I was replying to someone on the Grief & Loss message board tonight and I realized something. There isn't much with regards to having children that I have not done.. Now, granted, some of these things happened within the same labor and birth experience, but still...it's a lot!
I had a year of unsuccessful attempts to try to concieve.
I got pregnant twice while on birth control. Once was regular birth control, and once was on the mini pill while nursing.
I've had a chemical pregnancy, a late miscarriage, a stillbirth, and a live birth.
I've been induced, gone into labor naturally, given birth vaginally, and had a C-section.
I've had two D&Cs: one under complete anesthesia, and one with just an epidural while I was completely lucid.
I had a botched D&C which didn't get everything, causing me to have spontaneous contractions and passing of a lot of stuff two full months later.
I've had a breech baby, a baby with a knotted cord, and a baby with a birth defect (the stillborn--gastroschisis).
The only thing I can think of that I HAVEN'T done is lose a baby in infant death...I'm not going to lie, it terrifies me a bit, because I've gone through every other complication I can think of. Seriously, if anything ever happens to my daughter, I quit life.
Friday, August 31, 2012
Pictures of Charlotte
It occurs to me that there's no reason why I can't/shouldn't post pictures of Charlotte here. My major fear in showing people her picture is that people won't respond to her in the way I need them to. I get few, if any comments here, so I don't really think I need to worry about being upset by others' responses...as I am in my real life, and facebook, and pretty much any other sharing venue that I have. When I told people about Charlotte, I told them I had my journal of my experiences that I would share and pictures of our time with her. I told them if they wanted to see either, all they had to do was ask. Few did. So many fewer than I thought.
I know that it's hard. People see a picture of a baby and they say, "Aww." They see a picture of a premature baby and they say, "So tiny." They see a picture of someone who has died and they say, "Such a shame." They see a picture of a premature baby who has died and they say....nothing. What do you say? She's lovely? I think so. She's so tiny? That's true. It's a shame? Hello, understatement.
People are so concerned with the "right" thing to say that they say nothing. That, of course, extends to all aspects of this experience, but particularly with pictures. Most people just say, "Wow." There is no right thing to say. There are, of course, wrong things to say. I don't show Charlotte's pictures to anyone who is clearly uncomfortable with it. If they can't see her as a beautiful little girl, as I do, I don't want them to look.
Still...I find myself desperate to show her pictures to people. I had a baby. I had a beautiful little girl. In any other circumstances, I'd be drowning my family, friends, and facebook albums with images of her face, her hands, her everything. Instead, they'll just have to go here...where few people will probably see them, but at least they're not hidden. I'm not ashamed of my daughter.
I know that it's hard. People see a picture of a baby and they say, "Aww." They see a picture of a premature baby and they say, "So tiny." They see a picture of someone who has died and they say, "Such a shame." They see a picture of a premature baby who has died and they say....nothing. What do you say? She's lovely? I think so. She's so tiny? That's true. It's a shame? Hello, understatement.
People are so concerned with the "right" thing to say that they say nothing. That, of course, extends to all aspects of this experience, but particularly with pictures. Most people just say, "Wow." There is no right thing to say. There are, of course, wrong things to say. I don't show Charlotte's pictures to anyone who is clearly uncomfortable with it. If they can't see her as a beautiful little girl, as I do, I don't want them to look.
Still...I find myself desperate to show her pictures to people. I had a baby. I had a beautiful little girl. In any other circumstances, I'd be drowning my family, friends, and facebook albums with images of her face, her hands, her everything. Instead, they'll just have to go here...where few people will probably see them, but at least they're not hidden. I'm not ashamed of my daughter.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
How was your summer?
"How was your summer?" It's the first thing teachers ask one another when school starts back up every fall. It's a simple, innocuous question, right?
How do I answer that question this year?
Here are some ideas I've had and rejected:
Maybe I'll just say it could have been better and then internally laugh at the ridiculousness of the understatement.
How do I answer that question this year?
Here are some ideas I've had and rejected:
- Well, aside from my daughter dying, it wasn't too bad.
- My little girl was stillborn in the middle of it, but I went to the beach for two weeks...that evens out, right?
- It was OK...lots of good things, but also some personal issues. (I thought this one would actually work...until I tried it, and the person I said this to said, "I had personal issues, too! My daughter had lice." Yeah. Mine died.)
- Great.
Maybe I'll just say it could have been better and then internally laugh at the ridiculousness of the understatement.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
"Only"
I read this somewhere recently, and I think it's important, so I wanted to muse on it a bit.
When women like me experience the death of a child in this way, one of the first questions people ask is, "How far along were you?" This is a relatively natural question, and the answer is almost irrelevant. 9 weeks. 13 weeks. 20 weeks. Two months. Seven months. Unfortunately, unless women go to full term, they always put in a pesky little word that always causes miscommunication: "only"
I was only 13 weeks.
I was only five months.
I was only half way through.
Here's the problem: When we say "only", we're minimizing our experience. The word choice implies that it's not that important, that we didn't see our pregnancies (not babies, the word choice connotes a reference to the pregnancy, not the child) as being real yet. It's as though, by not going to full term, the death of a child is more acceptable. Clearly it's not.
This also opens the door for the person to say things like, "Thank goodness it didn't happen later." Yes, you're right, I'm so thankful that I didn't get to spend more time with my child. "At least you didn't go to full term." Absolutely; I'm so glad that I my child didn't live longer.
There are added pieces about having an early stillbirth that are actually harder than going full term. Some people don't see my experience as being as valid...like I wasn't that pregnant yet. As such, I don't get as much support and understanding. People don't get why it's so hard, weeks later. Some don't see Charlotte as a baby...to them she was a lost pregnancy, a fetus, not a child. The pictures I have of my time with Charlotte are more controversial since she was so little; she wasn't fully developed and some people can't handle it. I can't share my beautiful little girl with everyone because I worry they will have a bad reaction which will hurt or offend me.
Are there added complications when a full term baby dies that didn't happen to me? Absolutely. I have no empty cradle, because I didn't buy a cradle yet. I thought I had time. I hadn't told the world yet, so I don't have to share my grief with people I don't want to include. I hadn't reached that point yet where the new life is so imminent that my life had already tangibly changed.
Still, I carried, nurtured, and loved my daughter for five months. Then she died. My heartache and grief are valid. If I say I was "only" five months, I'm implying that my and love sadness are not deep. I imply that I lost a pregnancy, not a daughter. Charlotte was and is my daughter, and I mourn her loss to me, to my family, and to the world. I miss her every day.
The person to whom I'm speaking, if I use the word "only", has no chance of understanding Charlotte's impact on my life. If I say I "only" carried her for five months, I'd be lying. It's not true. I was ABLE to love her for five months. I TREASURED my daughter for five months. I spent five months with a little girl I LOVED and LOVE beyond measure.
The word "only" has no place in this conversation....save to say that she was taken from me "only" a month ago.
When women like me experience the death of a child in this way, one of the first questions people ask is, "How far along were you?" This is a relatively natural question, and the answer is almost irrelevant. 9 weeks. 13 weeks. 20 weeks. Two months. Seven months. Unfortunately, unless women go to full term, they always put in a pesky little word that always causes miscommunication: "only"
I was only 13 weeks.
I was only five months.
I was only half way through.
Here's the problem: When we say "only", we're minimizing our experience. The word choice implies that it's not that important, that we didn't see our pregnancies (not babies, the word choice connotes a reference to the pregnancy, not the child) as being real yet. It's as though, by not going to full term, the death of a child is more acceptable. Clearly it's not.
This also opens the door for the person to say things like, "Thank goodness it didn't happen later." Yes, you're right, I'm so thankful that I didn't get to spend more time with my child. "At least you didn't go to full term." Absolutely; I'm so glad that I my child didn't live longer.
There are added pieces about having an early stillbirth that are actually harder than going full term. Some people don't see my experience as being as valid...like I wasn't that pregnant yet. As such, I don't get as much support and understanding. People don't get why it's so hard, weeks later. Some don't see Charlotte as a baby...to them she was a lost pregnancy, a fetus, not a child. The pictures I have of my time with Charlotte are more controversial since she was so little; she wasn't fully developed and some people can't handle it. I can't share my beautiful little girl with everyone because I worry they will have a bad reaction which will hurt or offend me.
Are there added complications when a full term baby dies that didn't happen to me? Absolutely. I have no empty cradle, because I didn't buy a cradle yet. I thought I had time. I hadn't told the world yet, so I don't have to share my grief with people I don't want to include. I hadn't reached that point yet where the new life is so imminent that my life had already tangibly changed.
Still, I carried, nurtured, and loved my daughter for five months. Then she died. My heartache and grief are valid. If I say I was "only" five months, I'm implying that my and love sadness are not deep. I imply that I lost a pregnancy, not a daughter. Charlotte was and is my daughter, and I mourn her loss to me, to my family, and to the world. I miss her every day.
The person to whom I'm speaking, if I use the word "only", has no chance of understanding Charlotte's impact on my life. If I say I "only" carried her for five months, I'd be lying. It's not true. I was ABLE to love her for five months. I TREASURED my daughter for five months. I spent five months with a little girl I LOVED and LOVE beyond measure.
The word "only" has no place in this conversation....save to say that she was taken from me "only" a month ago.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Analyzing the numbers
So, I was doing more research on gastroschesis...I worry that it could happen again. Most of the current research seems to think it is not genetic, so it's just random.
Oh good. So glad I won the lottery on that one.
Gastroschesis occurs in one of every 5,000 births. Seriously? That means there is a 99.98% chance it won't happen to you...of that one in every 5,000 births, only about 10% result in stillbirth. It's actually a disorder that's fairly treatable. So that means, while there was a 99.98% chance it won't happen to you, there's an additional 99.9998% chance that even if it DOES happen to you, your baby will eventually be ok. What happened to Charlotte was not quite one in a million...just one in 50,000.
Numbers sucks.
Oh good. So glad I won the lottery on that one.
Gastroschesis occurs in one of every 5,000 births. Seriously? That means there is a 99.98% chance it won't happen to you...of that one in every 5,000 births, only about 10% result in stillbirth. It's actually a disorder that's fairly treatable. So that means, while there was a 99.98% chance it won't happen to you, there's an additional 99.9998% chance that even if it DOES happen to you, your baby will eventually be ok. What happened to Charlotte was not quite one in a million...just one in 50,000.
Numbers sucks.
A Butterfly
I don't know if I believe in signs...but I know I believe in symbols. I'm an English teacher. The whole world is symbolic. I look at butterflies as a symbol of Charlotte.
I've always thought of butterflies as good luck. When they fly in front of you, it's supposed to bring you luck for the rest of that day.
When Charlotte died, I chose to believe that part of the meaning behind her death was that she would be watching over my family as an angel, particularly Mia and my (God willing) next child. I plan to tell Mia about Charlotte a lot, so that it's just a part of who she is. My hope is that, when something lucky or happy happens in her life, she'll remember her baby sister and think that maybe she had something to do with it. Maybe she'll even say thank you.
So, putting those two ideas together, when I see butterflies, I think of Charlotte. She's bringing luck and love to my family.
The other night, Mike and I were sitting on the couch after Mia went to bed. It was raining. We were thinking about Charlotte and being a little sad. I went to let the dog out for the last time that night...and right outside the sliding glass door, sheltering under the second floor overhang on our deck, was a large, beautiful monarch butterfly. I put my hand down next to it, thinking that I could move it to my covered front porch where there's more shelter from the rain...and it flew into my hand. Then, when I urgently called Mike over to see, it flew from my hand and landed on my shirt, over my heart. It sounds cliche, but it really happened. I walked through the whole house with the butterfly resting over my heart. When I got to the front porch, I gently scooted it into the flower pot next to the front door.
When I went back inside, Mike asked me what I thought it meant. So now I have to ask myself...do I believe in signs? Was Charlotte letting us know that she was near, and that she still loves us? That she'll always be in my heart? Was she giving us permission to move on? Was she simply letting us know that she appreciates us loving her? Or was this apt symbol just a coincidence?
Regardless, I felt close to my daughter that night.
I've always thought of butterflies as good luck. When they fly in front of you, it's supposed to bring you luck for the rest of that day.
When Charlotte died, I chose to believe that part of the meaning behind her death was that she would be watching over my family as an angel, particularly Mia and my (God willing) next child. I plan to tell Mia about Charlotte a lot, so that it's just a part of who she is. My hope is that, when something lucky or happy happens in her life, she'll remember her baby sister and think that maybe she had something to do with it. Maybe she'll even say thank you.
So, putting those two ideas together, when I see butterflies, I think of Charlotte. She's bringing luck and love to my family.
The other night, Mike and I were sitting on the couch after Mia went to bed. It was raining. We were thinking about Charlotte and being a little sad. I went to let the dog out for the last time that night...and right outside the sliding glass door, sheltering under the second floor overhang on our deck, was a large, beautiful monarch butterfly. I put my hand down next to it, thinking that I could move it to my covered front porch where there's more shelter from the rain...and it flew into my hand. Then, when I urgently called Mike over to see, it flew from my hand and landed on my shirt, over my heart. It sounds cliche, but it really happened. I walked through the whole house with the butterfly resting over my heart. When I got to the front porch, I gently scooted it into the flower pot next to the front door.
When I went back inside, Mike asked me what I thought it meant. So now I have to ask myself...do I believe in signs? Was Charlotte letting us know that she was near, and that she still loves us? That she'll always be in my heart? Was she giving us permission to move on? Was she simply letting us know that she appreciates us loving her? Or was this apt symbol just a coincidence?
Regardless, I felt close to my daughter that night.
Monday, August 27, 2012
The picture I wanted vs. the picture I got.
My friend had her little girl today. I would have hit the third trimester tomorrow. I felt a bit like I'd been punched in the stomach when I saw the status update on facebook with pictures of baby Caroline. I don't begrudge my friend her little girl. I miss my own little girl, is all. I'm feeling selfish and jealous, and I don't like myself right this second.
I sent her a set of clothes from Gymboree over the weekend. They have a line of newborn clothes out with monkeys...pink, blue, or yellow. I had decided that, once we found out if Charlotte was a boy or a girl, I would buy her those clothes to celebrate. I didn't ever get to do that. I put a note with the pink monkey outfits saying that it's what I would have bought my little girl, had things been different. I said that I hoped, when Caroline wears them, maybe Charlotte will be watching over her and protecting her. It hurts my heart.
The piece that tears at me the most is the picture of my friend's older daughter meeting her baby sister. Ever since I found out I was pregnant, that was the moment I was looking forward to the most. I even had a dream that I somehow missed that moment (I was asleep or something...) and was heartbroken when I found out. I couldn't wait for my babies to meet one another. Instead, the closest my daughters came to meeting one another is when I held a picture of Mia close to Charlotte's face so I could remember how much they resembled one another.
This was the picture I wanted:
This was the picture I got:
My heart hurts.
I sent her a set of clothes from Gymboree over the weekend. They have a line of newborn clothes out with monkeys...pink, blue, or yellow. I had decided that, once we found out if Charlotte was a boy or a girl, I would buy her those clothes to celebrate. I didn't ever get to do that. I put a note with the pink monkey outfits saying that it's what I would have bought my little girl, had things been different. I said that I hoped, when Caroline wears them, maybe Charlotte will be watching over her and protecting her. It hurts my heart.
The piece that tears at me the most is the picture of my friend's older daughter meeting her baby sister. Ever since I found out I was pregnant, that was the moment I was looking forward to the most. I even had a dream that I somehow missed that moment (I was asleep or something...) and was heartbroken when I found out. I couldn't wait for my babies to meet one another. Instead, the closest my daughters came to meeting one another is when I held a picture of Mia close to Charlotte's face so I could remember how much they resembled one another.
This was the picture I wanted:
This was the picture I got:
My heart hurts.
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