Baby #2, EDD 8/3/06

Something else to be thankful for... Finally, a BFP!

Giving thanks

We passed on our usual Thanksgiving with friends in favor of hanging out alone together in the city and seeing a movie. I just couldn't bear the idea of being around a bunch of happy people who seem to have everything in the world to be thankful for at the moment. I decided long ago that I didn't want to participate in any sort of holiday celebration this year, especially not the kind that involve the concept of family, generosity, good will, cheer, or the entire month of December.

That being said, I know that I do have a lot to be thankful for. I have an amazing, sensitive, kind, protective, and loving husband, who I wouldn't have made it through this last year without. I have a wonderful mother and stepdad, caring and supportive in-laws, two great cats, dear old friends who have managed to stick around, and treasured new friends who accept me for who I am today. Best of all, I have the joy of remembering the day we welcomed our beautiful son into the world, albeit for a brief time. Lots of people don't get to experience that much.

Babies Memorial Service

The hospital where Julian was born hosted a bilingual memorial service for babies who died after spending their brief lives there this afternoon at 2pm. I have been experiencing a constant, low-level anxiety all week leading up to this event. I guess I wasn't sure what to expect.

Apart from a few minor annoyances (way too many children, one of whom threw up too near to me; slight lack of organization; unnecessary and offensive opening remarks from the hospital chaplain who compared our collective loss to his golf game [did he really say that?] and claimed to know our pain because he has two children in their twenties [huh?] who were born in the same hospital), the service was very nice.

When we walked in, there was a board with a list of all the babies who had died in the hospital over the past year, as well as a board with photos we had submitted. I think about 50 families attended the service. There was also a program with writings many of the mothers had done for and/or about their children. The service included a few readings, some by parents, some by hospital staff.

One of the NICU nurses read the poem I wrote for Julian, which was quite moving. A woman with a lovely voice sang while her partner accompanied her on the piano. Then there was a candle lighting ceremony in which all the babies' names were read, and the families were invited to come light a candle in honor of their child(ren). The candles were decorated with the name of each baby (see above). Following the candle-lighting ceremony, we went out to the garden to plant bulbs around a tree dedicated in memory of all the NICU babies who didn't get to go home.

It was emotional as well as life-affirming to see all the children, the surviving siblings, enthusiastically plunging their hands into the soil. Of course, the downside is that we were also saddened by the fact that most of the other families had one or more living children, and we do not...

We drove home listening to Rufus Wainwright.

The Rules

[Borrowed from GabesMama. To see the complete list, go here.]

Rule 1: This is the mamma of all rules. If you could just do this one tiny thing, then I would be happy: don't get pregnant.
Rule 2: Almost no one will follow rule 1, so I will proceed from here.
Rule 3: Don't get pregnant two weeks after my son's funeral.
Rule 4: Don't show your amazingly beautiful belly off.
Rule 5: Don't tell anyone at work if you work in my office.
Rule 6: Don't have a shower of any kind.
Rule 7: Don't allow your co-workers to talk about how easy or hard they heard your labor was.
Rule 8: Don't e-mail your baby pictures to your co-workers so that they may get circulated around the office.
Rule 9: Don't put up pictures in your cube of your baby, and don't bring your baby into the office!
Rule 10: Don't have a baby with brown hair and brown eyes, that just hurts.

Cross-stitch from Rosemary

A very beautiful and touching cross-stitch by my sister-in-law, Rosemary, from the UK, using words from a poem I wrote for Julian.

Requisite celebrity baby rant

Sorry, but I have to take 2 seconds out to rant about the celebrity baby boom. Gwynnie is on #2, Donald Trump's new trophy wife is preggers, there are rumors about Angelina and Brad, Bennifer II is due any day now, and now Katie Holmes and that lunatic, Tom Cruise, are expecting. I take some comfort in the fact that the media gave us all a bit of a reprieve by completely ignoring the birth of the Spears-Federline baby (an obvious snub, since the baby was born via a planned c-section, which had been scheduled months ahead of time), but this is the last straw. Nicole Kidman and Jennifer Aniston must be devastated. And that poor JLo. When's it gonna be her turn? I'm right there with you, 'manita.

What I'm really thinking

What I'm really thinking, when you're talking to me, thinking, "Gee, she's really holding up well," or "It's been 9 whole months, she probably doesn't want to talk about it," or "She seems to have finally moved on," or "Why can't she just move on?":

My only child is DEAD. You have no idea what HELL this is like.
My child is dead. You have no idea what this is like.
My child is dead.
You have NO idea what this is like.
You have no IDEA what this is like.
NO IDEA.
No idea.
None.
No.

A funny thing happened...

A bunch of us were leaving a monthly support group last night, which happens to be held in a hospital. Some moms, particularly those who gave birth and/or lost their babies in that hospital do not feel comfortable going into the building alone, if at all. Many of us still feel uncomfortable at the sight of babies and pregnant women, and the maternal-fetal medicine unit is a few floors down from where our meetings are held.

On our own, the feelings we each get when faced with a very pregnant woman or a newborn baby usually involve dread, sadness, fear, panic, anger, jealousy, agitation, isolation, and a whole host of other emotions. Well, last night, after just discussing this very thing in our group, we all got on the elevator to leave, the elevator stopped a few floors down, and a whole gang of big pregos got on. I say "gang" because it did feel a little bit like the socs vs. the greasers. Somehow, together we were able to laugh. I guess it wasn't funny ha-ha, but funny surreal.

One is silver, the other is...old

I made an observation to my friends on SPALS recently about how the relationships I have with friends I have met or become closer to since Julian was born seem more open and honest. One of the responses I got really struck me. A woman said, "They don't know the old you, so they aren't waiting for her to come back."

I find that some family members and old friends have an expectation that I am going to get better or get over my son so that they can relate to me again. This has been a real frustration for me. I would like to think that I would be a little more sensitive and mindful, even if I had not had this experience. What some people fail to realize is, having my son has changed me forever, for better and for worse. This is who I am now, this is my reality, this is my new "normal."

If I could dream you awake...

I had a dream about my little boy last night. Immediately after he died, I had dreams that were more like anxiety-induced nightmares in which my mind replayed scenes from his birth and death over and over again, trying to make sense of the reality that he was gone.

Last night's dream was different. He was not a newborn, but a 7 month old baby, as he would be now. In my dream, he still had cardiomyopathy, but he didn't die, and he was home with us growing big and strong. I kept taking photos of him in his crib, which was probably influenced by something I had been reading about vintage memorial photography in my waking life. When I picked him up, I felt like I could really smell and feel him. He kept saying "ya-ya."

The dream didn't upset me at first, but as the day has gone by, I guess it has made me a little sad. Some people would believe that this was his way of telling me that he's okay now, although his spirit has taken a different form. I'm not sure what to believe. I just miss him. No matter what anyone says, I do feel that I continue to have a relationship with him on some level. I guess I'm just trying to figure out what that is.

Tattoos for Julian

Robert and I got tattooed during our recent visit to my hometown during the Ann Arbor Art Fair. The experience was emotional and painful, yet pleasurable and healing at the same time. Artwork and tattoos were crafted by the lovely and amazing Jeff Zuck.


Daddy's tattoo


Mommy's tattoo

July 4th Fireworks

View of 4th of July fireworks from our apartment.

If you've nothing nice to say...

...don't say anything at all. I guess that's why I haven't posted in nearly two months. The response to my blog has been amazing, but realizing that people are looking to me for hopeful and inspiring words is too much pressure right now. I haven't been feeling very full of hope or inspiration lately.

Being back at work is not the greatest thing with no baby to go home to, to make all the stress worthwhile. I'm not as focused as I used to be, and I hardly have any memory of anything that happened before Julian was born. My son, who lived and breathed and was a part of me, is dead. It's hard to feel hopeful about life, or to think of much else, under those circumstances.

My little boy would be 5 months old today. Very few people remember these anniversaries at this point. I feel like I am expected to have "moved on" by now by those who don't understand that grieving the loss of a child is a very non-linear process. Another thing I don't think people realize is that Robert and I are not just sad and feeling sorry for ourselves. We are sad and very sorry for our son, who never got to go outside, laugh, make love, eat strawberries...

I am reminded of this every time I see or hear of a pregnant woman, a couple with a newborn, or a father and son enjoying their lives together, probably never thinking that the worst could happen to them. Because 5 months is a long time to some people, people we know think the worst of our pain is over, and think nothing of casually mentioning other babies to us. I have been dodging acquaintances with babies and small children recently because it's not fair to put myself in the position of being pressured to interact with someone else's baby.

Truth be told, I have no intention of holding a baby that isn't my own anytime in the foreseeable future. I usually know myself very well and can anticipate my responses, but not knowing how I would react to holding another baby makes me very anxious and sad, so for now I feel I'm better off just avoiding the situation altogether.

Dictionary of Loss

I found Kara L.C. Jones' site today. She's the editor of the 'zine, A Different Kind of Parenting and co-founder of Kota Press. I especially related to her Dictionary of Loss. The following really struck me, since it describes how I've been feeling for the past several months, especially now that I'm back at work, in a very "public" role:

"Fear of the Public, n. 1. This fear will hit the bereaved parent from time to time until they are afraid to go out, afraid to see people, afraid of leaving the confines of their home in hopes of avoiding more pain or having to answer questions like 'When was your baby born?' or 'How many children do you have?' Involves knowing that you really want to talk about your child who died with these people, but realizing that the people who ask these questions don't want to hear the answers and will give you platitudes instead of comfort."

3 months ago

Three months ago today, I got to hold my son for the first time. He was three days old. We didn't get to hold him or touch him very much after he was born because he was easily agitated, and disturbing him while he was working so hard to stay alive tended to make his numbers go down.

When it was clear that he wouldn't be with us for much longer, the NICU nurse told me she thought I should hold him, and carefully wrapped him in a blanket and draped his tubes over my lap as she handed him to me. I instantly began to weep, both for the joy of holding my baby for the first time, and for the sadness of knowing that he was going to die.

I tried to be strong for Julian, as he had been for us. He had made it through labor and had survived for three days so we could get to know him before we had to say goodbye. I told him I loved him, and I thanked him for the time he had given to me, to us. I told him that it was okay for him to stop fighting for us and that we would be okay. His daddy told him to go to sleep.

Moments later, I could see on the monitor to my right that his heart rate was beginning to decline more rapidly, from triple to double digits. As he was dying, he had a period of becoming very alert. He opened his eyes and looked up at us. I am certain he wanted to let us know that he had heard us and that we had done right by him. He left us at 10:50am.

Julian, our sweet, beautiful little boy, mommy and daddy will always love and miss you terribly. Perhaps "this world was never meant for one as beautiful as you."

Ambien, take me away

A woman I met in my pre-natal yoga class called me today to invite me to her home for a get together of new moms in the neighborhood. We were due around the same time, but I haven't seen her since November. When we met, I knew we were having a boy, but she and her husband decided not to find out about the sex of their baby. As it turned out, she had a little boy, too. Fortunately, she was kind enough to still want to see me, and didn't make me feel like our only connection was that we were supposed to be swapping newborn diapers.

Shortly after that, I ran into a student in the public restroom at work, and she asked about the baby. I hadn't realized how public my pregnancy had been. I told her that the baby had died, and she replied with, "Congratulations!" She was clearly not expecting to hear bad news, and had blocked it out in some way. I had to repeat what I had told her. She was speechless, and felt as horrible as everyone else who has asked an innocent question and gotten back my not-so-innocent answer. It just hangs in the air like a fog.

I don't know how much of this I can handle. I really don't.

I can't wait to be pregnant again. Robert came and picked me up from work today, and we went out to dinner. I had a few emotional moments and at one point I had a very physical, "gut" reaction. I feel like I am suppressing a howl over my pain of losing Julian. I feel the loss so physically, so acutely, at this particular moment, in a way that I haven't since the first few days after he died, when my body was still healing from labor. It may be that we are approaching the 20th of the month. He would be 3 months old.

Wannabe

I wish I was cute and popular like my soul brother, Joel. At the risk of depressing him, I have to point out that although we are twins, he is actually older than me.

Back to work

Well, I went back to work this week after 2 1/2 months of maternity leave and 2 weeks vacation. As I suspected and had been warned of by other women who have been in my shoes, it has been a difficult week. Luckily, I went back during a quiet time in the semester. I've had several tearful visits from colleagues and students who have warmly welcomed me back. I've also had the unfortunate experience of having to tell people who didn't know what happened.

The other morning on my way to work, I stopped off at the drug store near my office and the cashier asked about the baby. I broke down, causing a minor scene. I nearly turned around and went back home, but bravely went into the office and managed to get through the day. The work itself hasn't been difficult or overwhelming, but being in a position of having to interact with a lot of people is hard right now.

Most people have been very supportive, but the most disappointing response to my return has been from people who have actually avoided or ignored me. I am so personally hurt and angered by that type of behavior that it makes it hard for me to be diplomatic and collegial.

My son, Julian, was such a tough little guy, and I learned so much from him in the short time he was here--to take each day at a time, to take nothing for granted, to choose my battles wisely, and to stick up for myself and honor his memory when I need to. I refuse to manage other people's discomfort or to pretend that I'm fine to make other people feel better. If they think they're uncomfortable, awkward, or anxious, how do they think I feel?

Julian's fight during the short time he was with us inspires me not only to go on, but to live my life unapologetically and with courage. I honor him by being the type of mother he would have been proud of, as I am of him.

Milestones

I've found that my grief takes on a different character depending on who I'm with. With some friends, I'm completely weepy, while with others, I become "the bitch," "the gossip," "the complainer," or "the educator." I was with a good friend yesterday, who doesn't mind hearing me complain (we tend to encourage each other in this regard), but I found at one point that my usual mile-a-minute banter about stupid things people have said or done switched to a mini-breakdown in two seconds flat.

I was recalling how the previous day, I left my apartment building, ready to face the day. Some days can be more challenging than others, but I was feeling okay. Not great, but okay. As I was leaving, one of the doormen was on the phone and I heard him talking about his baby girl and the things she was starting to do, like turn her head and look up at him. She was born within days of Julian, and I have always been slightly resentful of the fact that he never asked me about our baby or acknowledged our loss, although I know he is more than aware of the situation.

It's a small thing, but just hearing about his daughter's little milestones caused me such a wave of conflicting emotions. On one hand, I want to be happy for him. In the beginning of all this, I never thought that seeing or hearing about someone else's baby would upset me--after all, it's not my baby. Someone else's happiness doesn't have to mean my sorrow, but I can't help feeling jealous that I don't get to experience those little milestones with my baby. That's just it--I want MY baby.

My friend tried to comfort me by saying that I'd get to have those experiences soon enough, but as I started to tell her about the women I've met who've had subsequent pregnancies resulting in healthy babies, and how even they described their experiences as bittersweet at times, I lost it. I know there will be moments with our next baby that will be simultaneously exciting and beautiful and sad and painful, because we'll be reminded of the things Julian never got to do. I also know that we will love our next baby just as much, and hope to never cause him or her to feel otherwise. I think it will always be a little tough, knowing that there is someone missing from our family. I hope we are able to find ways over time to keep Julian in our lives. He will always be in our hearts.

Like father, like son

Robert and I both had our hair cut last night by our friend and hairdresser, Brian, who comes to our apartment. Afterwards, I asked Robert if he thought my hair was too short. He asked me to turn around, from side to side, then smiled. I said, "You're laughing! It's too short!"

"No," he said, "I'm smiling because you look like Julian. It's cute."

It's strange to look in the mirror and see my baby. I also see Julian when I look at my husband, who looks nothing like me. For months we had wondered what Julian would look like, being very racially mixed. We tried to picture him, his eye color, hair texture, but it was anyone's guess.

When he came out, he was so beautiful and so familiar. We would have been able to pick our baby out of a crowded room, though we had never seen him before. It was like we had known him forever. We were both struck by his subtle resemblance to both of us, yet he was his own little person, feisty and stubborn as he fought to be born and to survive for a short while so we could get to know him. He got that from us, too.