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.