I was able to swim back.

Quotes

Here are a few quotes that brought me solace.

Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita

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

Ernest Hemingway, American author

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

Charlotte Bronte, English novelist and poet

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

Stephanie Paige Cole

I held you every second of your life.  

From the movie "Last Love"

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

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

Didn't Fail as a Mother

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

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Why You Didn’t Fail As A Mother

JUNE 26, 2013 BY ANGELA MILLER

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


      You are not a horrible mother.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are the mother of all mothers.

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

For even in their death you lovingly mother them still.