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"Dreams-I don't know how to have them any longer."
Every child of mine- even those not with us- has shaped me, and I am forever grateful.
In honor of our boys:
Aaron (2017) & Ari (2022)
:
- 12/22/2018
I can tell our story with honesty and gentleness because I once lived on the other side of the tracks-the side where loss feels uncomfortable and unknown. My knowledge of pregnancy loss may have been a bit deeper than the average person because of my time as a nurse, but it still fell into the “impossible” category when relating it to my own life. I had the privilege to care for multiple mothers experiencing loss, and though I wish I could say that my empathy surpassed my discomfort and denial, it didn’t. I am thankful that I can still remember those feelings because it gives me perspective when relating to those who can only take a glimpse into our story. One can’t quite grasp the grief and confusion until it is your own to hold onto, and that’s ok.
August 9, 2017
After an uneventful first half of my pregnancy with my 3rd child, albeit all day nausea, my routine 20 week OB appointment had approached. Two days prior, we had found out via anatomy scan that we were having another boy. We did the obligatory reveal with our parents and children, announced his name, and ate cupcakes. It was to be the only opportunity we would have to celebrate him.
Eric, by fate, decided last minute to go with me to the appointment; the kids were originally supposed to attend so that they could hear their brother's heartbeat. Instead, they stayed home with grandma. Looking back I am amazed at how beautifully God orchestrated these events.
By this 3rd child, I was used to appointments and thought nothing of them. Eric and I, in the waiting room, had a conversation about what next dream we should conquer after the arrival of this baby. The appointment carried on as usual, which included the use of a doppler to hear his heartbeat. My doctor, whom I have great respect for, kept moving it around as I joked that my uterus was so stretched that it made it hard to find. She didn’t seem amused. She left the room to get the portable ultrasound machine and that surreal, tingly feeling started creeping into my body. The Dr. finally returned and as soon as the picture showed up on the screen, I knew. I have seen too many ultrasounds of healthy babies who have hearts and limbs that are pumping away, full of life and potential. Aaron just lay there. No movement. No heartbeat. Just still. The tears couldn’t come. My doctor apologized over and over. I can still see the hurt in her eyes. She left the room to coordinate with the ultrasound techs for a double check with a “better” machine so that we could be 100% positive. We made our way to the same room we were in 2 days prior- the room that had held so much excitement and dreams. But now, when they tried to view and play the rhythm of the baby's heartbeat, we all just stared at a flat line. The tech hugged me and cried. I could do nothing but stand there.
We ended up in a conference room to discuss plans on how to proceed. Our doctor returned, still shaking her head as to how this could have happened. She had the perinatologist check the original ultrasound again and he could find nothing to indicate why this could have happened. That answer would become the only one we would ever hear. We planned to head to the hospital that evening to induce labor and deliver our perfect son.
Before we prepared for the hospital, however, we wanted to do one last event as a family of five. We love that we live near a gorgeous park full of trails and creeks. The kids bring cups and look for “lobsters” (crayfish) while they play in the water and we explore the woods. It was a beautiful day full of sunshine and we slowly made our way through the familiarity. It was peaceful and calming and ceremonious. I felt blessed to have my healthy children and such a gentle husband.
And then it was time for the tasks. We packed bags, rid our house of any evidence of the celebration that took place 2 days prior, got the kids settled with my parents, and headed to a last dinner of sorts. I should pause here to say that our events SEEM very well planned and executed. Though they may have been, it is also because a numbness overcomes you. You feel detached and robotic so that all necessary tasks can be completed. There was dread in finishing that meal and making the trip to the hospital. But there was also anticipation. My head knew that Aaron was no longer with us, but I had the deep, familiar excitement in my heart to meet and hold my baby.
Aaron
“Life need not be long-lived for it to be meaningful.” — Unknown
August 10, 2017
I’ll spare you all the details of induction evening, but to sum it up, it was surreal, and sad, and filled with an unexplainable calm that fell upon us.
And then it was time for delivery, something I had been making my body hold back. We were used to birthing robust, wailing children, but this time, there could be no crying heard as he came into the world. I recall looking at Eric and apologizing over and over as he looked at me with such love and adoration. My doctor commented on how perfect he was. When she placed him on me he was as warm as either of my other children had been. We heard babies crying around us and we couldn’t bring ourselves to cry. We had that joy in the past. It may have taken a couple of years to realize it, but those moments were an altogether different blessing that we will always remember.
We spent hours holding Aaron and marveling at his tiny body. It is amazing how a baby develops inside of us. He resembled his big brother with his big lips and Honan nose. The nurses put a miniature hat on him and placed him in a tiny, blue and white, handmade bunting.
We FaceTimed with the kids and my parents. Our daughter, always the honest one, told us that our baby looked disgusting! That, of course, lightened the mood and will remain one of the funniest moments in this story. Eric’s parents came and his mother held Aaron as if he were any of our other babies. We photographed him, we hugged him, we spoke to him, and then we left him.
I don’t think I can tell you adequately what it’s like to leave your baby. I had a panic attack- and then I composed myself and walked out that door. I refused to be wheeled out because “that’s what normal mothers do.” I carried my box past women with full bellies arriving to deliver their own, live babies. All I had was a box. A box full of footprints, mementos, the hat and bunting, and pamphlets about dealing with loss.
That night was a confusing, never ending darkness. But, the morning came, as it always does. And once again, as fate had it, there were plans already made to help us. We had planned a trip to Daufuskie Island, only accessible by boat, months prior, never knowing that we would need an escape for healing. This trip remains one of the most special things that we have ever done.
It doesn't end there, as life never does. There was an early miscarriage 3 months later that I had to smile through while on a Christmas train ride. There was a new puppy, Magnolia, that we brought home in December in lieu of our son. There were years of fertility challenges and confusion and doctors who couldn't find anything wrong. But there was also joy. And there was also life.
"I am really struggling. The pain isn't so intense all of the time, and I spend many days in laughter and joy, but I definitely have a scar that will never fully heal. I think that scars are beautiful, that they help tell our stories, and surprisingly, interweave us into the stories of others. But it still hurts."
- 5/15/18
Those years were a blur, and they remain that way to this day. I was defeated and I gave up. Fertility challenges were not something we were used to, and they are a draining, roller-coaster of emotion kind of beast. Ironically, it was my husband's MS diagnosis and his impending medications that prompted us to give it one last chance. As you can see, it was the best decision we could have made, because the sweetest little girl (to this day) joined our family.
and then...
Sarah Bridgeman Photography
Which is why I decided we should have another baby. I mean, look how cute those faces are! Like always, all day nausea and fatigue set in. My sweet father-in-law came to our house every morning to care for our toddler, and I proceeded on with this pregnancy as if nothing bad could happen (remember, forever optimist?).
We had another fun reveal with our parents- this time a flamingo pinata. His name was Ari, in honor of his brother. Everyone marveled that it would be a boy born in December (when Aaron was originally due). It felt redemptive. We would get our Christmas baby boy, after all.
But, it wasn't meant to be. We traveled to HHI for a family vacation, and that is where we lost our son at 15 weeks. Originally thinking I was going to have to deliver (oh, the uncontrollable tears), the hospital staff changed their minds after taking a final look at his weight from the ultrasound. There are no words for the relief that I felt. The next morning, while our kids played on the beach with their cousins, I had a D&C. The hospital staff was wonderful, and the most vivid thing I can remember from my anesthesia haze, was telling everyone how strong I am.
It is to be expected that more confusion followed, along with erratic decision making. Should we do foster care (we did all the steps)? Should we try again? Let's have more in-depth testing done. What about adoption? And then...PEACE.
I stopped (for once) and was honest about what I really needed. I needed healing, I needed closure, I needed clarity, I needed me. I was tired, but I was excited. Because now, it was time to heal and grow in other ways. I am grateful for the experiences that have softened me, yet at the same time proven how resilient I am. It is through those years of hard that I am able to be who I am now.
I am proof that beauty can come from the ashes.
But, I never know how to leave well enough alone.
“There is no joy without hardship. If not for death, would we appreciate life? If not for hate, would we know the ultimate goal is love? At these moments you can either hold on to negativity and look for blame, or you can choose to heal and keep on loving.”
Dr. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross
On Loss &
Fertility Challenges
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