I Am The Face Of Loss

Every year in the US, 64,000 women lose a pregnancy through an ectopic pregnancy.

This is her story.

I read a statistic recently: 1 in 4 diagnosed pregnancies end in a miscarriage. It's unlikely I'd have paid much attention to this miscarriage statistic if I'd not had a miscarriage myself - experience always aims to give us greater awareness.

Every year as the calendar in our kitchen turns to April, there's that unmistakable lump in my throat, the water that wells up in my eyes - I know that the anniversary of our miscarriage and ectopic pregnancy is near.

I think back to our lives back in 2009.

We were actively trying to get pregnant; we were ecstatic when our home pregnancy test, followed by a blood test at the doctor confirmed that we were indeed expecting.

My husband threw a new DVD in the camcorder so we could do a video diary of my pregnancy. We were planning to tell our parents on Mother's Day - we didn't want to tell everyone "too early"

Less than one week later, I awoke in the middle of the night with severe abdominal pain. We headed to the emergency room.

There was confusion about how far along I was, as the dates of my last period didn't quite jive. The doctors tried to find the baby's heartbeat with no success, and quickly concluded I wasn't "far enough along."

After countless questions, blood tests, and more questions I was sent for an ultrasound. I sat in silence with the ultrasound tech and watched blurry images move by, not knowing what to look for, not knowing what I was seeing.

With no confirmation or explanation about what was happening, the doctor finally came in.

He explained that they were fairly certain that I was experiencing an ectopic pregnancy as our baby was trapped in one of the Fallopian tubes. Before we were able to process anything, I was packed up and wheeled onto an ambulance, headed to the hospital where I'd likely have surgery.

That day was a day of frustration, endless waiting, and finally, FINALLY, we received confirmation that I'd be having surgery to determine whether my pregnancy was, in fact, an ectopic pregnancy. During the surgery, the doctors would decide what to do next.

My frustration rose as the day wore on, answering and re-answering the same questions. Multiple medical personal asked us repeatedly if we "understood what was happening."

After an eternity of waiting, I was wheeled into surgery where I signed a mountain of forms. Suddenly, the reality was more bluntly presented to us as we were asked what we wanted done with the remains. That's when the whirlwind really hit - we were pregnant, but something was wrong with the pregnancy, and now the pregnancy was going to be over.

During the surgery, they found the fetus trapped in my Fallopian tube. My Fallopian tube had been damaged severely by the ectopic pregnancy and was removed.

After the surgery, the doctor showed us photos of the before and after. Seeing things from the inside was surreal, so clinical, so far removed from us.

I remember certain things about that day more than others. It didn't click that my life was at risk, that if the ectopic pregnancy hadn't been caught sooner, I could've experienced dire consequences, I could've died.

It didn't even fully click that there had been a life growing inside of me, a life that had stopped; unable to grow further.

There isn't a day that goes by that I do not think of our loss. As with all losses, the hurt and sadness subsides over time, but the looming date sits on the calendar...waiting.

And yet, I'm beyond grateful for our beautiful son that we were able to have after such an experience, knowing that our chances of having another pregnancy were potentially lessened.

Band Back Together is highlighting other sites around the Internet that are Doing Good. You know our beginnings. Now it’s time to see theirs.

I am so excited to introduce y'all to Franchesca of Small Bird Studios and now the amazing site, Still Sanding.

Miscarriage, infertility, baby loss... it's all touched us all in one way or another, whether personally or just someone we know. There is now an amazing new resource for us and it just launched this past Saturday!

Welcome to The Band!

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My name is Franchesca but you can call me Fran :) I blog over at Small Bird Studios, a blog and project all inspired by my sweet girl who lives forever in my heart. You can read about our journey on loss, love and healing here.

On her third birthday a new project launched into the world, an online magazine for the bereaved parenting community, and for those suffering from infertility. Me and a team of 16 contributing writers - worldwide - have launched an online magazine for parents who have experienced the loss of a child, and infertility called Still Standing.

Since I started blogging three years ago I have connected with (sadly) hundreds and hundreds of bereaved mothers who have experienced loss around the same time I did. Some years and years ago, but mostly around the same time.

According to March of Dimes, 1 in 4 pregnancies ends in a loss. How often it does occur, and why it is still such a taboo in today's world blows my mind. The magazine will hopefully serve as a resource for OBGYNs, doctors, NICU nurses and doctors, family members and friends who just want to be there as a support for these families. Of course we hope the magazine will also serve as a community base for those who have endured loss and infertility as well.

The contributions from our contributing writers will include segments on parenting after loss, trying to conceive and the turmoil that sometimes goes along with that, infertility awareness, tips on coping after loss, ways to honor your child gone too soon, healing projects inspired by art, and much, much more. There will also be segments for grieving fathers, children and grandparents.

The magazine is all about embracing life after loss, and creating an awareness for this need and type of support.

If you're still reading this post, it is likely someone is coming to your mind that has experienced loss, infertility or both. We hope you will spread the word about this resource that just launched into the world on the morning of May 5, 2012.

You can follow us on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, and sign up for our free newsletter here.

I've talked about the dilemma many times. The dreaded question when you've had a child die.

"How many children do you have?"

"Is he your only child?"

There are two different answers.

One is the answer I give in passing to people who don't really need to know. You know, the grocery bagger, the waitress, the lady sitting by you in the airport. They are people you'll never see again so you don't want to bring down the room by being all Debbie-Downer on them.

But then there is the other answer. This is the one reserved for people you will see again, possibly socialize with and who will get to know you better. (Or the ones who might stumble across your blog or Twitter and go OMG YOU DIDN'T TELL ME THAT.)

Those people get the answer that goes like this: "No. Henry's our second child. Our first son died when he was 24 days old from Late Onset Group Beta Strep. So I have two children, but only one I have to run after."

That's my stock answer. And yes, they usually get flustered and I have to calm them down by saying, "It's okay. We're okay. It was a very rare thing and even though it sucks, it's made us who we are today."

I took Henry for a haircut on his birthday because he was starting to look like Shaggy on Scooby Doo. 

Anyway, he was getting his hair washed and the girl was talking to him.

Girl: So how old are you?

HL: I'm 7. Today's my birthday.

Girl: {getting all excited} Really? That's so cool! Happy birthday! What are you going to do tonight?

HL: We're going to go have a birthday dinner at Cheeseburger in Paradise.

Girl: Oh, what are you going to get?

HL: A cheeseburger. But without cheese. Just meat.

Girl: {giggling} That sounds delicious.

HL: I love it. Have you been?

Girl: No. {looks at me} He's so cute. Is he your only child?

Me: He is.

HL: {gives me the crooked-head whatchu talkin' bout Willis look} MoooOOOom

HL: {tells the girl} No. I have a brother. Mom, teeeeeell her.

Me: {feeling myself blush and my heart start to race} He's right. He does have a brother. Our first son died when he was only a few weeks old.  {to Henry because he got the hurt feelings look on his face} Sorry, Buddy, I should have said you do have a brother.

HL: {adamantly} Yeah, you should have. Charlie is my brother.

Girl: {looking stunned} I'm so sorry. I don't know what to say. I had a miscarriage last week.

Me: {equally as stunned and flustered} I'm so sorry. That's just terrible.

HL: I think I'll get fries and ice cream with my cheeseburger without cheese tonight. Is that okay, Mom?

So there you have it.

It was interesting to see his facial expression when he looked at me that way. It was as if he was trying to telepathically send me a message saying "Why didn't you tell her?"

I think it hurt his feelings which makes me smile a little inside. Strange, huh?

Let me explain.

We talk about Charlie a good bit. Not a lot. Not every day. But we make a point to talk about him often. Henry knows he would be his friend Meg's age, older than him. He knows he got very sick and died. He KNOWS he has a brother. He's known that for a long time.

But now I think, in his heart, he understands what that means. He gets it now. He HAS a brother. He will never know him, but I know that he will always feel that a piece of his heart belongs to his brother.

I just hope he never has to know what it feels like to have a piece of your heart missing like his Daddy and I do.

My grandpa died on Christmas day.

One moment, he was talking to my mom and all her siblings on the phone from Florida. He told them he didn't feel well and wanted some air. He had a heart attack and died right there on the front porch. 

This was before I was born. I never felt like I really had a right to be sad about it, but I am sad. I'm sad for my mom. I'm sad for my grandma. I'm sad I didn't get to meet him

Growing up, my family mainly ignored the fact that Christmas was my grandpa's death day. They overcompensated with elaborate celebrations. The food, decorations, and gifts were always overflowing. They wanted that day to be happy. But, you know what? That day will always be sad in my family.

When I was in third grade, my dad died. I always think of him on Christmas. 

Two years ago, my daughter died. Christmas without her is tough.

When you've lost someone - or in my case, many people - you love, Christmas is different. Some Christmases, I'm able to really enjoy the people who are here and cling to the love that comes from that. Other years, it's just sadness I feel. 

Christmas is about family and loved ones. When one of them dies, there is no replacing them. We can't just pretend they're here. Our family is not whole. I think it's perfectly fine to mourn at Christmas. I don't have to be happy for what I do have this year. Sometimes it's okay to be sad and remember that my family is not whole.