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.

++

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.