2012

It's the 31st again. The last day of December.  And the last day of 2012.

This year did not go as expected. In fact, by all accounts, it was pretty miserable.  My husband was more sick than not, culminating with major surgery over the summer. It was hard having a father and a husband out of commission, taking care of two littles and being pregnant.

And then we lost Sarah.

2012 was horrible.

But if I had to do it all over again, I would. I didn't enjoy my husband being sick.  But he was home for more time than we've spent together in years. Yes, it was hard. But it was also good. And at 6 months post-op, he's now free of all the symptoms which caused his pain.  We prioritized and he finished (and passed!) another semester of his post-grad semester. For this, I am thankful.

My Jonah started kindergarten and took the world by storm.  His teacher adores him and has truly nurtured him during this trying time. For this, I am thankful.

And my Rachel exploded in words and personality.  She speaks in full sentences, challenges her big brother at every step, and appears to be one of those girls who will always have an opinion.  Kinda just like her Mama.  For this, I am thankful.

And we lost Sarah this year.  But we also had her.  We had her safe, warm and loved for 41 weeks and three days.  She knew our voices, she knew she was wanted.  And all of this was in 2012.

So 2012 was horrible. But I'm glad we did it, together.

Surprise

I hadn't realized that the genetic counselor's office was smack-dab in the middle of one of the largest OB-GYN practices in the area. I think I was fixated on the date and time on the letter and not at all on anything else.

So when my husband pressed the elevator button for the second floor, I snapped at him. "I'm not pregnant. I'm not going to OB-GYN." To say I was mean would be an understatement. My response was visceral.

Of course, he was right. The second floor was where we needed to be.

So we walked into the office and stood in line. Waited for a receptionist to help us with the paperwork. Signed away. Then waited in the waiting room. It was loud, with one flat screen TV showing a cooking program. And the other was showing public service announcements on health issues. You know, like the importance of taking folic acid to prevent neural tube defects? Yup.

So now I'm really filled with angst. In an office filled with pregnant women and babies, waiting for a stranger to give me statistical odds of whether we should dare risk another pregnancy, and the TV is freaking me out with it's mind-reading abilities.

Clearly, I've become very accustomed to seeing my midwife - and the stark contrast of her office compared to this bustling place.

Michelle rents space, inside of an old Victorian-style house, from a chiropractor. No need to remember to get your parking ticket validated. You just roll up in front of the building. There's no waiting room. Just a chair or two outside her door. Which I usually bypass, because her door is open and you can see her balancing on a ball that is pretending to be a chair. I get a smile, a hug and get offered a cup of tea. No name tags, no badges. No secretary, no nurse. No surprises about who I will need to meet and explain myself to.

But i was surprised by the form I had to fill out at the OB-GYN's office. It was a short notification that they could not accommodate your gender preferences for medical providers. And if you didn't like it, you were free to find a new place to get care.

I signed it, of course, because I wasn't there for them to look under the hood. But I wondered: did the patients know it didn't need to be like this? Did they know that they didn't have to be a number? Did they know that small, intimate practices exist, that their insurance would cover it in full? And that bigger doesn't mean better?

Our meeting with the genetic counselor was fine. And everyone I interacted with at the practice was polite, courteous, and professional.

But I couldn't help but let my mind drift - if I was a patient there, would they remember my name? Would they have cried with me, remembering Sarah's birth? Would I have wanted them there, at Sarah's funeral? Do they understand that it's not just the medicine to fix that matters, but the compassion to still be there when things fall apart?

I'm so glad that we did see the genetic counselor and that perhaps we will know more in a few weeks. But I'm more pleased that the results will be sent to my midwife, my Michelle. And that we'll be able to review them, together.

Half full

Had an extensive and detailed conversation with the geneticist. She took a full family history on both sides and gave us many options.

Three items of interest:
1. We both gave blood to the lab for DNA sequencing, looking for an explanation of my recurrent miscarriages.
2. Yes, I need to be taking a metric boatload of folic acid
3. The risk of having another child with a neural tube defect, assuming the blood work doesn't reveal anything else, is less than 2%. Or as my midwife says, a greater than 98% chance s/he won't have a NTD.

Results will be back in about 2 weeks.

Feeling relieved that the appointment is over. But remind me to blog about their enormous office..

Avoid

My favorite genre of movies are post-apocalyptic thrillers. People in dire circumstances, making life or death decisions. Volcanoes erupting in LA, zombies in Walking Dead. It's all fair game.

With these dark gray days and early sunsets, it feels quite like my own apocalyptic horror show. It's not that I can't find reasons to laugh. Because I can. And I do. But nothing feels quite real.

I made myself go for a haircut yesterday. I wanted to do it, but it's hard to put effort into looking nice. I did a walk-in appointment at my salon and ended up with a perfectly nice cut from a young stylist.. whose name is Sarah. I almost choked when she introduced herself. It's not like it's an uncommon name, but one of the reasons why I had put off the cut was the awkward chitchat that accompanies the visit. And the day before Christmas, who doesn't make small talk about families and kids? So I bit my lip and kept it light. I avoided talking about my Sarah. And instead asked her about her own life.

I survived the visit. And my hair looks fine. But I had my own zombie-inspired nightmare last night. My conscience was unsettled.

The end was most remarkable; a dark man with a sickle carrying a car seat, saying, "You forgot her."

To the moon and back

My husband is a private dude, so I've refrained from mentioning him much on this blog to respect his privacy. But there is something specific that I would like to share.

One of our first conversations after we came home from the hospital, without Sarah, was a promise to each other that we would not allow this tragedy to pull us apart. I had remembered reading that many couples do not make it through the loss of a first child and I told him this. Our marriage has always been strong - and he has been my best friend for almost 15 years. But I know how quickly grief can turn to anger and resentment. Losing Sarah was an unimaginable tragedy, and there was no way I could bear to lose him.

Saying it out loud was important. And allowed me to move forward by acknowledging my fear. That we wouldn't hold back, that we would face these feelings together. I love you, Joe.

Not quite there

I spent the morning with just my five-year old.  It's something long overdue that we don't do nearly enough.  Usually I like to send the kids off with my husband to run errands on weekends and to take a break from it all. Or I soldier the courage to join them and we go off as a family to conquer several stores. Yes, I'm comparing it to war. It requires patience, planning and often results in injuries. 

So today Jonah and I went off to the grocery store. It was delightful. He was kind and helpful. And watching just one child out of my peripheral vision rather than two (and going cross-eyed) was amazing. Afterwards he asked if we could spend more time together. And we did. We went to the library, borrowed an iPad for an hour and nerded out together.  Our visit was finished with Legos and of course, checking out books for the week.

It was the sort of time and full attention that I could never have given him at this point in the game, had Sarah lived. And so I was there with him, doing all of these things, putting on the bravest face possible. But all I could do was think about her.

Tests

We have the genetic counseling appointment set for late next week. I'm hoping that they may be able to provide us with some answers as to why Sarah developed spina bifida occulta, a Neural Tube Defect (NTD). I wonder if a folic acid problem contributed to the bleeding I had in all my pregnancies. I wonder if they will find anything that would lead us to believe that future pregnancies will yield a happy, healthy baby.

This is where my blog tackles what has unfortunately become a political issue in the US - the right to terminate a pregnancy.

I am pro-choice. It's not that I want to have an abortion. Or that I could give you a set of absolute circumstances that would make me choose to abort.

But I am adamant that every woman has the right to healthcare that comes from a place that respects her faith, values and medical history. This means that she consults her doctor, her midwife, her clergy, partner, family and friends - not a politician looking to be re-elected.

I bring up abortion because it's one of the reasons we previously avoided extensive prenatal testing. My logic, up until Sarah was born, is that we had two previously perfect children with no factors that suggested that future pregnancies would be any different. And knowing about a potential defect would mean having to make decisions that I did not even want to contemplate. I preferred to do standard testing and not investigate any further than necessary.

But now things have changed. In this post-Sarah world, another pregnancy could never be considered normal, typical or unremarkable without ruling factors out.

It's the flowchart that I don't want to draw. What if we discovered that we conceived another child with a NTD? Could they predict the severity? Would she be viable? And could we deal with another loss, whether through a deliberate decision to terminate or another stillborn experience? And of course, all the shades of gray in the middle.

I write all this because it needs to be said. None of this is easy to write or ever consider. But they are the thoughts in my head and they are true. And these days, it's all I've got to hold onto.

I wish

There is an act of faith in deciding to bring a third child into your family while caring for a 4.5 year old and 1.5 year old.

One of the reasons why we felt so good about our decision was because of the support of our friends, family and community. Parenthood, particularly motherhood, should never be done alone. You need your tribe.

Today, I had the most delightful snuggle from a girl in our neighborhood who would have been 5 months older than Sarah. They would have played regularly over the next few years. Giggles, shrieks and screaming. They would attended kindergarten together.

As I held this girl today, her mama and I both shed tears.

No words needed.

Sarah's time with us was very short. But like a drop of water, the waves cascade out and her loss is felt much further than just me. It's our friends, our family, our community. They knew her. She was real. And Sarah may never grow up like the sweet babe I held, but she will live on in their memories.

Moving on

Had to move the furniture in our family room this morning. Took me 3 hours of shifting everything around before I realized why I needed everything in a different spot.

The recliner was the place where we first tried to find Sarah's heartbeat.. and couldn't. Every time I sit, I think about Michelle with the machine and my husband walking in, pretending to make the "swish-swish-swish" noise of her heart.

Still

I can't look at photos of Sarah without scrutinizing them in great detail. Each time I find something new to focus on.

Today it was her pale eyebrows and light lashes, contrasting with the dark hair on her head. I have to wonder that if like Jonah and Rachie, she would have slowly become more golden and blonde, with silly tips of dark hair as the roots grew in.

And then I pause. Because her hair will never grow. And I choke back the tears.

Likewise, I wonder what color her eyes were.. or would have been.  She never opened them. I couldn't bring myself to pry them open, for fear of seeing them unfocused, crossed or gazing eerily. So in my mind, they are deep gray that would have also settled into a gorgeous hazel, like her siblings.

I love you, my Sarah.

It's all good

A friend called me up this morning. I could tell she was feeling nervous and awkward, before she even said so herself.

Death, dying and grief isn't something I'm good at, either. I'm good at solving problems, finding creative answers and speaking Sarcasm. Turns out these things really aren't compatible.

But I'm also good at writing about what I know. It's the most useful thing I learned from the prolific Stephen King.

And I also know when things don't make sense, when you hurt and you don't direct those feelings in a productive way, that they just gnaw at you until you pop. So I write. And some of those things end up here.

I told my friend that there's really nothing "wrong" that you can say to someone like me, other than perhaps "congratulations."

Yeah. Such Sarcasm. But true.

And like a true friend, she pushed through her own emotions and did what she thought was right. She called. She put it out there. And really, who can't use a little more honesty in their lives?

Thank you, my friend.

Sculpture

Do not judge the bereaved mother. She comes in many forms. She is breathing, but she is dying. She may look young, but inside she has become ancient. She smiles, but her heart sobs. She walks, she talks, she cooks, she cleans, she works, she IS, but she IS NOT, all at once. She is here, but part of her is elsewhere for eternity.

-Author Unknown

Patti Ramos Photography  - 

Sculpture: Memorial Of Unborn Children by Martin Hudack of Slovokia

My sister

My sister wrote this in her own blog, Blogging for Boobs, as her own account of Sarah's birth.  Reposting it here, because her words capture so much.  Love you, Chana!


++++

Sarah Tzipporah

Life never really goes according to plan, does it? Neither does death. On October 31st, 2012, I awoke to a phone call from my sister. "I think I'm going to have a baby today. Maybe baby!" I pretended to be calm and collected as I told her that after I ate my breakfast I would be right over. She only lives 5 minutes down the road. I fried up two eggs, all runny and yolky in the middle, and placed them like eyes on my plate. A ketchup smile completed a happy-faced breakfast. A great beginning to the day.

When I got to my sister's house, her curly-headed 2 year old greeted me at the door with a big grin. We chased each other around the house a few times before settling into the living room. My sister was surreptitiously stifling her own excitement, knowing that even though she was 10 days past her due date, even though she had been having steady contractions since 3am, birthing is unpredictable - it could be an hour or a day. We chatted idly and flipped on the television. "Ooh, let's watch 'The Office,'" she said gleefully. "Laughter makes the baby come out." She wiggled around on the birthing ball throughout the episode, shifting positions, walking around, breathing deeply as contractions rose and fell. I was mesmerized. Yeah, I had labored through 2 natural births myself, but it wasn't any fun. This woman before me, sister of my blood, seemed elevated with grace and knowing even in the throes of her primal ache. What a great laborer, I thought to myself enviously. I wish I could do that.

Shortly after I had arrived, her husband had taken their toddler on some errands to afford his wife some peace and quiet. Now it was almost noon, and the contractions were coming a bit less frequently than the morning. "When they get back from the store, Rachie will nurse," my sister said confidently. "That will get the contractions going again." Sure enough, the arrival of her big girl sent strong clenches through her uterus as we awaited the midwife. Not just any midwife, but the woman who had gently steered and caught my son and both my sister's older children.

Michelle arrived and set about fixing her doppler on the swollen belly to get a heartbeat reading. And she placed it low. And high. And to the side. And. nothing. As minutes passed without a reading, I saw my sister's eyes widen with worry. Perhaps laying down on the futon would help position things correctly. She moved into the birthing room that had been set up in the study, door closed, as I entertained my niece in the living room. More minutes. Then the midwife came out, gently shutting the door behind her, fingers dialing her phone as she quickly explained to me that there was no heartbeat to be found. Maybe this was a tricky baby. Maybe there was a problem. Either way, they were calling ahead to let the hospital know they were on their way for an ultrasound. My sister came out of the room like shackles were on her feet, her neck bent and eyes searching mine. "There's no heartbeat." She collapsed into my arms. I held her tightly. "I don't know what to do if she's dead," she whispered. I spoke to her calmly saying, "Let's just take one thing at a time. We'll figure it out."

They left for the hospital, my instructions to care for my niece and bring our parents up to date once they arrived at the house. I was frantic. I called my brother's house and got my sister-in-law on the phone, "They can't find the heartbeat. Hospital." Unable to stay still, I took Rachie for a walk outside, around the block, just like yesterday when we had all taken that walk together to help gravity and motion induce the baby's coming. Should we not have gone for that walk? Was there something I could do that I hadn't? No answers. As we circled back to the house, my phone rang. "She's dead. The baby is dead." Oh G-d.

As the message repeated in my mind, our parents pulled into the driveway. My dad noticed there was a car missing, probably thought her husband had run to the store. No. I walked up to my dad. "Something happened. It's not ok. Let mom get out of the car so I can talk to both of you." I explained the labor, the midwife's abbreviated visit. Their assent to the hospital. The phone call. "They couldn't find a heartbeat. The baby is not alive." No child should ever have to look her parents in the eyes and say those words. My father's face sank, "Oh no. No. How horrible." He could not comprehend. My mother crumpled and cried, "No. No!"

The next few hours were in a haze. I left my niece in her grandparents' care as I went to meet my children's school bus. It was Halloween. We always went trick-or-treating with my sister and her kids. What now? I pasted on a smile and hugged my son and daughter too tightly as they jumped off the bus. They had a snack, put on their costumes. We went back to my sister's house. I arranged for my husband and some close friends to take the kids trick-or-treating while I went to the hospital. The drive was too long. Memories of my sister's previous births flashed through my head.

When she had given birth to her eldest, my son was only a few months old and couldn't be left. It was a long and difficult hospital labor, and I struggled with the knowledge I couldn't be there. But in the end, I gathered up the kids and had their dad play with them in the waiting room while I tended my sister for just a short hour in the hospital. I simply could not bear the thought that I could do something that might help ease her along. That one hour in her room was a productive one, dialating another centimeter with my presence and words. Visiting her the next day to see my beautiful nephew. Showing her husband how to hold the baby gently. I changed his diaper, gave him his first bath. Demonstrated how to wrap him to her body so that he was snug, secure, and able to sleep. Then the next baby - a homebirth with the same midwife. A baby that came so smoothly, so fast I missed the entire labor. The first picture I saw was my sister resting in the recliner, hair damp from the birthing tub, smiling shyly, cradling her sweet little girl.

I had no idea what scene would greet me at this morbid hospital scene. Visions of crying, screaming at the earth so visceral as to pull down the mountains filled me with coldness. Michelle met me at the elevator, enveloped me in a hug. "She's going to have the baby. She will deliver the placenta. And when she stops bleeding, she can go home. They are doing ok. They're listening to Bon Jovi." I sputtered a laugh, feeling disbelief. We walked down the hallway. The staff had placed my sister at the end of the hall, empty rooms surrounding hers. "So she doesn't have to walk past crying babies," Michelle offered. I opened the door. My sister was laboring quietly in bed, her husband seated next to her, holding hands. My sister. We hugged. She had been given some pain medication that had a calming effect but kept her lucid. She decided to sit on the birthing ball. I rubbed her back. She was hungry. I cut up her baked potato, added butter. We remarked on the Sprite can which was really iced tea. An hour passed.

"Rachie knows the baby's name," my sister whispered. "I didn't tell anyone else but her. She knows it is a secret. If you ask her she will say 'Shhhh.'" as she mimed a finger to her lips. "Sarah. Her name is Sarah Tzipporah." We cried.

That moment of release, of truth, gave way to logistics. I would go back to the house and take her children back to my house. Her 5 year old son would think it was a treat to stay over at his cousin's house - the 2 year old may be trickier, since she had never spent the night away from Mama, but I would manage. We hugged. I wished I could stay to see her through this birth, to finally get to see her through her birth, but being a Mama means you must take care of all the baby birds in the nest.

Sarah was born around 10pm that night, just as little Rachie fell asleep cuddled up to me on the couch. From the front, she was perfect. A beautiful head of dark hair, rosebud lips and a cleft chin. Chubby thighs and wrinkly feet. 10 fingers, 10 toes. But laid on her stomach, it was apparent that her spine had not formed properly. There were divots and fissures where there ought not be. The umbillical cord was short, slimy, indicating possible infection. No autopsy. Nothing to be gained.

My sister labored and birthed all 3 of her children with grace, compassion and love. She showed such strength of character and mind, even when the walls of the world were crumbling beneath her feet. Life never really goes according to plan. Neither does death. But our lives are forever changed by my sweet little niece. She is still Sarah.

Dates

I try not to give due dates when people ask - I learned that people get fixated on Late and Early. So Sarah was very quickly referred to as our October Otter.

When I woke up on the last day of October, right around 3am, I knew it was going to be her birthday. She had been teasing me relentlessly for days with regular contractions. And in fact, she made her appearance soon after 10pm that evening.

Halloween has always been one of my favorite holidays. Making costumes, having an excuse to spray my hair blue?

While I was at the hospital, saying hello and goodbye to Sarah, Jonah and Rachel were oblivious to it all, thanks to my family and friends. They had their last normal Halloween. When gravestones were just rocks and joking about scary dead things were truly pretend.

Now? We'll forever have to deal with the pairing of their sister's death alongside a holiday that makes light of it all.

Halloween will never be the same. And so much so that until today, I could not bring myself to look at the photos that my dear friend took that day of the kids in their costumes. Because it's impossible to look and not want to see Sarah in those shots, wearing a matching giraffe costume that had been made for her by her Bubbe.

There will always be parties on the anniversary of Sarah's death. Parades at school, knocks on the door, people to face. A constant reminder that I won't be able to hide from the world on the very last day of October.

6 weeks

I find myself stuck between trying to desperately remember every moment of my short time with Sarah - and torturing myself relentlessly with pieces that are only painful.

The other night all I could think about was Jonah coming home from school and being SO excited to meet his new sister. And the confusion on his face when we tried to explain to him that she had died. This loop played over and over in my head.

I think about holding Sarah, so warm from the heated blankets that they wrapped her in. Studying her toes, opening the blanket to find the sacral dimple on her back and not knowing, at the time, what it was.

I try to remember - when was the last time that I was sure I felt Sarah kick me?

Details that are true, painful and real.

But most of the last 6 weeks have been a blur. For the first time in 5 years I am actually using a calendar. I no longer trust my brain to remember anything. Falling asleep is usually okay, but I dread waking midway. If my brain turns on, it's never productive, positive thoughts. It's only the negative second-guessing that I can rationally talk myself out of during daylight hours.

There have been nearly 20,000 hits since I started this blog. My hope is that losing a baby will never happen to you or a loved one. But if it does, perhaps you'll understand a bit more about how they may be feeling. And to remind you that a baby born still is still a baby. Still a sibling. Still a grandchild. Just one that left too soon.

Shall we play a game?

"Strange game. No winning move. How about a nice game of chess?"

Who would have thought that a Matthew Broderick movie could hold so many answers and yet none at all?

The end of my October really sucked. And so did all of November. Turns out I'm not the only one who has had such a horrible time. One of my readers emailed me privately to talk about her own pregnancy. Prenatal testing has revealed that her son won't survive outside her womb due to a chromosomal abnormality.

My immediate thought is to rationalize - at least she knows. OTOH, how horrible - she knows! It's the same evil game of which is worse, could it be better, what would I do?

"Strange game. No winning move."

But you still have to play the game. There's no opt out, like in the movie. It still goes on.

Traditions

My favorite Chanukah tradition is taking an annual photo of my kids with a large plush dreidel. At least it used to appear large, in those first, early photos. Now, as the kids grow, it appears to get smaller and smaller.

This year's photo was supposed to include Sarah. I had spent all summer looking for matching outfits. And through some luck and frugality I had found green and white striped dresses for Rachel and Sarah at a consignment store. And a green and white striped shirt for Jonah. Newborn, a 2T and a kid-sized 5.

But Sarah isn't here. And up until this morning, I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to take the photograph. Until I realized that it might be worse to not document this year. Sarah died, but Jonah and Rachel did not. And they deserve to have everything as "normal" as possible.

So I combed Rachel's hair. Left the kids in their pajamas rather than think about the tiny dress that Sarah would not be wearing, and I plopped them on the couch. I balanced myself on a step stool and did what any mama needs to do for a smile - I offered lollipops in exchange for a few more frames of cooperation. I stopped after less than a dozen clicks. Good enough.

Away

I started with the infant cloth diapers, then the sweaters and buntings.

At the bottom of a drawer, I discovered the beloved "first onesie" with the giraffe on the tushy. The one that both Jonah and Rachie wore - and that I never found in time for Sarah's birth.

Today it isn't so much about the loss of Sarah. It's about how to move forward. The several sizes of clothing all over the bedroom. The maternity wear. Keep, toss? And the taunting of the clothes that are too small. Along with the motivation to drop weight being directly related to the decision to conceive again.

No neat boxes to check off for me today.

Excuses

A few months before Sarah was born, we started to tackle our "junk" room. The bedroom that still had boxes from when we moved in. I had a list of excuses to not to deal with it, including:

+ being pregnant with Rachel when we moved in
+ then having a newborn and a preschooler
+ busy with Other Things
+ pregnant again

But this summer, we said enough was enough. And I threw money at the problem. I drove down to IKEA and bought bedroom furniture for the room, forcing the motivation to deal with the room.

And we sort of did. The room got transformed... there are photos on FB to prove that the room was tidy for as long as it took me to point and click.  Except... those pile of boxes were picked through a bit and moved to MY LIVING ROOM.

They have been sitting there ever since. Several friends offered to help me deal with them. And my sister even said, "If you don't do it now, you'll never have time once the baby comes..." But I couldn't face them.

And so they sit.  Right there.  Overflowing.  And possibly multiplying at night.

The excused are plentiful.  And the solution is easy.

Just
do
it.

Thank you

I have some pretty amazing friends. People have brought food, both planned and drive-by style. So much food that we actually had to ask you to stop. (My midwife, while visiting, commented that we had every type of carb available.) Gift cards for take out, brownies, and so much more.

During those first few weeks there were dozens of offers to run errands, watch the kids and be all types of useful. Packages arrived with books on grief and silly fun things for the kids. And then there are those of you who keep on calling, e-mailing and letting me know you are still paying attention.

Thank you.

But there was also something going on in secrecy. A bunch of you got together, collected donations, and plotted.

Today, I was handed three envelopes by Suz and Katie. The first was about making new memories - a gift certificate for a hotel with an indoor water park. The second was for a ridiculously large number of hours for a maid service. And the third included the names of everyone who contributed.

Thank you for the incredibly thoughtful gifts. We've always wanted to go to the water park but Rachel had been to little and then I was too pregnant. And its no secret that its impossible to clean with kids, much less deep clean in the past year.

You and I both know that nothing will ever replace Sarah. But all of these acts of kindness and generosity have slowly made things easier as we're working to find our new "normal."

Thank you.

Again, but for the first time

I showed Jonah a photo of Sarah today.  He saw it on my computer and asked, "Who is that baby?"

I replied with my own question, "Who do you think it is?"

And he said, "Baby Sarah!"

He was a bit concerned. He was worried that she wasn't moving.  So I explained that it was a photo. He paused, thought about it. And then asked if she was okay.

I explained again that she was dead. But he repeated again, "Is she okay?"

"Yes, she is okay. She is with God."

"Okay. But why did she chose to die?"

Sigh.  I love him so much. And his questions are so hard and relentless.

"She didn't chose to die.  She was very sick.  And just like you don't chose to get sick, she didn't either."

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Like no one is watching

Rachel and I were early morning shoppers at Trader Joe's this AM.

As we were rounding the corner of the aisle, Rachel nearly ran right into a gray haired woman, probably in her 70's. Except it wasn't totally Rachel's fault.

The woman was dancing, spinning off her partner's arm, clearly lost in music that we could not hear.

She apologized, in a thick, Eastern European accent. And all I could do was grin. Because I finally saw what I want to be when I grow up - someone who is really is that happy.

Live

"Live for truth, not consistency."

I love knowing what to expect. I like the anticipation of knowing what is next. I spent a year losing baby-weight, then a year being pregnant with Sarah. And assumed it would be a challenging year following, with a kindergardener, two year old and infant under my care. Not easy, but exactly what I wanted.

It was a solid plan, derailed in the worst and ultimate way. I didn't think beyond this. And now I need to. Except I can't. It's painful, it's uncertain. And for today, it's too much.

Daughters

In so many ways, Rachel has become Sarah. She is the one I stare at, wondering if they would have looked alike. Rachel is the one who snuggles in my arms, nursing way more often in the past few weeks than she did in the past few months. The cheek I stroke, soft and luscious? My Rachel.

And she is the one who looks deep into my eyes, offering a tissue and asking curiously, "You okay, Mama?" far more often than a two year old should.

Thank you, Rachel, for being there for me.

Things that are hard

+ Going to story time, seeing a mother nursing a newborn
+ Seeing FB posts of glowing mothers, holding their new, healthy babies
+ Seeing a FB post about someone going into labor
+ Filling out the online forms for genetic testing, clicking the button six times to detail 6 pregnancies
+ Being in the car and having time to think
+ Being up late at night and having time to think
+ Thinking

Goodbye November. You've been a dreadful month.

Middle

I drove past the cemetery yesterday. The gate was locked, but I could easily see the small tree next to Sarah's spot.

There are days where everything is almost normal. And then there are moments on top of moments where she is the only thing on my mind, here on the last day of November.

Upstream or down

Had a great conversation with a friend this morning. (Who needs therapy anyway?)

In short, we spoke about the amount of courage it takes to even contemplate going through another pregnancy after a loss. Its' not just getting pregnant.  It's 40+ weeks of knowing things may not turn out okay. The sheer volume of fear that must be overcome?

Overwhelming.
Exhausting.
Terrifying.

But in the end, it may not matter at all.  Despite anyone's best laid plans, it's all one gigantic leap of faith.

Things with faces

Jonah's teacher read the class a story about a wolf who ate a dead armadillo. At least according to Jonah's rendition.

I used the opportunity to talk about the parallels of the armadillo being dead, just like Sarah. Perhaps it wasn't the savviest parenting move, but I immediately saw Jonah make a new connection in his understanding of what death is. And he was reassured that people don't get eaten.

Slowly

Very slowly we are making plans. First this, then that.

My weight has yo-yo'd for the past 6 years with pregnancies and nursing. It comes off, through diet and exercise, always with my eye on the next baby. Finding new motivation is hard. But necessary.

We had zero plans to travel, but now I'm thinking about a short trip during spring break and a longer trip in the summer to the DC area to see cousins, museums and maybe a beach?

It's hard to start to move forward. But I think it may be even harder to stay still. Everything has to change.

Chosen family

The last time I saw my friend R we were both pregnant. She was 4 months along and just starting to show. I was just a few weeks and cautiously optimistic.

Fast forward 9 months and neither of us have a baby in our arms. But for very different reasons.

You see, R wasn't pregnant with her own child. In one of the most generous acts possible, she was a surrogate and gave birth to an adorable baby boy. Who now lives with his biological parents many miles away.

Today I am thankful that there are extraordinary people like R who miraculously gave the gift of making a family.

Ahava / love

"Mama? Does Baby Sarah wear a diaper?"

"Mama, four is not enough."

Jonah's questions usually come out when we are driving in the car or late at night while he is being tucked into bed. He's still having a hard time, understanding death. Wondering where did Sarah go?

Last night, all I could think about was that he thought we didn't want her, that she was somehow alone and we got rid if her. My brain without enough sleep is like a terrorist's torture machine.

We spent so many months preparing Jonah and Rachel for Sarah's arrival. Building images of how things would be exactly the same and so very different in a bigger family. It wasn't that four wasn't enough - but that we had so much love that we wanted more people in our family.

Now we're trying to explain that all the love in the world wasn't enough to keep Sarah from dying.

Second verse

The other night dear
As I lay sleeping
I dreamed I held you in my arms
When I awoke dear
I was mistaken
And I held my head
And cried

/Sunshine

Thankful

When we left for our frantic drive to the hospital, I didn't bring my camera. I didn't grab my purse. I put on a heavy purple sweater and we flew out the door.  I knew, deep inside, that we weren't going to find a heartbeat on the ultrasound.  But a visual image would confirm. And seeing is really believing.

It took the ultrasound techs just a few seconds to confirm that Sarah's heart wasn't beating. That she had died.

Today I am thankful that my midwife took nearly 100 photos on that last day of October.  At the time, I recall the gentle clicking of her camera.  Unobtrusive.  It never occurred to me how important those clicks were.  That they would be the only images we'd ever have of our sweet Sarah.  I wasn't sure I'd ever want to look.  And now I can't imagine how horrible it would be not to have these photos.

When I wake up in the early hours, struggling with thoughts of her in my mind, I find myself wanting to see her face. To remember what she looked like. I only held in her my arms for a short time, but she'll be in my heart forever.

Should I stay or should I go?

You won't be surprised that I am having a hard time with the Thankfulness of the season. Bittersweet doesn't really capture it. Really more of a bitter sweet guilt cycle.

Bitter because we don't have Sarah. Sweet because I am purposely trying to enjoy the moments with Jonah and Rachel that we wouldn't have had in this way if I was caring for Sarah right now. And of course, massive guilt for enjoying it. Or better yet, guilt for feeling overwhelmed when it's just the two of them.

I went to our local babywearing meeting on Tuesday. I almost didn't go. But I needed to. So I msg'd a friend to let her know I was going. And I went. I'm glad I did... but it wasn't easy.

I'm not sure if it would have been harder to go or easier to stay home. But it doesn't really matter.

In the end, it's just hard to be in a place with no right answers.

++

I saw this quote, posted on another blog, earlier today.  It happens to be one of my favorites - favorite movie, favorite quote. Clearly it was meant to be shared.

I guess I could be pretty pissed off about what happened to me... but it's hard to stay mad, when there's so much beauty in the world. Sometimes I feel like I'm seeing it all at once, and it's too much, my heart fills up like a balloon that's about to burst... And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and then it flows through me like rain and I can't feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life... You have no idea what I'm talking about, I'm sure. But don't worry... you will someday.

- Lester Burnham, American Beauty

I won't fear love

We were likely done having children after Sarah. My brain was settling into the idea of getting rid of the bins of baby stuff. I could pass on Jonah's handmedowns now, rather than holding onto everything for two girls. We could finally paint the bedrooms. Everything in its place.

Now? Limbo.

I don't know. I don't know if I want to be pregnant again. I don't know if I could live every day in fear of losing another child.

Is it greedy to want more? We have two amazing, healthy kids. Firmly out of babyhood, much to my dismay. A year ago I was ready to do it again.

Apparently this is okay, not to know. Not to have plans.

The truth is that right now, it's not that I want more children. It's that I just want Sarah.

Wisdom

My neighbor, a lovely woman of 85 years old, knew that we lost Sarah before we told her. Before anyone told her. She said she saw me walk to my car - and just knew.

Her husband passed away about a year ago; her only daughter visits frequently from out of state. But she also had a son, stillborn, who passed away when her daughter was five. The same age as Jonah.

I know this because she inserted it into conversation soon after we met. Matter-of-factly. It surprised me (at that time) that she was so open. But now I realize exactly why she put it out there. Because if you don't talk about him, it's like he was never there.

No name

If you lose your parents, you are an orphan.

If you lose your spouse you are a widower.

Why is there no name if you lose a child?

Empty

I started an accidental tradition last year at Chanukah. I had plenty of time to do the present shopping, but left the wrapping to the very last second.

I love wrapping presents. Making sharp creases on the most odd shaped boxes, taping all the edges.

But I ran out of time.

So in a burst of inspiration (and desperation?) I hid the presents in Jonah's bed, tucking them under the covers.

It was a hit. Both kids thought it was silly to look under the covers each night for their presents. And since then have reminded me frequently that this is the way WE do it in our family.

I love the way we accidentally created something awesome out of something that wasn't there.

At this time of year, when most people are gearing up for a season of thankfulness, I'm feeling that gaping hole of Sarah who is not here. Is there anything good in what feels like a bottomless pit of grief? Do we find a way to incorporate Sarah into our season? Or is it just too soon to even fathom it?

Rachel and I visited the fabric store this morning, picking out fleece to be made into new blankets for her bed - and Jonah's. She scored Sesame Street. Jonah got Thomas the Train. And I blinked away the tears when I spied adorable, brightly colored birds that would have been perfect for my Sarah.

Maybe next year.

Maybe then we'll find some good in the fleecy birds and create something good in this absence.

Hell

My midwife posted an article, "The Imagined Child: Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month," less than a week before we lost Sarah.  I remember seeing the headline pop up in my Facebook news feed and clicking through before my brain registered the title.  And I immediately regretted it.  

You see, reading about loss right before you're about to deliver - and really, just while pregnant and hormonal - is enough to set the most balanced person off.  But once the post was on my iPod, I was compelled to read it.  And I did. 

I don't think I made it more than a few sentences in before tears were running down my face.  It never occurred to me, on October 26th, that Sarah was ever at risk for dying. My experience had always been early miscarriages.  And by this point I was already a few days past my due date. But my heart sobbed for the 'almost' babies I lost so many years ago.  And for the women mentioned in the story who, in my mind, had been dealt a horrible blow.  One that I could never imagine living through.

Except that here I am, two weeks later.  Living in what I thought would be hell. 

..but it's not.

I think hell might be watching my beautiful Sarah suffer. Actually seeing her die.  Or holding her in my arms, seeing her take her last breath and having no way of helping her. 

And oddly, there is comfort in knowing that she never left the warm, safe place where she grew for 9 months. I like to think that her death was painless and quick.  That she was never poked, prodded, or shocked. 

Most of all, I like to think that knew she was loved for every moment of her short, sweet life.

Naming

I love names. And nicknames. And funny combinations, particularly with my husband's last name. I could play the name game for hours.

We actually narrowed down our baby name list fairly early. And around 36 weeks we decided on Sarah Tzipporah, with the idea that we'd both mull it around for realsies in our brains.

During a silly moment, alone with Rachel, I whispered it to her. She smiled, put her finger to her own lips and whispered it back. It was our little secret.

Joe and I happened to both love the name Sarah, and when we realized that it was also the name of one of my great aunts, it was even better. Mom says she made the best blackberry jam.

Tzipporah was a little more roundabout. Joe's aunt Jean passed away a few years ago. And while I only met her a few times, I remember her being in the kitchen - and her own daughter calling her "Birdie." The way she said it was so sweet, so endearing that it's always stuck in my head. Tzipporah means bird in Hebrew and seemed to fit perfectly.

You are more than your sorrow

Joe and I spent all of yesterday together. I'm sending him back to work, half days, so he can start to move forward. We ran a bunch of errands, Rachel in tow. Filled up the car with gas, went to ToysRUs because of my strong urge to spoil the kids for Chanukah. Picked up a few staples at Trader Joe's.

We ended up lunching at our favorite Indian buffet. We've become wise with our handling of kids in restaurants; quick service and a portable DVD player are key. The TV is something I probably would have scorned at, pre-kids. And now I realize affords us the ability of those 15 extra minutes to actually enjoy what we're eating.

The place was bustling through the lunch hour, but we were seated right away. I was pleased to see a huge diversity among the people dining together. Besides a rainbow of skin colors and languages being spoken, there was a table of Army folks in fatigues. It made me pause for a second, being so close to Veteran's Day. I wondered if they were on their way out to deployment. I wondered what they had seen.

As I've been thinking about my own grief, in turn I've been trying to put it in perspective with other people's loss and experiences. In the end, it's really about the fear of our own mortality. Each time we lose someone, it reminds us that we are fragile, too. It's something I've faced many times in the past few years. My dad having a heart attack. My very young cousin having a stroke. My husband in a near-fatal car accident. And now losing Sarah.


I don't want to be a sad person. I don't want to be the one everyone tiptoes around. Yes, I'll probably burst into tears for some random reason that doesn't make any sense. But I'll do my best to be present and continue on this up and down journey, because it turns out that mentally checking out is just as harmful.

"Suffering is not enough. Life is both dreadful and wonderful...How can I smile when I am filled with so much sorrow? It is natural--you need to smile to your sorrow because you are more than your sorrow."

~Thich Nhat Hanh

(And your proof that Good Things Still Happen: the guy at the table behind us quietly paid for the bill of the Army folks.)

Moving forward

So glad Joe can make the difficult calls.

We need a marker for Sarah's grave. It's against tradition, but something we need to do. (Google Judaism, stillborn and tradition for the backstory.)

And we need to make an appointment to see a genetic counselor. Something I've avoided, but now realize is a necessity. I have no idea if we will decide to have more kids. But we need to know if what happened to Sarah has a high probability of happening again. Or if Jonah and Rachel need to worry about their own risks when they start their own families. And as my midwife reminded me, pregnancies happen even when you don't intend them to.

Time to embrace science and see if it can provide any answers?

Pages

On my first solo trip out, I decided to go to the craft store to buy a scrapbook. It's something I've always meant to do for each of the kids, but I've never had the time or dedication. It's always felt like other things were more important.

But before the pieces of Sarah's memory get lost throughout the house, I wanted to get ahead of it. Something simple and neat. So when we are ready to show the kids, they'll understand that she was very much a part of all our lives.

I was okay until I realized that some scrapbooks are expandable. You can add pages. That's the point when I had to bite my lip in the store and not lose it completely.

No new photos of Sarah are coming. No firsts. No seconds. No holiday card with that enormous dreidel.

I just had to choose a fixed number. How many pages did she need to tell her short and brief life?

Best laid plans

Rachel was all but weaned before Sarah's birth. She'd indulge before bedtime and when she woke, and we had reached that amazing point where she would accept a snuggle and cuddle from either me or my husband to comfort her into snoozeville. We could be apart all day and still be okay.

But in these days after Sarah's death, the most soothing feeling is filling my arms with Rachie. And when my milk came in three days after giving birth, it was R who kept me from needing to pump. Nursing her produced natural rushes of oxytocin to keep my body from sliding into a dark funk. I could stare into her eyes, stroke her cheek and know that I was still desperately needed.

Last night was the first night in recent memory where everyone in our household slept all night long. Jonah in his top bunk, Rachel in the king sized bed with me and the husband. Despite my best intentions, I had failed to transition her to her own bed before Sarah was born, like I had planned.

So many plans that didn't turn out as we had hoped.

Instead, this morning, we made the best of it. Rachel latched on before she fully woke and glugged for a good 20 minutes. I actually had to burp her. Then Jonah came barreling out of his room, as if on cue. And then all four of us cuddled, tickled and cajoled in that big bed as the sun slowly peeked in. Not the five of us, as I had envisioned not that long ago, but the four of us who will always have a piece of Sarah in our hearts.

Signs

With a nudge from our rabbi via our cantor (who happens to be one of my favorite people and closest friends) we ended up at the congregational potluck dinner last night. And the craft activity beforehand.

I was hesitant to go; I was bracing myself for a "so did you finally have that baby?" question from an unknowing person.  Its already played out at my front door, from well-meaning neighbors. I'm not sure if it will ever get any easier to say it, but the reactions are like reliving it again. The confusion, panic and denial all rolled up into five seconds of explanation. It's not anyone's fault, but it's not like they make those signs to go across your door as a heads-up.  Beware of dog. Private well.  Grieving family. Dead baby.

We did okay. Thanks to a few years of playgroup, my kids are ridiculously comfortable at the synagogue.  They run off with their friends and the other parents always look out for each other's families. There's a sense of collective responsibility.

I thought about not going. Hiding. And the came to the conclusion that not much would be different between this Friday night and another Friday night.  I'd still be the woman who lost a baby. And it reminded me strikingly of the same realization I came to when I was reading from the bima during my bat mitzvah.  Looking at all those people, feeling nervous?  Hey wait... I already know them. They know me. Its really not such a big deal what happens now because there's no turning back.

Rainbows and unicorns

You folks have logged over 10,000 hits on this blog. It's a little shocking.

Most of my social media interaction in the past few years has been on FB. Short quips are my favorite. Photography has always been a passion. And FB is perfect for those things.

I was never a fan of assignments with minimum page requirements or word counts. If I can make my point in six words, why should I talk for 15 minutes?

(And this is clearly why I've enjoyed my latest career as a bumper sticker / t-shirt designer on Cafepress. Short and punchy wins.)

I moved to the blog to grieve because I didn't think FB was the appropriate place. I've always made it a point to keep things fairly positive and as undramatic as possible online.

Perhaps the result is that you think that my life was completely rosie and rainbow-filled. That my children aren't whiney or have days where every conversation feels like a negotiation with terrorists.

The truth is that despite everything, I know my life is really very good. I have an incredible marriage, a great family and an amazing network of friends. Our basic needs are more than met. We've been blessed with opportunities that we have taken for granted.

My ramble-y point is this: electronic media is about only showing a few cards in your deck. I'm still me, I'm no martyr. Bad things happen. But you get to decide what happens next. I'm not sure what that looks like - then again, neither do you. Coming to peace with that is the challenge.

Vitals

This sudden cold weather took me by surprise. Woke to our first snowfall of the season, just a gentle dusting that will melt off as soon as the sun hits it. I found myself searching for a sweater, even though the thermostat is set at 68.

My bedroom is chaotic. Totes filled with clothing of every size. For a chubby girl, I was probably at my healthiest when we conceived Sarah. And at the end of the pregnancy, despite gaining a good number of pounds, I weighed what I did on my wedding day.

Turns out that when you lose a baby, no one asks for her stats. The jumble of numbers that define health. And I never asked. I had to go online and look at my medical records to learn.

I find myself describing her as "perfect." Ten toes, ten fingers. A tiny cleft chin just like her brother and sister. So much dark hair. And not til you flipped her over could you see the long sacral dimple deformity.

On my computer sits the incomplete birth announcement. It was waiting for those vital stats. Height, weight, date and time of birth. And of course, a photo. It seems wrong to fill it in now even though the details are true.

8lbs, 11oz. 21 inches long. Born at 10:26pm on the last day of October, 2012.

Guilt

Joe adjusted his work hours this fall so he could take Jonah to the bus stop.  Initially because waddling up the street and around the corner was going to be hard for me. And then of course, bundling up me, Jonah, Rachel and Sarah was going to be an ordeal for the winter.

We both had a moment of surprise and sadness when we realized that we could go back to him working 7am-3pm.

Its these little things that set me off. I'm a planner. I need to know what life is going to look like.  I expected the winter to be a snugglefest with me, Rach and Sarah. That we'd emerge from our cocoon in the early spring, ready to tackle the world. My expectations of life with a newborn are pretty simple, so we had no vacations planned, no trips. And in about a year, we have three weddings to attend. I had already been plotting about which ones we could go to with all three kids and which ones we'd try to go alone.

Now I'm not sure. I don't know what the next few months are going to be. In some ways, so less restrictive. And I'm already struggling with the guilt of knowing that things will be easier to manage with just a Rachel and a Jonah to balance.

An angel instead

We received several books in the mail yesterday, all from wonderful friends choosing titles that can help our family deal with grief.

I haven't had a chance to go through them all, but I immediately skimmed one of the kids' books and knew it was perfect for Jonah.

"We Were Gonna Have a Baby, But We Had an Angel Instead"

The wording is simple and direct. It talks about the hopes and dreams of all the things they expected their baby to do, but could not.  Exactly the sort of stories we had built in Jonah and Rachel's minds to help them deal with the impending arrival of a sibling.

The images show a family crying, which was very important. Joe read it to the kids at bedtime, and Jonah needed to come show me and tell me about it as soon as they were done. 

I suspect its going to be in heavy rotation for a while at our house. Which I'm now coming to realize is a good thing.  We want the dialogue open. The kids need to know that its okay to think about Sarah and talk about her as a member of our family.  Because for many months, she played a significant part in our daily activities, reality and dreams.

My sweet boy

We met with Jonah's kindergarten teacher today. So grateful for a program that is focused on communication, expression and relationship building. Not one "test" or worksheet to be found.

Yup, public school at its best!

Mrs. F reassured us that yes, keeping him in his normal routine was best. And that the occasional pull-out to join Joe on his business trips was a-okay.

Such relief to know it is going well, both pre- and post- tragedy.

Saving

After the birth of a still child, I'm sure everyone questions their choices. Did I do enough? Should we have had more tests? What if we had done another ultrasound? Was it a mistake to be with a midwifery practice, rather than an OB?

And the result of all of these "what's" is that perhaps Sarah saved us. Saved us from having to make heartbreaking, heart wrenching decisions that no one wants to make.

Let me explain.

My care with my midwife was exceptional. She offered us every test available. She counseled us on the pros and cons. And when I wasn't sure how we should proceed, we'd talk about what we would do with the information from a test. Was it reliable? Accurate? And if it did indeed indicate something "bad" what sort of decision would we be willing to make, based on what we knew?

Our appointments were a full hour long. She wasn't just checking my physical health - she was keeping tabs on my mental health, my kids. My husband, who had two major surgeries during my second trimester. I wasn't just her patient - she was watching over all of us.

And when it came time to talk about preparing for birth, she didn't suggest a class or a book for us. She told us to take a break from our daily grind and plan a series of dates. Just the two of us, to reconnect as a couple. To spend time thinking about the newest member of our family, and not to forget what is important.

It's possible that some of those late tests could have revealed something about Sarah's condition. It might have told us the severity. Or not. And we would had to make decisions. Induce early? Spend weeks on bedrest with intensive monitoring? And if she came out alive, were her injuries too severe that that her life would have been a series of operations, infections and suffering?

We're fairly sure that Sarah had a closed form of spina bifida. Her lower spine wasn't formed properly. From the outside it was apparent her digestive system wasn't right. Her kidneys were compromised. And I now know from reading online that spinal bifida effects the entire spinal column. It's likely she would have had problems, ranging from a learning disability to mental retardation. And rarely do kids with SB get better. It's a cascading series of interventions and management.

All of these what if's. All of these maybes. I know it's completely inappropriate to ever suggest that perhaps things played out for the best. But in this case I can say that perhaps Sarah's death did save us. Save us from making the most critical of decisions. From weeks, months or even years of watching her decline. And the rippling effect it has on the most stable of families.

I've always believed that things happen for a reason. That God only gives us as much as we can handle. And that we must learn from every curve that is sent our way.

I'm not yet sure what the takeaway is from Sarah's death. But for now it is not taking health, safety or love for granted.

Displaced

We only bought a few things in anticipation of Sarah's birth. With both a girl and boy who were born in the summertime, I needed some sweaters and buntings. New socks, because matching ones can never be found.  I squee'd with delight in finding some matching outfits for Rachel and Sarah. And I ended up buying a new car seat with a wicked sale and massive research on the current industry standards.

When we made our speedy flight to the hospital on the last day of October, we took my husband's small car. The one with just two car seats installed, for our eldest children.  There was no discussion. We knew, deep in our hearts, that Sarah wasn't going to be coming home with us.

But after we came home, empty? I could not face my minivan. The empty infant seat behind mine.

Jonah had been so excited to move to the third row. Rachel had been moved to right. I had agonized where to position them, careful to do it weeks before Sarah's birth, so they would have time to adjust and not take it personally that they were being displaced.

In Jewish tradition, mourning lasts a full year.  It's a year until the headstone is uncovered at the grave. It's a year until you are allowed to make any major decisions, like getting rid of a person's possessions. The idea behind it is a sound one. People do rash things when they are upset; time gives perspective.

But there was no way I could look at my car with that empty seat.

Thankfully, a close friend dropped by.  A doer. A fellow mom. And I asked her, painfully, to rearrange my car. To remove the seat. Move the kids back to their original places.

I can't bring myself to get rid of that seat. Yet. I'm not sure if we'll sell it. Or donate it. Or keep it on the chance that we'll have more kids?  For now we'll cover it and hide it in the cluttered garage.

Adding it to our list of decisions that don't need to be made today.

Stages

Angry. For letting me fall in love. And taking her away too soon.

Not alone

I have received dozens and dozens of private FB msgs and emails in the last few days. Each one offering prayers and good wishes to me and my family. Its overwhelming. Every time I see my inbox, I need to brace myself. Because each one makes me cry, each one opens up the wound again.  And yet I keep on looking. Because it reminds me that I'm not alone. And I'm not the first person to go through this, nor will I be the last.

If I have not responded to you, please know that I did read your note. I probably read it six times. And that writing back is not indicative of anything, other than being overwhelmed with emotion.

Sleep is the enemy

Most people dread the first few weeks and often months of sleeplessness that come with the arrival of a newborn.

Me? I was looking forward to Sarah's arrival so that I could finally sleep. At best I was getting four hours a night these past few weeks. With my husband's work, travel and class schedule I had a few stretches of single parenting that left me wiped out and barely able to hold a coherent conversation.

(I'm not complaining; in these economic times I am more than grateful for his steady employment, his bosses who give him flexibility and his pure determination to obtain a post-graduate certification that will allow him to advance his career to a place of true financial stability. If we were to keep score, I'd insist he works harder than me... and he'd argue the same about me.)

But back to my original point about sleep. While so many of my friends struggled with nighttime newborn parenting, both Jonah and Rachie were overachievers. Between cosleeping and breastfeeding, we could log 15 hours in bed. It was my version of bliss. Simple, basic needs that I was confident I could meet.

(Socially, it's not something to brag about getting good sleep. In fact, its probably the best way to invoke dagger eyes from other moms.)

So last night, as I was staring at the clock for the umpteenth time, watching the numbers slowly flash by? All I could think about was the elusiveness of it all. The sleep that was not there.. and the baby that was not in my arms.

Tree

Sarah's plot is located right in front of a short, squat evergreen tree. Maybe three feet tall, two and a half feet wide.

It's sort of tree where you know a bunny is going to burrow down under for the winter. Or a find a small bird's nest in the spring.

If I had to pick a spot, that's exactly where I would have chosen, too.

Leaving.

"It's not something I ever wanted you to know I was good at"

Smart, scientific, and truly friendly. Honest. Those are all words that I would use to describe my midwife. She caught Jonah at the hospital and Rachel at home almost exactly three years later. I trusted her instincts and knew that I could lean on her when I was at my most vulnerable.

But I had no sense of how truly compassionate she was until Sarah's labor and delivery.  Not only did she take care of me and my husband, but she knew to step in and manage every detail before we even realized a decision needed to be made. We were never left out of the process. Instead, she fed us each part as we needed it.  

If you had told me that I could possibly handle spending 9 hours in labor, after being told that my baby was dead inside of me, I never would have believed you.  My first instinct was "God no, please get her out. Please let this end right now."

I wanted that c-section. I wanted resolution. And I thought that fast was better. But I didn't ask. I waited. And we managed. We talked. About serious things, about Bon Jovi and Murphey Brown. About how we named our dear Sarah. And about love and partners. She knew exactly where to touch and how to soothe. I never had to ask - it was like she knew. The continuity of care - the fact that I didn't have to worry at all about a changing shift of nurses - allowed me to let my guard down. And just be.

And it turns out that just being, just allowing time to pass, gave us time to process exactly what was happening. That our dream of a Sarah to bring home was gone. That life was going to be different.  And I'm quite sure now that had we rushed through the process, had a c-section, that the shock would be more pronounced than it is right now. 

Process has always been hard for me. I like answers. I like resolution and goals. I solve problems. Logic over heart.

I can clearly remember the first time I attended a yoga class, and the instructor thanked us for showing up.  Showing up? Until that moment, I had no idea I was such a competitive person. You don't get credit for showing up. You get credit for being awesome, for being smart, for being better. 

So that's why I'm writing. Because I need to process. Because there is no goal. Only the journey.

"We think that the point is to pass the test or overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don't really get solved. They come together and they fall apart. Then they come together again and fall apart again. It's just like that. The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy. ”
― Pema Chödrön, When Things Fall Apart: Heartfelt Advice for Hard Times

(With thanks to Ruth.)

Through the eyes of children

From Jonah's "big sister friends." I don't have the words to express how I feel about these girls and their entire family. Thank you.

Six. Three. Two. Four.

Kids are taking a bath. And I keep on looking at them, imagining three in the tub, instead of two.

I only recently started visualizing what life was going to be like with three. Managing expectations has unfortunately been our normal. We've worn those flesh-colored bandaids for years.

When you see a family with two children, especially one of each gender, there's an apparent balance of achievement. The all-American dream. Simple, typical.

Except you have no idea of how they actually got there.

In our case, getting pregnant was the easy part. Staying pregnant rarely happened. After two early miscarriages, we were blessed with Jonah. We had another early miscarriage before Rachel joined us. And despite the first trimester bleeding I had with every single one of my pregnancies, Sarah was my sixth pregnancy. My third baby. And my fourth loss.

Having two healthy, vibrant children is a great way of hiding fertility problems. While I mourned after every miscarriage, nothing compares to Sarah.

She kicked me every night and would clearly complain when I chewed ice. I could feel her roll from one side of my belly to the other, feet above my ribs. There was a week or two where I could barely breathe enough to walk into the kitchen.

Sarah would respond to the kids' voices - and their screams and cries. At one point we were all in the recliner at once, my arms around Rachel and Jonah, with Sarah firmly nestled in the middle, each one having their own separate tantrum.

Sarah may have never smelled the crisp, autumn air of upstate NY or seen the brilliant red leaves on our maple tree, but she was very real to me.

Pay it forward

Several people have asked us if there is a fund that they can make donations to, in honor of Sarah.

From a physical examination, its most likely that Sarah had some form of spina bifida, along with a fatal infection. I'm not familiar with any charities associated with this, but I'm sure there are many good ones out there.

Instead, we'd ask like to ask you to donate to our synagogue, who along with Levine Memorial is picking up ALL the costs of internment. No one plans to bury a child and not being burdened by the cost is truly remarkable. Thank you so much to the people before us who paid it forward.

You can follow the link above and donate via paypal. Or you can write a check to:

Congregation Gates of Heaven
852 Ashmore Ave.
Schenectady, NY 12309

Please note "cemetery fund" in the memo or comments field.

Bandaids

We always wanted kids. From FB, you can see how much I delight in every aspect of raising them. While some people apologize for posting so many photos of their punks, I can't get enough of it.  They are mine, I made them and I certainly don't think they are perfect - but they are human, flawed just like me. I know at some point they will be old enough to be self-aware, and I'll have to respect their privacy. For now, everything is fair game.

But as adults, we're not like that. We like our bandaids "flesh toned" and hide our scars. Unlike kids who prefer bright characters to announce to every visitor their latest injury, real or not.

And that's my usual path. Until something like this happens and there's no bandaid large enough to cover the gaping wound.

Foreverwear

The yellow sweater is soft and warm. I don't wear yellow, myself, but Rachel looks amazing in it, and so Sarah will by default, in my dreams.
The onesie has a bird on it. Both Rachel and Jonah wore it. It's like a default t-shirt that you always reach for, because it feels right.
The pants were R's. Pink, because every princess needs a touch of it.
The booties are the most precious item, knit by Sarah's Bubbe. Worn only briefly by the others, because their feet grew so quickly.
Bubbe offered to sew Sarah an outfit. And I could not accept. My grief barely gets me out of bed; I could not let her associate sewing with one of the most painful things - losing a grandchild.

A box

We planned a home birth. But that immediately changed when we discovered no heartbeat. Home should be safe and I didn't want to associate it with death.
What I didn't count on was how hard it was to leave our hospital room the next day. As a rule, I don't like hospitals. After Jonah was born, we checked out exactly 24 hours later, per the stupid county law, at the dreadful hour of 3am. I could not leave fast enough.
But when we tried to leave at 3am, I discovered that it took hours to leave.. that is, with a baby. There are forms, documents, signatures, waivers, exams. It was daylight when we finally left.
But when your baby is dead? Signatures on two forms. One declining immunizations for myself.
And then they hand you a box. 9 months of gestation, and they hand you a box. A box with memory items, horrifically about the size of the baby that does not come home with you.

Writing about Sarah here, as my thoughts are longer than a FB status or tweet.

Random thoughts:

• I gave little thought to what Sarah would first wear after she was born. I knew it would be pooped on.  But thinking about what to put her in to be buried in brought me to my knees. It's forever. It needed to be warm, to be soft. And not be something that I had very strong memories about with the other kids wearing. They are still here. She is not.
• Sometimes people just do. They act, they don't ask questions.  Its a response usually seen at war.. turns out the same applies with death.  My neighbor, who I probably would not recognize in the grocery store, left a bag of books on our doorstep. She picked them out from the library, and left them with a note.  Kids' books, on death and dying. Thank you, Theresa.
• Jonah hit Rachel last night. And bit the head right off of his toothbrush.  At the bus stop, he immediately told the kids "my baby is dead."  I know he's confused. And his questions are simple, but without any easy answers. All the websites say to keep an open dialogue with your kids. And to answer their questions.  But they don't tell you what the answers are. I want the answers. Please.
• Rachel said "baby in belly," last night.  I said no, the baby is all gone. She put up her hands and asked where? I said she is safe and with God. She immediately reverted to a game of hide and seek and sang, "Baby... where are youuuuuu...."
• I have never been more grateful to have a two year old still nursing. One of the websites I visited talked about aching arms. And its so true. Having her in my arms, nursing last night in bed? It let me sleep. 
• Rachel keeps on handing me tissues to wipe my tears. She is very perceptive and I can see my grief reflected in her own face. I've heard that babies who have mothers who are chronically depressed have problems expressing emotions. I'm so glad for my sister, who is keeping her giggly and alive in spirit. I have been able to laugh, but the worry in Rachel's face clear.
• When I moved to this area in 1998, I knew perhaps 5 people. Nearly 15 years later, we have amassed an incredible network of support. Your words mean more than I realized. Thank you.