Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving...a holiday which was once my favorite is now compounded by the loss of Larissa.  Sure, this year I am less raw with pain than last and with every bite of Thanksgiving dinner that was consumed I was reminded of last year when I was unable to eat even one morsel.

This year some of that raw pain is replaced with hope and thankfulness.  I am so very thankful for every jab and kick I felt this year on Thanksgiving from our little one, reminding me once again that there is life growing inside of me.  I am also thankful for my loving husband, mom, sisters, co-workers and true best friend whom have been here for me in the past year during my darkest days.  I am thankful to them for allowing me to cry, scream, kick and just be.  Without the support of my family and friends I am not sure where I would be today.   Last year at this time I felt I had nothing to be thankful for and/or live for.  Never did I think one year later I would feel some joy in my life again.  I miss Larissa so much it hurts and I am reminded of what we have lost daily.  

Recently, I was at the post office and I saw a mom with her infant son.  He was sitting in the car seat carrier and I saw his little hands moving and wiggling from the side.  I looked at that wiggling hand with such envy and pain.  Such pain for wanting that so badly it hurts.  But once again, I know I will never have Larissa but I am thankful for the forty weeks I had with her.  I know I was given the joy of pregnancy with Larissa, which is something, sadly, other women never get to experience.   I am grateful to Larissa for teaching me the meaning of true love because although our situation was far from ideal, a parent cannot help but admire their child upon delivery with the utmost love and admiration.  

So this year on Thanksgiving, one year and one week after losing our precious daughter, I am once again hopeful and thankful.  I am thankful for having made it through that awful first year and each first holiday without our daughter.  I am thankful for the little life that grows inside of me and so hopeful that we will get to bring home a healthy baby in just a few months.  But even with my thankfulness, I am still so very sad.  I am sad for what we have lost, sad for what will never be and sad that even though people often wish for us to have the family we so desire; sad that I know our family will always be minus one.  Larissa is going to be a big sister and she isn't here to experience that.  Larissa will forever be our firstborn and will always be honored as such and even though life goes on and one has no choice but to move along with it, our lives have forever been changed.  I think about and miss Larissa daily...time does not change that and I have realized in the past year that unfortunately I am not alone and that there are many women whom sit down at Thanksgiving dinner missing their children whom they have lost much too soon. 

Parenting, In a Different Light...

A parent...technically, by definition is anyone who is a mother or father.  However, I know that many people out there would disagree.  After all, don't many people believe that anyone can be a mother or father, but it takes a lot of love and devotion to be a good parent?  I struggle with this definition.  Sure, I am a mother to our precious daughter Larissa and mom to a little one on the way.  However, I was never given the opportunity to parent Larissa.  Some people term one as a parent after they have changed many diapers, had several sleepless nights and feed, bathe and care for their child.  Again, none of the above was I afforded the opportunity to do so with our firstborn daughter. 

This is a matter of semantics which causes me great distress.  I know that moms to living children (especially multiple children) do not view me as a parent.  They may not even recognize me as a mom.  They are the parents whom measure their ability to be a parent by the amount of time and love devoted to each of their children.  These are the people that I often wonder if, heaven forbid, they ever lose one of their children, would they still consider themselves a parent?  The answer is simple, of course they would...so shouldn't I too be considered a parent?

I parent Larissa in a different light.  My daughter is not here to feed, bathe, or teach the likings of the universe.  However, she was here for 40 weeks and was and continues to be loved deeply.  And yes, I can certainly relate to the sleepless nights, but my daughter keeps me awake at night for far different reasons than crying for her mother or father.   And as unfortunate as it is, I had to try to cope with our most tragic loss and determine new ways to parent our daughter.  In honor of our daughter, I have created an informational packet which includes the book Still, a letter to bereaved parents, our story of loss and pages of resources.  We donate these packets to our local hospitals yearly in honor of Larissa.  We recently mailed a donation to the hospital in which I delivered Larissa and the director of nursing called in great appreciation.  She expressed her gratitude, stating the importance of such packets for bereaved parents.  She told me that I am a terrific mother and an amazing woman for honoring our daughter in such a meaningful way. 

She is right...I am a good mom.  Sure, our daughter isn't here to parent in the typical sense of the word.  However, we parent her in the best way we can...by honoring her memory by helping many other bereaved parents.  I am reminded of what a good parent I am each time I receive an email or call from a newly bereaved parent in search of my support.  I am also reminded of what a good parent I am each time I reach out to these parents in need and help them through the most challenging time of their lives.  So, yes indeed, I am not only a mom, but I am a parent to our stillborn daughter Larissa and one on the way. 

It's Complicated

I had my 23 week OB-GYN appointment yesterday.  Although I look like a first time mom to others riding the elevator up to the doctor's office, what people don't know is that I am not.  I politely smile at the strangers who comment "Oh, how wonderful.  How far along are you?"  I answer with politeness and silently pray they don't ask "Is this your first?"  Certainly not because I want to deny Larissa's existence, but because it is complicated.  Especially in an elevator ride...with the impending silence that follows after the casual acquaintance learns that our daughter was stillborn at 40 weeks gestation.  Typically, the stranger sighs and has a look of such shock and pity on their face, followed by that lingering silence. This is then followed by an uncomfortable air, while both of us are silently praying for the elevator ride to end.  The innocent question of "How many children do you have?" has lost it's innocence for us.  Larissa will always be our firstborn and we will never deny her, no matter how uncomfortable the person asking the question may be. 

Sometimes, I ride the elevator up to the office alone and I am grateful for that, but again it is complicated.  Especially this time of year.  I press that button to go to the familiar OB-GYN office, and am reminded of last year at this time when I was ready to deliver our precious daughter.  I am overwhelmed with flashbacks of how I felt this time last year.  I was nervous (of course, aren't all first-time moms?), but most of all I was so very excited.  I couldn't wait to meet our little one and learn his or her gender.  So many little things remind me of that time; the nip in the air, driving to the doctor's office, the leaves falling off of the trees, even different smells (such as the smell in the lobby/elevator of the doctor's office).  This time of year will always remind me of our precious daughter Larissa and will never be the same for us again.  Thanksgiving, which was once my favorite holiday, will be filled once again with sadness and longing for what we have lost.  However, this year,  I will also feel some hope and thankfulness for the little life which is growing inside of me.  

My regular OB won't be in the office until early January, and therefore, my appointment was with another doctor in the group.  She provided me with many words of comfort, however, after a full-term loss any comfort I feel towards this current pregnancy is quickly replaced with fear and anxiety.  After all, I know all too well what a difference a day makes.  Sure, my OB reassures me that I will be closely monitored in the upcoming months and she assured me she has never had a mom endure more than one stillbirth in her entire 22 year career.  One would think that would be great news to me, but I couldn't help but think "great, so if it happens again, I am yet another statistic."  That's trauma for you.  It forever plays mind games and stays with you forever, creeping up on you at the most inopportune times.  

My OB also asked if I'm feeling movement yet.  I am, and I am so very grateful for each and every flutter, kick and flip my little one does for me, letting me know he/she is okay.  But once again, it's complicated.  When my baby is moving, I marvel at my belly with the life growing inside.  But when that movement stops, all I wonder is "Please don't have died."  I even get scared when my baby gives me a good kick, worried that he/she is in distress.  I recognize the baby needs to sleep, as my OB even joked to me about (saying when this child is born he/she is going to be up all through the night from my constant poking and prodding).  However, I need to know my baby is okay.  To not feel movement, brings back the extreme fear of when I no longer felt Larissa move.  I try to convince myself it won't happen again, but it has already happened once, and doesn't every pregnant mom think "It will never happen to me."  

So, needless to say, subsequent pregnancy after a tragic loss is complicated.  When first time moms look at me with their glow and excitement, I get sad, recalling how that was once me.  But you see, a pregnancy after stillbirth, is filled with frequent fear and anxiety.  There's no such thing as nesting in a subsequent pregnancy as one would rather not be prepared.  We know all too well what it is like to come home to a houseful of reminders of what should have been.  So, when I see first, second or third time moms out shopping and buying for their little one, I cannot help but feel envy.  Envy for their innocence and confidence that will all go well. Envy and sadness, knowing that I am in a minority and that yes, all will most likely go well for each of the strangers I see.  Envy and sadness for what they have and for what I have forever lost.

Larissa's One Year Birthday

Dear Larissa,

I woke up this morning with memories of last year at this time.  It was the time of day where your Dad and I anxiously awaited our doctor's arrival at the hospital to determine how I would bring you into this world.  We already knew the devastating news, and I was overwhelmed with emotions as I struggled with labor and delivery.  I was dreading this birthday, worried about what kind of emotions I would feel.  Your dad and I have the day off of work as we would have if you were here alive and well. 

I made a conscious decision to devote this day entirely to positive memories of you.  You provided me with such joy and love for 40 weeks of my life.  Those weeks were certainly the most memorable of my 30 years here on Earth and I am forever grateful to you for that.  

Your dad and I worked on our packets created in your honor to deliver to local hospitals.  At your time of birth 10:51am, we had brought our packets to the Geisinger hospital office and had mailed a large box of packets and baby blankets to General Hospital.  It upsets me that this is the way we have to celebrate this day, but I know how much other parents stories helped me in the months after we said our hellos and goodbyes and hope that our packets will positively affect many other bereaved parents.  

I listen to so many other moms with such envy when they talk about planning their child's birthday parties.  Often times, they become stressed with the details and complain about how much has to be completed before the party begins.  I listen, in silence, thinking "you do not know what I would give to have my daughter here, planning her first birthday right now."  Instead, your father and I purchased a beautiful bouquet and balloons to place at your graveside.  Again, it is all we can do.  I envisioned a birthday party with a smiling, happy one year old daughter, with balloons and cupcakes and everything pink and purple.  

I wonder what you would look like at the age of one.  I envision a beautiful little girl with dark curly hair and a happy personality.  I will never know what milestones you would have completed by now.  I wonder...would you be walking or crawling, babbling or perhaps saying your first words?  What would be your favorite toy or book?  Would you sleep through the night?  Would you be a good eater?  I will continue to wonder about you for the rest of my life.  

I recall the day I delivered you like it was yesterday.  I cannot believe one year has passed.  The first few months after your birthday, time stood still.  Each and every minute was a struggle.  I cry daily for what we have lost and know that most mom's hold the day they gave birth to each of their children near and dear to their hearts.  Your birthday is even more special as your dad and I had to say 'hello' and 'goodbye' all in one day.  It hurts me deeply that you are not here, and it is incomprehensible how so many babies are born perfectly healthy each and every day.  That seems like an impossible task to us.  My heart aches for you as do my arms.  I long to feel the weight of your body in my arms again.  Every time I feel the flutter of life inside me yet again from your younger brother or sister I am reminded of my forty weeks with you.  Little girls' clothing, childrens' books and toys, the color pink, pregnant women and happy parents are a constant reminder of what we had and have lost.  I cherished every minute I spent with you and will always honor you as our firstborn.  

We love you Larissa and miss you more than words can ever express.

Love,

Mom

One Year Ago Today

November 14th, 2011

One year ago today I went to the hospital for a scheduled induction to meet our beautiful little daughter.  One year ago today, I began to worry feeling less (which was really no) movement at all.  I eased my worries by telling myself that my little one was ready for his/her arrival and that he/she had ran out of room.  Stillbirth?  That thought hadn't even crossed my mind.  I mean, I know it occurs, but never at 40 weeks, right?  I told myself that life was unfair, but certainly not cruel, like I quickly learned it is. 

My husband and I drove to the hospital in silence.  He, nervous about the delivery.  Me, nervous about the delivery, but for other reasons.  Neither one of us anticipated those dreaded words.  As I recall it, no words were even spoken.  No one needed to speak, after frantically searching for our precious daughter's heartbeat and two ultrasounds (the second with alleged better equipment) my husband's quivering chin and the silence in the room confirmed our worst fears.  Our little one was gone.  I kicked and screamed, but couldn't cry.  I couldn't believe it.  How could this be happening?  I waited forty weeks to meet our little one.  I prepared a nursery, ate healthy, exercised and followed every prenatal rule.  Meanwhile, across the hall my co-workers 16 year old step daughter was giving birth to a perfectly healthy baby  boy. 

Through my husband's sobs and comforting words from the five month pregnant nurse, I heard the doctor say something about fluid in our little one's lungs...possibly indicative of a cord injury.  But how?  She had been moving today (hadn't she?) and I had just heard her heartbeat on the Doppler 5 days earlier.  Larissa truly taught me that each of us only has this second and really taught me what a difference a day makes. 

We spent the night holding one another and crying.  I still was in disbelief and was convinced when my regular OB arrived in the morning, he would make everything alright.  However, he couldn't work miracles.  He entered the room, graciously extended his condolences and told me it was in my best interest to induce labor vs having a C-section.  I was numb and nodded in agreement.  He told me the process typically takes a while, but it didn't.  I felt each of those labor pains and still get upset when women complain about childbirth.  I think to myself "Imagine giving birth to death.  Then, you would have a reason to complain."  I felt my water break and after 3 hours of labor and just four good pushes, our little one silently entered this world.  I heard the doctor say "Do you want to hold her?"  Her?  It was a girl...I always wanted a little girl and wasn't shy about admitting it.  Is this my punishment? I am technically now a mom to a girl, but will never get to parent her.  I waited a little while to hold her and when I think back to that day, I can still feel the weight of her in my arms (all 7lbs, 13oz).  I envision her round little face and dark head of hair.  I wonder if she will still have that really dark hair, what color her eyes are, what her cry would sound like, wonder what her little coos would sound like....I can go on.  These are things I will never know.

It is now one year later.  One year of growth for me, trying to come to some sort of acceptance with our tragic loss.  Yes, there are terrible things in this world but what happened to us feels like it may possibly be the worst ever.  I remember coming home to an empty house filled with reminders of what should have been.  I vaguely remember planning Larissa's funeral.  I remember like it was yesterday, my post-partum pain and soaking in the tub looking at my deflated stomach just sobbing and wondering "why?"  I sit often one year later, watching my stomach move once again, with life inside.  But this time it is different, when our little one stops wiggling, all I think is "Is this baby dead too?"  It's been one long year of sleepless nights, for many months staying up at night crying for what we have lost, then many nights crying for what may never be again (after our bout with infertility) and most recently pleading and drinking water in the middle of the night so that our little one will wiggle and let me know he/she is okay.  Sure, I put on a happy face in front of others.  I try to hide my dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep with makeup.  I pretend like every little girl I see with curly hair that may be Larissa's age doesn't affect me.  However, I know everyone can see right through me.  I long for my daughter each and every day.  I still struggle with people's unintentional hurtful comments.  I'm pregnant again, so all should be okay.  But this child is an addition to our family.  I am not a first time mom and know that this baby should be our final child (as we always wanted two).  Larissa has also taught me to never make plans as their are no guarantees.  I hope someday, if this baby makes it, to give life to yet one more little one.  I still get jealous and envious every time I hear of a new pregnancy and/or birth announcement.  I cannot help but think "your baby won't die."  I even get sad when I see a pregnant mom with that fabulous glow.  That used to be me.  Now it is replaced with worry and hope that all will be well this time. 

I love our precious daughter and am grateful to our 40 weeks together.  Her little life is helping many moms who unfortunately walk in my shoes with the packet I've created in her memory.  Tomorrow, on her birthday, instead of celebrating with presents and cake and a smiling happy one year old, my husband and I will be diligently putting our packets together and delivering them to local hospitals.  Larissa has changed me in ways I cannot put into words.  A part of me died with her.  Time doesn't necessarily lessen the pain, but it does get easier to carry around with you.

Losing Larissa

I've created this blog in memory of our precious daughter who was stillborn on her due date November 15th, 2010.  It is long overdue as I read many moms blogs over the course of this past year.  I hope that posting my thoughts and feelings helps newly bereaved parents find some comfort.  The following is our story. 

It was March 11^th, 2010 when the word ‘pregnant’ on a Clear Blue digital pregnancy test changed my life forever.  From that moment on, I was a mom. 

            I had an uneventful pregnancy and was one of the lucky women who never endured any morning sickness, backache or heartburn.  Sure, I had my swollen fingers and feet, unable to wear my wedding ring and had to succumb to wearing sneakers the majority of my pregnancy as I couldn’t squeeze my feet into any other shoes.  However, to see my belly grow with life inside made it all worth it. 

            I enjoyed every second of my pregnancy and spent each day marveling at our daughter’s movements inside of me.  I never complained and embraced every change that pregnancy brought with it.  With each month that passed, my husband would snap a photo of my growing mid-section that I would then arrange into a scrapbook which told the story of my forty week journey to motherhood.  Little did I know that my scrapbook of my pregnancy would be one of the few mementos we would have of our beautiful daughter. 

            I was anxious during the first twelve weeks of my pregnancy and breathed a sigh of relief when we passed the first trimester ‘danger zone.’ I was thrilled that we had made it through without any complications and that the thought of a miscarriage was significantly decreased.  I couldn’t believe how truly blessed we were, having conceived quickly and to not have had a miscarriage.  I did remain a little uneasy at each of my doctor’s appointments when the Doppler was placed on my belly.  However, even those fears subsided once I began to feel the baby move.  Each visit to the OB brought with it the reassuring sound of the ‘whish, whish, whish’ of our baby’s heartbeat, serving as a reminder of the miracle growing inside of me.  I was on cloud nine for forty fabulous weeks.

            It was a week before my due date when I had my final appointment with my OB.  Being that I was due just ten days prior to Thanksgiving, he gave me the option of scheduling an induction around my due date.  I chose the actual due date, November 15^th as our day of delivery.  My primary OB was scheduled for that day and I was excited to deliver with him.  He explained the induction process to me and told me I would be brought into the hospital the night before to start the process as it typically takes a long time for the labor to progress.  I left that appointment so excited that in just seven short days I was finally going to meet this baby.  I conjured up images of whom our child would resemble.  At this point in time we did not even know if it was a boy or a girl.  Everyone had me convinced it was a boy even though I had three dreams that we were having a girl.  It didn’t matter either way and I was grateful that it wouldn’t be long before we found out. 

            My last week of pregnancy continued as any mother’s final week of pregnancy typically plays out.  I busied myself with all of the tasks that just had to be finished before our little one’s arrival.  I continued to work up until the Friday before my scheduled induction on Sunday night.  My last day at work flew by as I prepared my desk for the covering staff and made sure everything was ready.  When I arrived home, I was busy cleaning and preparing meals for the days ahead of us at home when we would be too tired to do such tasks. 

            The next morning when I woke up and was putting on my makeup, it dawned on me that our little one wasn’t kicking and moving as she usually did at that time.  She always moved when I was putting on my makeup as it was one of her active times of day.  I began to get nervous and tried giving my stomach a few good jabs to wake her up.   There was no movement and I began to get really nervous.  I drank a glass of orange juice on my way out to meet my sister.  Even the orange juice didn’t make our little one stir, but I convinced myself it was just because she had run out of room and that everything was okay.  After all, nothing could possibly go wrong at this point, not after forty weeks of preparation and anticipation.  Life could not be that cruel.  I know life is unfair, but certainly one would not lose their child after getting them ready to enter this world for forty weeks.

            I was uneasy that entire day, rubbing my belly periodically and each time convincing myself that I had felt some movement.  I was certain I was feeling some activity inside of me and kept reassuring myself that our baby had run out of room and less movement at the end of a pregnancy is common.  I was on edge until we arrived at the hospital the next evening.  However, I still was convinced I was feeling movement.  The possibility that our baby could be stillborn didn’t even cross my mind.  However, I don’t think it is something anyone even considers until they are living the nightmare.   

            Our big day did not turn out anywhere near as planned.  We were admitted to the hospital on the evening of November 14^th.  My husband and I came to the hospital by ourselves and told our families we would call them when my labor was progressing for them to come and meet our new arrival.  Little did we know that our phone call to our parents would be far from celebratory. 

            When I arrived at the hospital, the nurse instructed me to change into the gown.  I then lay on the bed and she put the monitor on my stomach to listen for the heartbeat.  After several seconds of searching for the heartbeat, I saw the fear in the nurse’s eyes.  She reassured me that the baby was probably just in an awkward position and went to get the doctor to perform an ultrasound.  I knew when that first ultrasound was completed that our baby was no longer with us.  The doctor told us the equipment was old and it was hard to see the baby on it and that they would call the ultrasound tech to complete an ultrasound with the better equipment. 

            I immediately began to panic and kept repeating to my husband “Our baby is dead.”  Even when saying those words, I couldn’t believe it.  My husband tried to calm me down and told me to relax until there was a reason to worry.  After what felt like an eternity, the ultrasound tech and doctor entered the room to confirm our worst fears.  Although I didn’t look at the screen, my husband’s quivering chin made me realize that our baby was gone.  He, unfortunately, was looking at the screen of her still heart.  

            I cannot tell you exactly what happened in the moments following that confirmation.  I recall the doctor’s words that our baby had passed.  I kicked and screamed and heard the sobbing of my husband beside me.  I didn’t cry.  I couldn’t produce any tears at that point.  I think it was my body’s way of protecting me from the shock of the experience.  I just shut down and felt that I was having an out of body experience and that I would wake up and realize it was only a nightmare. 

            My husband relayed the news to our families who were at the hospital by our sides shortly thereafter.  We spent the night crying and holding each other waiting for the morning when my regular doctor would arrive to decide how I would deliver.  I couldn’t believe that it was expected of me to go through labor to deliver a baby who would produce no cry upon her arrival.  I was convinced I would have a C-section, but changed my mind when my doctor arrived in the morning and assured me that inducing labor was in my best interest.  I trusted him and we began the process immediately.  I didn’t want to let go of my daughter but knew I was only putting off the inevitable. 

            The labor progressed very quickly.  Within three hours I was fully dilated and ready to push.  I felt each of those labor pains, but it didn’t matter.  Nothing mattered without our daughter.  To this day when I hear women complain about childbirth, I think to myself “Imagine giving birth to death.  Then, you would have a reason to complain.”

            After our precious daughter’s arrival, a wave of many emotions overcame me.  I was sad, angry, shocked and in complete disbelief.  I sat and stared at the beauty of our daughter, holding her close to me, knowing my time was limited.  I just couldn’t wrap my head around the idea that this beautiful baby was not coming home with us.  We spent several hours with her, admiring each of her features.  We wanted to make the most of those few hours with Larissa.  Never did I imagine that we would have to say hello and goodbye in the same day. 

            I’ll never forget the sight of my husband when he placed our daughter in the bassinet to have her taken away from us forever.  He couldn’t bring himself to do it.  He would place her in the bassinet and pick her up again.  He did this several times before I gently encouraged him to say his final goodbyes and tell the nurse to come get our beautiful daughter.  Saying our final goodbyes when we just said hello was the hardest thing we ever did.  We would have taken her home if given the option. However, I knew that there would never be a right time to let her go and that we had to eventually say goodbye. 

            We left the hospital the following morning without Larissa.  I am not sure how I found the strength to go on after such a tragic loss.  I was determined in the weeks following Larissa’s death to make her short time here on this earth count.  She provided me with the most fabulous forty weeks of my life.  I am grateful to her for making me a mom and will always honor her as our firstborn.   I don’t regret the time we did have together as I enjoyed every second of my pregnancy.  Larissa was truly loved and there wasn’t a second that went by that she wasn’t appreciated.  For that I am grateful and I want her memory to positively affect each woman who is unfortunately living this nightmare.   I relied on other women’s stories to help me through those first few dark months.   I hope that sharing my story and these resources will help you in the upcoming days, weeks and months.