Uncategorized – Page 2 – To Heaven and Back

An open letter to my grieving self.

You are going to make it.

It won’t always hurt this intensely.

You’ll experience joy again.

These are the words I give to myself on days when the grief feels so intense that it might just swallow me up; so powerful that I physically can’t stand, can’t breathe, can’t think of anything else other than the gaping hole in my heart.

Sometimes, it comes on slowly so I have time to prepare myself, like I’m getting ready for company; an unwanted but familiar guest. Other times it comes crashing in when I least expect it, during a moment where I’m finding myself smiling or laughing or when I’m doing nothing at all. It’s a quick punch in the stomach that leaves me reeling, second guessing every step I’ve taken since the day Evelyn died.

In the immediate weeks following her death, my grief was a constant and infuriating companion, always following me, never allowing me a break to breathe. It sat heavily on my chest, on my shoulders, screaming in my ear. During those days it was all-consuming and out of control.

Grief is still my constant companion, but it’s changed and I’ve changed. It allows me to take care of myself now in a different way than just meeting my own basic needs. Sometimes, I can tell it to quiet down when I need it to, when I have to work or when I need to focus my attention on someone else. Sometimes, the quieting doesn’t work and that’s okay. It’s during those times that I allow it to wash over me in whatever way it needs to. It’s unpredictable and I’m learning to find peace with that. It lives alongside of me, always present, never leaving.

I often remind myself during my most difficult days that it won’t always be like this. I call attention in my mind to our earliest days of grief to show myself how I’ve come since then. I remind myself of something that other loss moms have told me: It will get better. It won’t be like ripping a bandaid off a fresh wound every day. It will still suck, but it just won’t suck 100% of the time.

When I’m having what I call a “bad grief day”, sometimes I don’t believe myself when I say that I will feel happiness again. I always think that surely this is the time that it will never leave me and I’ll always be hopeless. During those raw moments of pain when the tears don’t seem like they’ll ever end, I find myself looking for reassurance from others, from the people I trust the most, but I’m now finding that I can also look inward for the answers.

So, to myself, when grief feels like it will win:

Some days are just dark. You wake up and you feel like you can’t get out of bed, like if you just stayed there that somehow everything would be different and Evie would be here again. But you remember, you promised her you would get up everyday and try. If not for you, then for her, or for Bill. You will have dark moments, and you’ll have them forever. You’ll experience that low level sadness or the intense crying or the flashbacks or the debilitating anxiety. You are not impervious to these feelings just because you make it to six months, one year, or five years since Evie died. But these moments are just that–moments. They may be minutes or hours or days, but the intensity will not last and it will not shatter you. You will make it out again.

You’ll go back again and again, but you know that now so you can be ready. You can give yourself grace. You can be gentle with your own broken heart. You can know that you’ve been here before, but it didn’t break you. You will feel glints of happiness again. Eventually, they will be full moments. Your grief will live alongside happiness and joy and every other spectrum of human emotion. You will never not be sad because Evelyn isn’t here. You will never not look at your family and know someone is always missing. But you will always hold her in your heart and know that she’s safe there. You will love your baby from afar, always looking for signs from her. You get to be her mom, forever.

So keep going. Do not give up. This time won’t be the time that crushes you, I promise. You will get through it.

Keep going, mamas.

Secondary Loss.

Evelyn’s rainbow for us on our hike in Hocking Hills.

When I wake up every day, I say good morning to my daughter as any mom would. I imagine as I enter her room that there’s a crib and a beautiful baby laying inside, smiling at me, ready to be held. I imagine smiling back at her, picking her up, holding her close.

Every morning, I remember that this is not my reality. Every morning, I have to reckon with the words, “your baby died” swirling around in my head.

I still go into her room every day. There’s no baby for me to hold, so I hug her bears—her bear that holds her ashes or her bear that weighs just as much as she did at birth. I talk to Evelyn. I sing to her. I tell her what we’re doing that day. I tell her about our hopes and dreams for her.

When Evelyn died, we didn’t just lose her. We lost a lifetime of memories with our daughter. We lost the innocence of enjoying a pregnancy. We lost everything that could have been and should have been.

Every future event we envisioned for her was gone instantly, events that we had planned for the rest of the pregnancy and everything after. We’ve already had to contend with canceled baby showers. We’ve had to find a place for clothes she will never wear and books we will never get to read to her. Her due date is looming, like a dark cloud following us around, getting ready to pour down on us and remind us that what we thought would be the happiest time in our lives is no longer.

The weekend after she died we drove past the elementary school by our new house, and I broke down. Every image I had conjured in my head of dropping Evelyn off on her first day of kindergarten, going to parent teacher conferences, volunteering at her school, all gone. These are things I will never get to do for my child. They’re visions that only exist in my head, events that will never come to be.

It’s not only the big events, like the birthdays or all the firsts. I overheard a new dad talking several weeks ago about how tired he was after constantly being up all night with their newborn. The person he was with asked how he liked being a dad and he just brushed the question off and kept complaining. I wanted to shake him and tell him our reality, that he could just as easily be us, with no baby to wake him in the middle of the night. I would give anything to be up all night with our daughter. I would give anything to be sleep deprived for a different reason. It’s not only the happy events I’m grieving—it’s the every day moments that others take for granted.

We will never experience a pregnancy the same. We lost the naivety of thinking we were “safe” after the first trimester. We will hold our breath every day, if and when that day comes. I will be considered high risk in a pregnancy, and we’ll never breath easily. We will never have a baby shower. We won’t plan and prepare for a new baby, because we know nothing is guaranteed. I’m grieving the innocence of thinking pregnancy meant having a baby.

Our grief is everywhere, in the plain moments and in the big moments. It’s never ending. Every day is some reminder of not only losing Evelyn, but losing ourselves, losing the way we thought the order of the world worked. We grieve Evelyn and the loss of her presence here, but we also grieve the what could- and should-have-beens. The memories we will never share with her.

As I’m working through what feels like never ending loss, I’m finding ways to hold onto our memories of Evelyn and create new ones. I feel her presence everywhere. I believe she sends us signs when we most need them, no matter where we are. We took a trip to Hocking Hills a few weeks ago and she was just everywhere with us. Everywhere we go, she is there.

The secondary losses are always just another reminder of everything that we’ll never have with our Evie, but we will always have our love for her. Even though I didn’t think it was possible, I love her more each day and look for ways to help us live in this new reality without her. The losses are so devastating, but our love for her persists and grows despite the pain.

Postpartum After Loss.

I was not prepared to live in a postpartum body without a baby, 20 weeks before my due date. My own body was and is a constant reminder of Evelyn’s death. Living after loss is looking at the life you used to have, at the person you used to be and barely being able recognize either. Having a postpartum body while feeling the intensity of loss has further amplified the confusion of being a person you no longer recognize.

I wasn’t prepared for my own body to be triggering to me after loss.

When we got home from the hospital after giving birth, I looked at myself and didn’t recognize anything. I was physically exhausted from birth and emotionally exhausted from grief. My back hurt from the epidural. My stomach still hurt from the amniocentesis I had done 4 days prior. I needed to sleep, but trying to sleep brought on panic attacks. I was bleeding so much. My milk still tried to come in. No one told my body there would be no baby to feed.

I could barely look at myself in the mirror for weeks. My belly wasn’t flat like it used to be, but it no longer had a bump that let me know my daughter was growing inside it. I was neither the new mom I was becoming, nor was I the person I used to be before pregnancy. I still reached down and held it, in constant disbelief that my baby was no longer there. Physically, she was no longer a part of me. Every week that goes by now, my belly gets smaller instead of bigger. There’s no more evidence by looking at me Evelyn was here.

I felt phantom kicks for weeks. Every time I felt one I would break down. I couldn’t sleep without anxiety medication. My hair started coming out in chunks. I was able to eat foods again that made me nauseated during pregnancy which was incredibly triggering. The first time I reached for a cup of hot coffee I sobbed. I looked at the clothes in my closet, my pre-pregnancy clothes and my small collection of maternity clothes. Nothing looked like it belonged to me, like they belonged to a stranger.

My body is not the same as it was before Evelyn, but I wouldn’t want it to be. It’s a reminder of what we’ve lost, but it’s also a reminder that she was here. She lived in my belly for 20 weeks, growing and moving.

I don’t fit into a lot of my pre-pregnancy clothes. The number on the scale is a little higher. I look in the mirror sometimes and still don’t recognize myself, but I don’t panic as much anymore. I’m starting to see the new version of myself as Evelyn’s mom. I’m starting to accept my postpartum body for what it is and what it’s done for me. I’m starting to let go of some of the blame I’ve put on my body for making it so hard to get pregnant and for not keeping my daughter safe.

Having a postpartum body after loss is complex, but I’m choosing to take care of it as best as I can. It was Evelyn’s last home.

Our baby didn’t disappear.

After we started to share Evelyn’s story with others, I noticed a theme emerging. Confusion.

We said things like, “While we in labor and delivery…” or “After I gave birth to her…” and people seemed stunned. It took a while, but I realized that if you haven’t walked this hellish road before, it’s unlikely that you know what happens when babies die before they’re born.

Our baby did not disappear. Babies do not just disappear. We give birth to them, in the same hospital rooms that you become parents in. We go into labor. We feel every contraction. We push our babies out into the world where the only sound that can be heard is parents’ cries of agony.

We spent a full day waiting to go to my doctor to hear the news that I already knew. Our baby had no heartbeat.

It wasn’t a surprise. I felt her leave us the night before. I knew she was dying and I knew the day they told us that she was already gone. It didn’t hurt any less.

They sent us home to get our things and then come back to the hospital to be admitted to labor and delivery. I stared at the things in our bedroom. I hadn’t read the chapter yet on what to pack in your hospital go bag. I was only 20 weeks pregnant. I was supposed to have so much time. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I caught a glimpse of my pregnancy memory book I bought for myself on my nightstand where I documented each week’s milestones. Bill had to hide it because looking at it made me physically sick. I felt so stupid for even having it, like of course my pregnancy wouldn’t last. Why would I believe that because we had made it well into the second trimester that we would have a healthy baby? Infertility made me distrust my body and pregnancy loss was the evidence that I needed to confirm that my thinking was correct all along: My body was only meant to fail me.

We checked into the hospital with tears silently rolling down my cheeks, 20 weeks too early. The man checking temperatures at the hospital entrance, upon hearing that we were headed to L&D, said, “Wow, your lives are about to change!” He was not wrong.

They put us in a large room. Everyone looked at us with sad eyes. These are the eyes that everyone looks at you with when they know your baby died. Our nurses were kind. They started me on a drug called Cytotec to induce labor. It was slow going overnight and I was thankful for it. I wanted it to last as long as possible. When people go into labor and prepare to have a baby, they hold onto the fact that, at the end, they will hold their healthy baby in their arms. They will take that baby home and begin their lives together. Labor is just a blip on the radar of their journey, something to get through as quickly as possible. I wanted my labor to last forever. Evelyn was still inside my belly, and I was terrified for her to be born and to leave me. Once she was born, she would leave me forever.

Contractions kicked in during the morning. I was again unprepared. I didn’t take any of the classes. I didn’t know any of the techniques. My body was preparing to give birth, but my brain didn’t know what to do. I felt like a failure again. I eventually got an epidural. I didn’t feel like I deserved it. I couldn’t keep my daughter safe. The epidural never fully took the physical pain away, but I didn’t care. A part of me felt like I needed the pain, because it was a distraction from the fact that my heart had completely shattered into a million pieces.

While I was in labor, the nurses had to talk to us about making plans for an autopsy and funeral arrangements. Add this to the list of things no one prepares you for. We decided on having an autopsy done and picked a funeral home between contractions.

Evelyn arrived into the world at 4:53 PM on Wednesday, April 21, 2021. It happened so quickly. My epidural had just been increased and a new wave of pressure hit. Nurses and midwives and eventually the doctor came running in. I told Bill this was it. I dreaded every second of it. I wanted her to stay with me, but it was happening. The doctor held our tiny daughter in her hands and she fit perfectly. Evelyn was born still inside her amniotic sac which they told us was so rare. I was shaking and crying and it felt like I would never stop. The nurses held onto us and let us cry. They put my daughter on my chest and we touched her impossibly tiny hand, taking in every detail, trying desperately to memorize everything about her. Did she have my nose? Bill’s ears?

The whole evening is so hazy to me now. The nurses cleaned her up so carefully and put her in a beautiful tiny blanket. We held her for hours. My parents came to meet her. I sang to her through sobs and told her I love her more times than I could count. I watched my husband’s heart simultaneously break and overflow with love every time he looked at her. Eventually we couldn’t stay awake anymore and the nurses took her for the night so we could try to sleep with the promise that we’d get to hold her in the morning until we were ready to say goodbye.

We just met her, and we had to be ready to say goodbye.

We signed more documents the next day and took turns holding her and taking every last bit of her in. I don’t know how long we held her. In hindsight, it doesn’t matter because there wasn’t enough time in the world. We held Evelyn, together, told her for the millionth time we loved her, and handed her over to a nurse. To this day, I do not know how we both summoned the strength to do so.

One of the most amazing doctors we encountered on our journey at the hospital came to talk to us before we were discharged. He shared with us his experience with loss and talked to us about grieving a child. I believe in my heart that he was sent to us to bring us just a tiny bit of comfort before we had to leave the hospital and face the world, a world that doesn’t understand.

We walked out of the hospital with a box filled with information on grief and loss and keepsakes to help us remember our baby. The sad eyes followed us out of the hospital, the same way they followed us in. The sun was shining so brightly and I hated it. It felt like the world didn’t get the memo: Our baby died. You can stop feeling so cheery. I wasn’t pregnant anymore. We weren’t bringing a baby home. We drove home, silently crying and figuring out how to survive, minute by minute.

Evelyn was born on a snowy day in late April. She didn’t just disappear. She is loved so deeply and has been loved so deeply, since before we even knew she would be ours.

Thank you for showing up.

Thank you.

I’m assuming that you’re here because you are someone or love someone who has lived through a hard thing. Maybe your baby died. Maybe you’re living through infertility. Maybe both. If you are, I’m deeply sorry. I have lived through these things, and I’m here to talk about them.

When I was in the throes of infertility, I didn’t share about it. I watched others who would bravely share about the world of things like baseline scans, Clomid side effects, and the realities of injecting yourself with hormones. I experienced these things silently, with the support of my spouse and my close family and friends, but all behind closed doors. It’s not comfortable to throw around words like “timed intercourse” with acquaintances, let alone strangers on the internet. No one knew the physical and emotional pain I was living with every day.

When I took that first positive pregnancy test, I was in disbelief. I took 5 more over 5 days. All positive. Every step of the way, I was in disbelief, as if I was outside of myself watching it all happen. As I got further along, I started to believe it would stick, that I would have a healthy baby in September.

I felt lucky.

I thought infertility was the hardest thing I would ever go through. I thought I was different, I was special. The weeks passed. We found out we were having a girl. I loved our baby deeper and deeper. I checked the chart that shows you the probability of miscarriage every week and watched the number go down. We started to tell people we were pregnant. I made it to 20 weeks and breathed a sigh of relief.

A doctor told me one day later that my baby would die soon. The next day, she no longer had a heartbeat.

Her death has left a gaping hole in my life. It has shattered me beyond belief. I have wondered almost daily how I’m still functioning. I think about the person that I used to be and I hardly recognize her. I miss Evelyn in a way I can’t even accurately describe in words. The feeling just swallows me up. Yet, every day, I wake up. I get out of bed. I feed myself. I take care of my dogs. My spouse and I hold each other up. We exist. Some days are better than others, and we can never tell which type of day we’ll have. It’s all new and it’s all unfair. There are some things that help me feel just slightly better. Writing is one of them. I hope to share bits and pieces of my life, of loving Evelyn and losing her. I hope some things that I write may resonate with you or may bring you peace. One of my newest and greatest hopes is that I can contribute something to help just one person not feel so alone. Infertility and loss are isolating and terrifying.

So, again, if you’re here, thank you. Thank you for reading and learning. Thank you for showing up–for people you love and for yourself.