Again

We waited a year. A year to do all the firsts without Sarah. A year to be angry, sad, and accept. A year to want no other baby but Sarah. But now... Now we know there is still so much love to give. And the only way to do that is to start the journey again. Brave, hopeful and scared. And pregnant, again.

Space

So many wonderful friends and family joined us on Black Friday at the cemetery for Sarah's stone unveiling. It officially marked year of mourning, a year of everything moving way too fast and at the same time creeping along, dreadfully slow. 

My kids did well at the ceremony, and eventually, when Rachel became antsy, I reached into my pocket to find a distraction. Gloves, tissues.... And a shiny pink jewel.  Which she promptly place atop Sarah's marker. (You can see it nestled on the right side of the stone.)  

Never has such a crammed space felt so comforting to look at.

No, you remember correctly

Sarah's death came two months after Jonah started Kindergarten.  He was terribly proud that he already had one sister, Rachel. And he was so very excited to tell his class that he was going to soon have TWO sisters.

I never did get the hang of his Kindergarten school year. Figuring out the school culture, the special sharing days, the school spirit events. Even things like birthday parties and play dates, I just avoided. Socializing and making small talk was the last thing I wanted to do.

Luckily, my better half is much more socially adept than me and did manage to get Jonah to several birthday parties, where they both had a blast.

But Jonah's now in first grade, and he's made it abundantly clear that he is an Aspiring Social Butterfly. If there is a chance to play with friends, he wants IN.

So I summoned my courage, and I escorted him to a classmate's party at the Y this evening. I was hoping to drop him off and run out, but he insisted that I stay. And while it was likely good that I stick around (holy boy party craziness) it left me in the not-so-enviable position of having to chat with folks I really don't know well.

Telling people that Sarah died makes me die a little inside, each time. And sure enough, when I introduced myself to the lovely mama who was hosting the party, there were several awkward moments where she wondered where the baby was - and me trying to not die as I explained that yes, I was pregnant last time she saw me, but no, there is no baby.

It's only the second time it has happened. And yet I feel like I brace for it every day. Because it's the most innocent of conversations - the basis for all conversations with a fellow mom: how many kids do you have? How old are they?

Nothing's true and nothing's right

Throughout this entire ordeal, I find people often refer to me as "strong." Which still baffles me, because I don't really see myself like that at all.

I've made lots of decisions, in this post-Sarah world, to keep my family intact. I get out of bed every day, not because I always want to, but because my kids need me. I stay up late at night, watching zombie movies with my husband, because I need Us to laugh. (Yes, at zombie movies.)  And occasionally, I make myself do something nice for myself (like accept help) because I know it is the right thing to do.

Like lots of things in life, sometimes you have to fake it until you make it true. I don't think that makes me strong. But I do think it makes me determined. That while Sarah's loss will always be in my heart, I can't let it be the end of me or of Us.

One

Yesterday Sarah should have been one.

We should have:
+ watched Sarah take her first steps, likely last week according to how her siblings rolled
+ had a fantastic Halloween birthday party
+ fed Sarah a gooey piece of cake
+ let a wobbly walker climb into a wet pile of leaves

Instead, we cried a lot. Hugged a lot. And rejoiced with our friends that love can carry us through.

Button

The last time I know for sure that Sarah moved was around 3am on the 31st. She woke me, pushing on my bladder. I had contractions off and on for days, previous to that, but they petered out like an engine revving.

But when I woke up on October 31st, I knew it was the day. My October Otter. I sent Jonah to school with his bee costume, I called my sister to come keep me company, and I dispatched my husband to take Rachel on a jaunt. (Later I would learn that they went jewelry shopping and bought me a necklace with three circles.) I called my parents and asked them to attend Jonah's costume parade, so he would see his people waving to him.

I was having contractions all morning. I was carving pumpkins. I wasn't paying attention to Sarah's movements. I was anticipating a long day and a victorious finish. 

Later that morning I checked in with my midwife and asked her to head over. But no rush. I knew it was still going to be a while. 

I often wonder about the moment Sarah died. What was I doing when her heart beat for the last time? It's the sort of thoughts that torture me. And do no good.

Its easy to get stuck there, in a loop with no answers. I have to consciously press the stop button.

Because what matters isn't when she died. There were a full 9 months before that where she was peaceful and safe. Where she experienced nothing but warmth, love and the adoration of her family.  And that has to be okay. Because that's all she had. Because that's all we had.

We love you Sarah. Always and forever.

Click

Sarah was supposed to be my last pregnancy. My last child. The end of anxiety ridden first-trimesters and months and months of morning sickness which always lasted all day.

She was supposed to be the end and simultaneously the beginning of my perfect size family.

And when she died, it felt like the end. How do you go on? How do you live life, knowing that your baby is dead? How can you do the mundane things, like brush your teeth, or engross yourself in a novel? How do you care if your shirt is wrinkled or even remember to look in the mirror before leaving the house?

I've had some huge ups and downs in the past 11 months. I've had days where I really did feel like it wasn't worth getting out of bed.

Somehow that gets buffered by the days where the giggles of my children sound like clinking champagne glasses in heaven. Where the sunshine hits the autumn treeline and I think back to The Office, where Jim turns to Pam and pretends to "click" his imaginary camera. A perfect memory, saved away for future viewing.

There is something quite astonishing that happens when your child dies. The worst possible thing has already happened. Its done. And it only repeats itself in your mind.

Yes, it is horrible and devastating.

But within the experience of death is this amazing freedom of perspective. I went through what will likely be the worst thing ever and I'm still here. When petty things start to tweak inside my head, I'm able to say, "No, that doesn't matter. No one got hurt, no one was harmed, no one died. It will be okay."

So as we approach the anniversary of Sarah's death, I'd like to ask all friends and family to take a moment and reflect on their daily gripes and complaints. Think about what is really important. And clear your mind of all the unproductive talk and focus on the here and now. Make a new beginning and make each moment one worthy of a "click."

Full harvest moon

They say the days are long but the years are short. And whoever "they" are speak the truth. 

I'm amazed at the sophisticated conversations I'm now able to have with my six year old. On the way home today from our Sukkot celebration he asked me what happens when everyone dies. 

Everyone.

So we talked about how everyone doesn't die at once - and that most people do not know WHEN they will die - and that this isn't something he needs to worry about.  What's important now is that we love each other and we do our best to be kind.

Besides, I said, maybe someday you will get married and have kids. And then your kids will have kids. And then you will be a Zeyde (a grandpa). He smiled, then replied, "Maybe I will marry Nomi.... Maybe."

Earlier in the day I had carefully brought up Halloween. I reminded him that we needed to start thinking about costumes. Did he remember last year? Did he remember that I wasn't there to take him trick-or-treating? In fact he did, and gave me some details. 

Then he frowned and asked why I hadn't been there. 

I don't think anyone ever told him that I was in the hospital. That I was in labor. And that it was the day that Sarah died. He was young, no one wanted to scare him, so he was pushed through the day in the most normal way possible. Which was necessary and appropriate.

But now he is six, and his capacity to process has grown. So we talked about it. His eyes went big and his eyebrows wiggled around. "Mama, did you cry? Mama, were you so sad that you cried even when you were asleep?"

Yes. I did. And I sometimes still do. Which is why it's important to say the "I love yous" and pause for the big hugs. To love and be kind. Because sometimes the days are long, but the years are short.

Hidden family

It has been a whirlwind of a weekend.

It started with a call from my mother, letting me know that she had just called 911 for my dad. He's going to be okay, thank God. And even better, the incident that brought him to the hospital led to them finding another underlying condition that they were able to address with surgery today. Quite a blessing in disguise.

In the meantime, my niece turned nine. I was there at her birth, and its been amazing watching her grow into a young woman. She is lovely and quirky and so self-assured. It is possible she may rule the world, someday.

My brother, sister-in-law and nephews came up for the weekend. My oldest nephew is almost taller than me, at age 10. Wow!

And my sister-in-law has graciously been digging through our family history to build us a tree. I love seeing the old marriage documents, particularly from family that left Eastern Europe and landed in England and changed names and spellings, compounded by sloppy census counters. But the results! Cousins, second cousins. People who have these oddly familiar faces, that I've never met. And more red heads, which make me smile. I look forward to the wonders of Facebook and meeting them, someday.

I'm not sure how the summer is almost over, but time keeps on tickin'...

Thought I heard you talking softly

This came up on my Pandora a few days ago. It's always been one of my favorite Duran Duran songs. And I'm sure I've listened to it a hundred times. But that's the most amazing thing about music - even if you've heard it before, you hear something new in it each time.

And as I try to make my way

To the ordinary world

I will learn to survive

Out

I added Sarah's photo to the mantel this morning. It was time for her to stop hiding in the drawer.

Three and six

Rachie turned three. Jonah lost his first tooth in front of the whale at the Smithsonian Museum of Natural Science and his second just as we were leaving the Jersey Shore. 

We celebrated their birthdays today, in what may be their last joint party. 3 & 6 found common ground in mud (!!) and sprinklers. Jonah asked for a Spider-Man cake and told Rachel she wanted a princess cake.  

We're a month into summer, with 6 weeks to go. Our list of things to accomplish grows each day. Most of the fun stuff involves water and outdoors.

I still need to pull out the 'too small" clothing from the end of the school year and buy Jonah his next raincoat. We bought new sneakers just the other night with less drama than last year.

And Sarah's Garden is blooming like crazy in this heat. The kids know now that I pause each day to walk past and pluck at the weeds and that they cannot rush me. Rachel loves to help me water at night, although she always ends up drenched despite my pleas for her to stay dry. 

Today's party was special and sweet. But the next birthday in our family's will be Sarah's - and I'm challenged to know how to honor her on the day that is shared with Halloween. There will be school parades and evenings of trick-or-treating. How do you visit the cemetery on that day, without the clash of goblins and monsters?

Expect

Jonah's last day of kindergarten is tomorrow, but I snapped the photo yesterday when I had the chance. He and Rach on the top step, dressed similarly to the way they were 10 months ago. 

I think everyone must get a little misty eyed when they send their first kid to school. It's a big step. 

But when I took that September photo, I was thinking about how it would be the first in a long series - and that our June photo would include a chubby cheeked 8 month old girl, with shiny hazel eyes.

Instead, the second photo is just two. Jonah is wearing loud, mismatched socks. Narrower cheeks, more big boy scowl. Rachel in tie dye, her hair missing the sun-kissed blonde streaks.

I want Sarah to be there, in that photo. To be part of the memories that grow.

The story of Sam

Having a hard day. We're bringing my 15 year old cat, Sam, to the vet this morning to be put down. Arthritis, kidney failure, and a tumor in her neck that is starting to obstruct her airway and ability to eat. The vet said she would begin to suffocate soon, and that its not at all peaceful.

Samantha and her brother, Duckie, were found on a farm, likely dumped. I had just started grad school and needed someone soft and fuzzy to cuddle. I called the local vet's office, and they hooked me up with the farmers who had found this duo. A calico and an orange tiger. Sam was named quickly after she would just flop backwards in my arms, spreading her front legs like an eagle. Samantha Eagle, ala the Muppets.  Duckie was shy (later realizing he was feral) and would actually "duck" an incoming hand to avoid being touched. They set the trend for all of our future cats to be named after birds.

Sam has had a good life. Her purr sounds like marbles rolling around in her throat. I can cluck and she perks up immediately, looking for me. She had her own pillow, next to mine, to sleep on. And occasionally, I would sleep on my side and I'd find her perched, up on my hip, balancing precariously. 

I love you Sam.

Jingle

Last spring I ordered a necklace for my husband. I had seen an Etsy artist who made dog tags with stamped names of children on it. It was perfect for my dude.

When I contacted her, I knew that two of the tags would read Jonah and Rachel, but I wanted to be sure that she could make me a third one in October, once we had chosen our next child's name. She assured me that it was an easy add-on.

Since Sarah died, I've thought often about that necklace. Joe had taken it off; it was in a drawer, curled up onto itself. I asked him the other day - do you still like it? Do you want to add Sarah's name?  And of course, he said yes. That just wearing two names just didn't feel right.

So I placed an order for that third tag today. Since I had to convo it on Etsy, it was easy to find the same vendor. And our previous back-and-forth about the details of the present.  I kept my message to her short and direct about the new tag order. And of course, she offered me her congratulations and shared her latest baby news. I almost let it pass. But then I realized that I didn't want to miss the opportunity to let her know how special the tag was - the one she was going to create for us. Because we had a third child. It's just that she died.

I am here

Every night, Jonah includes Sarah in the list of people he says goodnight to. Tonight, after J rattled off his list, Rachel turned to me and asked, "Who is baby Sarah?"

"She is our baby who died," I replied.

"Don't worry mama, I am here." And then she leaned in for a hug.

Threes

As a designer, I'm always looking for threes. A poster, an invitation, an announcement. Threes are pleasing to the eye.

Mother's Day

So many thoughts for this upcoming Mother's Day. I know it is going to be tough. We'll be celebrating our Jonah and Rachie in our arms and our Sarah in our hearts.  All three have made me search my heart and reach deeper than I'd ever imagined. I'm better person because of my kids.

But I'm not the only one who has a hard time on this day - and this post was just lovely:

http://www.messymiddle.com/2012/05/10/an-open-letter-to-pastors-a-non-mom-speaks-about-mothers-day/

I pray you can make it better down here

As someone who has struggled with explaining the concept of God to my kids, this line has been on my mind all day:

"As he often reminds me, you don’t have to believe in God to be Jewish, and in fact, Judaism cares much more about what we do than what we think or feel."
http://www.kveller.com/blog/parenting/friday-night-my-husband-is-an-atheist-but-hell-do-shabbat/

So cheers for doing. And living.

Shabbat shalom.

Beyond the pines

We cut down two pine trees a few months after we moved into this house. Their underbits scraggly and completely obscuring the already limited sun from the west.

All I could see was the ugly. I couldn't see past them.

Removing those trees made a remarkable difference. Afternoon sun now streams into the house. But it also showed us the next project: pachysandra. Without the protection of those trees, the ground cover became crunchy and dry, intermixed with small sections that maintained its lush green in pockets of shade. Another eyesore.

So last few days have been dedicated to digging up that leftover pachysandra, the roots a messy subway system. I've found my hands are far more efficient than any tool. It's a slow, repetitive process that is surprisingly soothing.

Once the clearing is done, I'm hoping to learn something about garden design. I'd like to put in a flower bed along the edge of the house. Something beautiful and fresh. But low enough on the horizon so I can still have my sunshine, too.

Let go

My sister came over and helped me tackle the wall of boxes in the living room. I was ready. It needed to be done. She was wonderful and efficient.

But it still felt paralyzing to find the odd baby item, nestled into the chaos of toys, clothing and mess. I've chosen to keep the infant things for now, despite a therapist's suggestion of tossing everything out and starting new if we decide to have more kids. (Yeah, I had to break up with her. She and I clearly didn't speak the same language.)

I'm not sure if its more courage or stupidity to even entertain the idea of getting pregnant again. But saying absolutely not brings tears to my eyes instantly. And they aren't tears of relief. So for now, its on the list of things that I am not allowed to decide right now.

Turns out that trauma completely blurs your sense of reality. For me, its been feeling like I've been startled. Except that rather than the sensation lasting a few seconds, it hangs on much longer. I'm currently trying to retrain my brain to learn exactly what is worth being upset about and what things just need to be let go.  

Floating

Yesterday, our sweet Sarah would have been 5 months old. Its hard not to think of the milestones that never come. No smiles, no giggles. No crawling. No amazing moments when they look you firmly in the eye and exclaim, "Mama!" It hurts just to type it.

I've been trying to make a conscious choice to focus on the good things happening with our family.  Jonah just got his first two-wheeled bike. He was ready last summer, but I held back, knowing I couldn't chase him while pregnant. He is thrilled with this next step of independence.

Rachel almost convinced us to buy her a two-wheeler. There was a 12-inch model at the store, and dude, she rode it like a boss. If it had been less money, I might have caved. But she has a trike which is more steady - and I was able to bribe her instead with a new purple horn.

The kids are going to start swimming lessons in a few more weeks. I'm not sure how much Rachel will pick-up, but leaving her out isn't an option. She would be an angry beast to find out that Jonah was swimming without her. Me too, me too.

I've discovered a lot of this post-loss grief stuff is about making choices to move on. I'm still getting sad and having moments where I'm angry at life in general. But I've discovered that some of it is under my control. Taking time for myself - making plans with friends - asking for help - and just generally making my needs important to me again. I think I've often fallen into the trap of putting everyone else first. Its been my survival tactic of being a SAHM. Keep the boat afloat and worry about myself later.  Except these days, its necessary to do both. Because if the mama falls apart and no one is steering, it doesn't matter if there is a boat. And floating in one place has never been my style.

Englishman in PA

Yesterday, I woke up to the news that a childhood classmate had died in a car accident. He was driving his family in a large Chevy Suburban when another driver hit him head on. Both he and his wife died. But in the back of his car were his three boys. All alive. Injured, yes. But alive.

I couldn't get his face out of my mind. We attended the same elementary school and had classes together.  We may have said three words to each other during all of high school.  But what I remember about him was that he was truly kind. He wasn't the sort of boy who flicked boogers on a girl to make her scream. He was the kind of kid who would purposely avoid hurling a ball at the head of a chubby girl during dodge ball. And really, during the '80s, that pretty much the best a fat girl could hope for during gym class. Small acts speak loudly.

As a parent, I mourn his loss. He'll never get to see what his boys will grow up to be. He'll never see them graduate high school. Go on a date. He won't be there to wipe away their tears.

And as a daughter, I mourn for his sons. They have been robbed of two loving parents. They will grow up in a world of  "would have, could have, should haves."

And as a woman who has had to bury her own daughter, I can't imagine the grief of his parents. Burying not one child, but two. Knowing that they have have the weight of the world on their shoulders to help their grandsons somehow find sense in the senseless, peace within this violence, and hope when everyone's hearts are broken.

Rut

My moving forward has hit a rut, between stomach bugs and knee injuries. And a gray winter that just won't budge.

Luckily, I have good people around me to shore me up and steer me the right way.

Read this, bookmark it, and repost it on your Facebook wall - it may help someone you know:

http://localcaremidwifery.com/blog/posts/midwifery,-mothering-_and_-me___-what-to-say

Truth

I'm a really private person.

Don't laugh.

I know it's not something you would expect from someone with a public blog, but its sort of like a reality show boiled down to three minutes. I'm showing you snapshots of my one-sided experiences, highly filtered. Everything is true, but I'm choosing to share it.

I'm also really sensitive. I hate making people feel awkward or uncomfortable. To the point where I was at a get together the other day, among friends and a few new people, where we were doing introductions. Almost everyone there knew about Sarah. And I couldn't bring myself to say, "I'm a mom to Jonah and Rachel. And to Sarah that we lost just 4 months ago."

It's true. But what a mood killer is that at an otherwise upbeat event, right? That nagging voice in my head saying, "Don't play the dead baby card." So I didn't. It wasn't the time or the place.

I hated myself just a little for it, though. For being cowardly with the truth. For perpetuating the stigma of death and grief being hidden. Because even among friends, it's not always easy to know what's right, even when it is the truth.

Uncle

"Mama? Uncle Andy's brain is different. Will he learn new words?"

Jonah is starting to notice that his uncle, his dad's brother, is not like everyone else. At five years old, the words "autistic" and "mentally retarded" and "seizures" are hard concepts to grasp. They're even difficult to explain to adults because of the wide spectrum of (dis)abilities that are manifested.

Yes, he's autistic. Yes he has a diagnosis of mental retardation. No, he will never live independently. Yes, he can read at a post-high school level. No, he can't hold a conversation. Yes, he can be prompted to answer questions. No, he cannot drive a car. Yes, he still goes to "school." Yes, he is older than Daddy. And yes, like everyone else, he will die. No, I don't know when.

Luckily, there is one question that has always been easy to answer. Yes, we love him.

Ducks

Our 14 year old cat has been sick, so I brought him to the vet yesterday. I wasn't sure how serious it was, but at that age, I braced myself for the worst.

I adopted my orange tiger guy when I started graduate school. He and his sister were dumped on a farm and eventually captured. She was sweet and affectionate, albeit shy. But he wanted nothing to do with people, ducking whenever a gentle hand came near him. He became "Duckie" and she became "Samantha Eagle" for her flopsy front legs that spread wide like wings when held on her back like a baby.

After 14 years, I've never been able to de-feral D, but he's had the best life possible. He loves snuggling the other cats in our home. Sometimes, late at night, I hear him yowling in delight. I wish I could pet him and enjoy more than a glance as he runs past. But the trauma he endured before he came into our house was just too much to overcome.

It was stressful, capturing Duckie and getting him to the vet. Once there, he needed to be sedated to be examined thoroughly. While he was under, the techs worked quickly to get blood as well as groom him and clip his nails. They scraped his teeth, administered meds for an infection and gave him pain killers.

I was relieved to receive the blood work back today: nothing seriously wrong. We'll keep a close eye on him and hopefully he can heal.

Jonah spotted the cat carrier today, out in the hallway, and inquired about it. I hadn't told him Duckie was sick, but when I did, he replied with, "Oh no! Did he die?"

Which broke my heart.

Yes, I want my boy to grow up. But it's so hard, going from a world where sick can be fixed by medicine and doctors to sick equalling death.

I explained, gently, that the vet did lots of things to help Duckie feel better. And that like all living things, eventually he would die. Hopefully not soon, but yes, someday.

He nodded solemnly. And then asked for a snack.

Depressed?

My primary care doctor offered me anti-depressants. I'm guessing it was because I was crying in her office. Not because I wanted to, but because neither she or the nurse bothered to look at my paperwork BEFORE walking into the examination room. And I wasn't prepared to hear, "Congratulations!" as I started to explain my recent hospitalization.

I think she meant well. And really, this is the second time we've met. It was a physical, scheduled a year ago. And I kept the appointment. My mistake?

She suggested that some people feel like they need to feel sad. Which I found insulting on the surface, but I think she was trying to say that some people feel like they can't move on. That they need to stay in a sad place in order to honor the experience of losing a child.

But from what I understand, you don't choose to be depressed. Either you are, or you aren't. And perhaps you can nudge those feelings along with the help of drugs, therapy and all sorts of alternative medicine.

Right now I've chosen the path of natural endorphins, through exercise, along with an army of friends who keep it real.

I also know that what is considered "normal" for grieving is specific to culture. Different societies have different levels of acceptability for how long it's okay to be sad - and how to display (or not) those feelings.

I write this on the night of my 36th birthday. Four months since Sarah died. Thirty six is a multiple of 18 - chai in Hebrew. Which means life. Hence the toast you're likely familiar with - l'chaim - to life.

I'm only superstitious for fun of it, but my wish this year is for life to be kind and fulfilling. And for the good feelings to outweigh the sad.

L'chaim.

Still running

The kids are playing a running game. Back and forth through the office, into the playroom, and up onto the couch using "stairs" they constructed out of a mountain of toys and pillows.

I'm sitting in front of the computer. Looking at FB, seeing other people's photos... photos of babies recently born. Their babies are being held by family, friends and dressed in adorable outfits that will only fit for a few weeks. You can see the joy on all of their faces. Perfect. Adoring. Magical.

There's no worry. No fear. No feelings of emptiness. No despair that they will never, ever get to hold their child again.

Still death

"Mama? Will Puffin die?"

That was Jonah's Saturday night question, regarding our spirited cat. Yes, I replied. Someday. Just like all living things.

His face fell.

"Wait? Will you die? Will I die and Rachie and Dada and..."

I did my best. But it's hard to reassure an impatient 5 year old who does not yet tell time - or really grasp the concept of old.

Especially when neither of these apply in a world where your baby sister dies before you get to meet her.

Duality

Being duck-like is something I try to practice -- letting things roll right off. Trying to neatly tuck each issue into a box, because otherwise it would be overwhelming to face it all at once.

Several months removed from Sarah's death, I still find things that make me pause. The discussion of how hard it is to get out of the house with more than one child in tow. A friend complaining about their babe being up all night. The odd, infant-sized sock that finds its way into our laundry bin.

These things sneak up on me. I'm feeling fine, as normal as normal can be these days, and there she is, Sarah on my mind.

It's a bittersweet box to hold. Because you want to have happy thoughts when you think of your daughter. And yet her memory is deeply intertwined with such sadness.

Time

It's hard to find a post partum routine that doesn't involve taking care of a newborn. There's this odd bit free time that I never expected - and therefore I never made plans. No classes or preschool for Rachel. No swimming lessons for Jonah.

I did, however, bow to the pressure of friends and family and go to a Zumba class. I'm sure you've heard the hype, but it's basically the Jazzercise of the 2010's. In fact, I spotted a woman there actually wearing a Jazzercise sweatshirt and almost asked her if it was an original from the 80's.

It was good workout. As someone almost completely out of shape, I was able to find a level of exhaustion that didn't quite make me fall to the floor. And in those moments where I thought about taking a break, I reflected on Sarah's birth. Because if I could get through that, nothing a Zumba class instructor could throw at me could possibly make me quit.

Trolls

I've discovered that this blog has been the subject of interest by someone who claims to be a doctor, yet no longer holds a license.

Apparently she also claims to be an "internet journalist, " yet never contacted me for a statement.

She hasn't seen my medical records. She doesn't have any details of my prenatal care, the tests and screenings we had, nor any of the care provided by ultrasound technicians, nurses, OBs, or my NYS licensed midwife.

Instead, she's taking my words of grief, using them out of context, and making assumptions about my life and  care to advance her own political agenda.

To profit off a baby's death is deplorable. To exploit our grief is reprehensible.

Waterside

Our dear friends put together a package of wonderful things for our family to help us with the loss of Sarah. One of those was a gift certificate for a nearby indoor water park - a true treat in this cold, northeast winter. And something we never would have done with a new baby in our family.

The kids had a blast. They splashed, floated and laughed. They raced each other down slides and encouraged the other one to go faster.  And both got a little tougher from the rougher play they now enjoy. Without a doubt, we will be talking about for a very long time.

Our last summer adventure was in the small village of Lake Placid. The kids and I often accompany my husband when he travels, and I had hired a mother's helper to assist. I was 6 months pregnant and couldn't keep up with two non-swimmers in the lake.

Mirror Lake, NY

I made a conscious effort to be present with the kids on this trip. But there were moments where tears were running down my face, recalling our previous water adventures. Rachie screaming in delight as she fed the ducks. Jonah and I making sandcastles, digging moats and having the waves wash them away. My husband joined us in the evening, just before the sun disappeared behind the Adirondack Mountains.

Last summer, all I could do was dream of our family of 5. How Rachel and Sarah would grow up as sisters. Imagining Jonah's shrieks of delight, watching Sarah learn to smile. The new journey of being five.

And this winter? I am mourning it all.

Answers

The results came back from the genetic counselor.

The good news? Nothing wrong.

The bad news? No answers.

The statistics are encouraging. The chances of having another child with spina bifida are less than 2%. But based my history of recurrent miscarriages, the chances of us making it past the first trimester are around 50%.

In my moments of clarity, I like to think of the miscarriages as blessings. Nature's way (God's way?) of bringing us strong, healthy children.  But that doesn't explain Sarah, who died only a few hours before being born.  She *was* with us for a reason, right?

I know she's made many of my relationships stronger. She's taught me what true grief feels like. And she's helped me reflect on my own past actions towards friends who have had losses, where I'm sure I didn't do the right thing.

I suspect, over time, this list will keep on growing.
We'll all grow, but she will forever be Baby Sarah.

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Edited for clarification:

The geneticist took blood samples from both me and my husband, to help give us more information about the chances of conceiving another child with Spina Bifida / NTD.

Sounds

Inevitably, the second I wandered into the Baby aisle at Target, we hear a newborn. That sad, distinctive mew.

Rachel heard it, too.

"Mama! A baby! Let's see!" She pulled my hand in the direction of the sound.

My gaze went back to the shelf. I tried to make myself busy, looking at the display of wipes and diapers. Which of course are decorated with cherub faces.

No Sarah. Not fair.

Brave

In the kindest way, people have said I am strong and brave. Much like you hear folks talk about courageously battling cancer or some other horrible illness. Except in this case, my daughter died. And I lived.

There's nothing really brave about it. I'm still mourning, I'm still sad. But those moments of sad are a bit less each day. And the moment of having to live get greater.

Two

Both Jonah and Rachel were up early this morning. With a big brother directing her play, she was delighted to follow his lead. Their two Lego people boarded a vehicle that Jonah constructed. From the look on his face, you'd realize that he truly believed he invented the double-wide.

Side-by-side, their dudes sat. Bickering and poking each other, just like they do in our car.

Our infant car seat went to a new home earlier in the week. To a sweet new mama who will use it to keep her babe safe and secure.

It may come back to us one day, but until then, our family will be double-wide, like the Lego dudes.

Decisions

My midwife just delivered her 100th baby at her home birth practice.  Two of those babes were mine - Rachel and Sarah.

She also just cited her birth statistics for 2012.  An amazing 100% were born vaginally.  Not one c-section.  That includes Sarah, too.

It made me think about how initially, when I was told that Sarah was dead, that I considered a c-section as an entirely rational way to proceed. Even though I had two previous natural births and went out of my way to avoid unnecessary interventions.

My three birthing experiences have been so very different.

Jonah was a planned hospital birth with a labor that lasted an incredibly long time (regular contractions starting at noon on Saturday - he didn't appear until Tuesday at 3am) with few interventions. I labored for many hours in the shower. I asked for drugs to help me sleep (finally) on Monday morning. And during the home stretch, I had them break my water.  I was deliriously exhausted by the end, but it worked.

Rachel's planned home birth was fast and furious, encouraged by a tub of water. Labor was so quick that Michelle had just enough time to set up her supplies.  And rather than call the assistant who was many miles away, she called another local midwife who walked in just as Rachel popped out. It was the sort of joyous, uncomplicated birth that makes you want to have more kids.

And so we did.

But Sarah's birth went nothing like we had planned. We moved from birthing at the house to the hospital. Michelle's official role moved from midwife to doula, as she didn't have hospital privileges. (Although I never noticed her taking a backseat.)

There was no need for fetal monitoring. I gratefully accepted drugs. They didn't reduce labor pains, but kept me from becoming hysterical. We did pitocin to try to speed up labor. I'm not sure if it sped things up, but it did make each contraction more intense. I had my water broken, too. And right at the end, probably during transition, I asked for an epidural.  I suspect it was too late. And sure enough, Sarah was born a short time later. Labor had started early in the morning and she was born late in the evening.

Looking back, I realize that I easily could have had a c-section with Sarah.  But the decision to help me avoid major abdominal surgery was critical. It means I wasn't recovering for very long in bed. I avoided the risk of infection or other complications. And most importantly, should we choose to have more kids, I won't have the added stress of attempting a VBAC.

Three different births. And one common denominator: a calm, experienced midwife.  Thank you for helping us be part of your 100%.

Up and down

Today I brought the stroller with us to the museum. It's an easy way to deal with the coats and bags. Rachel would much rather run than cruise in style.

At one point I looked down at my "empty" stroller and then back up at my dear friend whose little girl was happily cooing. I felt sad and happy all at once.

I took a deep breath.

And I moved on.

Didn't die

It's sort of shocking to realize that when Sarah died, I didn't die.  Because that's sort of like what it felt like. Except I was still there. And my family still needed me.

I'm not sure how people can go on, after the death of a child, without a family. Without a partner. Without someone to hold them tight and to tell them that it is horrific but you'll continue on, together.

It's January 1st, so of course there are resolutions.  It's totally warp-y in my head to realize that I'm only 8 weeks postpartum and already in the mindset to lose the baby weight. A new baby, nursing on demand, has always been a grateful respite from even contemplating exercise at this point in the game. I have no excuse. And in fact, have every reason in the world to get back into the shape I was a year ago. Where I could run. And not feel like I was going to die.

So that's where the resolution starts.  Regular exercise. Counting calories so I can feel good about the evening chocolate and occasional glass of wine, rather than feeling bad.

The next piece of the puzzle are all the Things that I hold onto that don't actually bring me joy. So many items that have just been shuffled from one pile to the next, rather than making a decision about tossing, keeping or donating.  I'm not going to make the hard decisions, like baby items. But if the item hasn't made me happy, I'm not going to hold onto it.  Free it goes. Because it will likely make someone else feel way better than me.

And the third resolution is to live. Like many people, I'm my own worst enemy. I'm overly cautious and can talk myself out of something that isn't quite perfect. In timing, in location, in convenience. And the result is that I lose out by deciding too soon that it has already missed my expectations.

If I had died and Sarah had lived, I would have wanted her to go on and live her life to the fullest.  I can only imagine that she would want the same for me, too. So that's what we're going to try - living.