by Band Back Together | Nov 29, 2010 | Baby Loss, Coping With Baby Loss, Grief, Help For Grief And Grieving, Livng Through A Miscarriage, Loss, Miscarriage, Sadness |
I lay curled up on the bed, looking up into my husbands’ face.
“It’s leaving me, baby. It’s leaving me…”
“I know”, he said.
He crawled in next to me, placed his hand on my belly and whispered, “Goodbye…”
And we cried.
I cried the cry that comes up from your tailbone. The cry that hurts the arches of your feet. The cry that doesn’t stop. And when my eyeballs felt like they would fall out of my face, I cried some more.
My mother was in town, thank goodness, but I could hear my son calling for me in the living room.
There is nothing more emotionally confusing than entertaining one child, while physically feeling the one you were growing leave you.
The next day, the doctor confirmed what we already knew.
“I’m sorry, your uterus is empty.”
It was a clean miscarriage, I would not need any kind of removal procedure.
I have never seen an ultrasound without a baby in it. It looked exactly how she said… empty.
“Not even two months along.”
“Not really a baby yet…”
“A collection of cells gone wrong…”
But it was a baby to us.
We made it on purpose. We made it out of hope.
My husband had already started whispering “I love you” to my belly.
My son was already patting my tummy and saying, “Baby in there.”
We made space for it in our lives.
And now that space is empty.
And I feel it. I physically feel it… missing.
My almost-baby.
We will heal.
We will try again.
But right now, I sit here…
just empty.
*****
I’ve just gotten my first period since the loss, and the sight of the blood has me reeling a little.
Thanks, Band – for being here.
by Band Back Together | Nov 28, 2010 | Baby Loss, Coping With Baby Loss, Grief, Loss, Stillbirth |
Her daughters were stillborn, but born still.
This is her story:
here comes another one
i know. i can feel it.
oh this is a big one
yes. i feel it.
my father sat in the corner, still and quiet until he saw the line on the screen start moving up, showing my contractions not only for me to feel but for the room to see. he announced each one to us five. it was all he could do. the best way he knew how to handle it, and that’s the only reason that it didn’t drive me crazy.
each clench was readying my body for something i was willing every shred of my being against. what we all were wishing against. we watched as the line went up…and down…sometimes higher…then lower…
i was in denial i guess, or shock. whichever. i wasn’t reeling in pain or wracked by sorrow. i was focused. i sat and felt my belly pinch and waited for the announcement.
another one is coming
T had panic attacks. my mother called all the nurses and doctors she had on speed-dial. my sister stared. my brother called and cried. my nana called and cried.
my father and i watched the screen.
the screen that showed my babies’ heart rates, as perfect as they were. the screen that showed my contractions; big, small and in between, ex-fucking-actly 4 goddamn months too soon.
until she came in. she said it was time to unhook the monitors, said it wasn’t necessary anymore. and in a moment, dad and i were back again to the quiet, still place. T tried to control his rage, my sister still stared. my mom talked and nursed and fixed my blankets and monitored my pain.
i felt my girls kick and bubble and turn. how could i tell them it was their last day, their last hurrah? why did i have to let them go so easily? you would think the one thing in the world you would be able to, absolutely need to do is fight for your children’s’ lives, right? i should have been able to motherfucking fight.
it was quiet. too quiet. i longed for my monitor back, and i asked the nurse for it every time she came back in the room. suggested it as a solution to whatever random issue she happened to be concerned with at the time.
maybe we should put the monitors back on?
and the same answer came every time; somber, no. she heard the undercurrent in my voice, growing more desperate with each request. no. she didn’t explain. she just said no.
now i know why.
even now i’d give anything to be back in that room. (a room that i can hardly imagine continues to exist, holding happy families and living babies)
back in those moments when i had them, even under those horrifying circumstances. i’d give it all up to be there holding them inside, watching the screen with my father. looking from right to left and seeing people who loved me and my daughters. we had waited for them so long and we didn’t even get to fucking fight to keep them. they just slipped away.
but what i wouldn’t give to be back there.
back when they weren’t safe for long, but held for now.
bliss.
by Band Back Together | Nov 26, 2010 | Anger, Anxiety, Baby Loss, Compassion, Coping With Baby Loss, Faith, Family, Feelings, Forgiveness, Grief, Help For Grief And Grieving, Hope, How To Help A Friend With Infertility, Infertility, Livng Through A Miscarriage, Loss, Medical Mystery Tour, Miscarriage, Pain And Pain Disorders, Rheumatoid Arthritis |
*I know that not everyone out there is a Christian and I hope that nobody will take offense to this post. My faith is a very personal thing, but it helps me get through so much. My prayer is that everyone dealing with a life crisis will find something that will bring them peace and hope, whether it’s faith in God, faith in humanity, or faith in herself.
When I wrote about my miscarriages and TTC journey, it was the hardest piece I’d ever written. What I left out, though, was the behind the scenes issues. The emotions that I’m still ashamed of feeling. That probably sounds stupid. I mean, you can’t help how you feel about things so why feel shame? Well, it’s been six years and I still do, so I guess I can’t answer that.
When Jordan and I decided to start trying to get pregnant, we didn’t broadcast it, but we also didn’t hide it when people asked. And people did ask. We’d been married over a year at that point, and apparently that’s the time that everyone from your grandma to the cashier at the grocery store deems you ready to have a child. But when we realized we would need a little help expanding our family, we clamped our mouths shut. Our families and closest friends were the only people who knew what we were going through. But when we got that first positive test, we told everyone! I’ve never been the best at keeping my feelings under wraps and we were thrilled.
A few days before I got that positive test, my sister-in-law gave me the news that her sister-in-law was pregnant. I was pretty discouraged at that time thinking that the round of Clomid I had just finished had not worked. But here was this girl (who I love dearly, BTW) who had become pregnant accidentally. It hardly seemed fair.
But then I found out that the Clomid had actually done its job and all was right with the world again. I could be happy for my sister-in-law sister-in-law-in-law sister-in friend, if a little worried for her. After all, my faith had always dictated that “everything happens for a reason.” But then it all changed.
During the few days that encompassed the fateful ultrasound experience and gut-wrenching D&C, I lost more than my baby. I lost my faith.
I left the hospital a bitter, heartbroken person that I no longer recognized. I was angry at the world. I was angry at God. I didn’t go to church. I didn’t pray. I didn’t even sing; something that has always been my solace. For three months I was in this dark pit. Every time someone who didn’t know would ask about the pregnancy and we had to break the news again, I sank further.
At that time, I worked for an agency that provided low-income housing. It seemed like every other day I encountered another woman who was expecting yet another child that she couldn’t afford. All these women around me were getting pregnant so easily, some while actively trying to prevent it, and having the healthy babies that I wanted so badly. I couldn’t understand why I was being treated so unfairly. I couldn’t bring myself to go to the baby shower for my brother-in-law’s sister. Every time I saw a pregnant woman I would cry.
It kills me to finally admit those things. There are very few people in this world that I’ve told about that dark time. I still feel guilty for being so angry. But if my first miscarriage caused me to lose my faith, my second one brought me back.
My second miscarriage happened on a Saturday morning. I was in the ER for a few hours then sent home. The next day at our church was Youth Sunday. I hadn’t been to church in three months at that point, but Jordan’s best friend, David, was delivering the message that day, so I insisted on being there. Not many people at church had known I was pregnant that time, so we didn’t really have to talk about the loss.
Something happened that Sunday morning, though. The youth members all did a great job with their testimonies, prayers, and music. David delivered a beautiful message. And then the youth sang a song to tie it all together – Here I Am Lord. I had heard the song a hundred times before. I had sung it about half that many times. But that day, I actually listened to it. It suddenly spoke to my heart in a way I had never felt before. Thank God we were sitting in the balcony so the whole congregation didn’t see me burst into tears.
I suddenly was at peace. After being angry for so long, it was an incredible feeling to let go of it. In that moment I knew that, like Abraham and Sarah, we would eventually have a child. And that there was a reason for my losses. I knew that it was going to fall to me at some point to support others going through it.
I was able to do just that several months later when my best friend had her first miscarriage. I’ve reached out to others as well – old high school friends on Facebook, a friend at church, etc. It’s what I hope to accomplish by contributing to this site. It also sort of paved the way for me to do the same thing as soon as I was diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis in 2008. Since then I’ve found myself in something of an online support network of people living with chronic illness. Without that moment of clarity, I’m convinced I would still be that bitter person. I’m sure that the RA diagnosis would have been much worse than it was, emotionally speaking. I honestly don’t know how I would have made it through either of my full-term pregnancies, much less through a certainty of life-long pain, had I not had that renewal of faith.
I didn’t tell anyone about what happened to me that day until a few months ago when Jordan and I had the privilege to see David ordained. I figured that was probably the right time to tell him about the impact he had on me that Sunday so long ago. Today, my relationship with God is the most important thing to me. Through Him, I can do anything. There are days when I just need a nudge and there are days when I’m forced to ask Him to carry me. And I’ve come to realize that everything truly does happen for a reason, even if that reason isn’t revealed during this earthly life. But the choices we make when facing hardship will usually go a long way to reaching that revelation.
“But those who trust in the Lord will find new strength. They will soar high on wings like eagles. They will run and not grow weary. They will walk and not faint.” ~ Isaiah 40:31
by Band Back Together | Nov 24, 2010 | Encephalocele, Happiness, Love, Neural Tube Defects |
Embryonically, I had the idea for Band Back Together after my daughter, Amelia, was born and landed in the NICU with an extremely rare neural tube defect called an encephalocele. I’d run multiple-user blogs before; in fact, my first blog was a group project. But the idea of creating a space like this was daunting.
First, I had to figure out what the hell this space was supposed to be. My initial thought was to make it a place for special needs parents. Then I figured that I should add my baby loss and infertile friends into the mix. Then I realized that I was thinking too narrowly. I’ve never limited what I do on my own blog (I don’t, I want you to know, think of this as my own blog. I think of it as yours), so why should I start here?
Band Back Together is a light in the darkness.
Our darkness may not look the same, it may not feel the same, but underneath, we are all the same, and we are all so very good. This space and the community we have created proves it.
I am truly honored to have all of your stories here. I believe in what we’re doing. I believe that each of your stories will touch somebody else who may still be in the dark. I believe that someday, someone will stumble here and find your words, and when they do, they will be moved. They will sit on the other side of the computer monitor, just as you are now, and they will feel the light breaking through the darkness. They will feel hope.
You may not think that what you do is important. You are wrong. You may feel like your story isn’t good; it isn’t enough. You are wrong.
Every word you write connects you to another.
So please, Pranksters, write hard. Help me get our words; our stories to other people. Tell your stories – all of them – and please, help me spread the word about the site. It’s time to take Band Back Together to 11.
December 31, 2009, I wrote this,
So I approach 2010 full of renewed hope for the future, because no matter how full of the darkness I feel, I can feel the light on my face and I know it’s all around me. Soon it will be within me.
I am hopeful.
I have hope.
Happy New Year.
Through you, I have found my light. I was right. It is so, so good.
Thank you for helping me find my light.
A very Happy Thanksgiving to each of you, Pranksters.
by Band Back Together | Nov 19, 2010 | Abuse, Emotional Abuse |
That is the question that is burning in my mind. Has been for several months. Should I stay and try yet again to “work it out” or should I cut my losses and figure out how to do it on my own? Should I go to school full-time, raise three kids, and find a job that will pay the bills?
I am tired of the bullshit excuses. Blame for everything that goes wrong. Being ignored when I try to speak up and be heard.
I wrote you a letter yesterday. I poured my heart out typing it up. I cried the whole time I did it. You read it and simply asked me what I planned to do. You made no apologies for what you have done. Didn’t beg me to stay and work it out. I got nothing from you.
Today, you are going about your day like nothing has happened.
I’ve been waiting for you to come downstairs and ask me what I’m making you for lunch. You’re incapable of feeding yourself. I am tired of raising you like a child. Telling you what to do and when to do it. Otherwise, you do nothing.
I have done nothing but sacrifice myself for you and I have nothing to show for it. No gifts of appreciation. Nothing. I am ready to move on with my life. I am ready to be happy instead of feeling like crap all the time. My depression is gone now that I added new medication but I am still not happy. Who would be in my situation?
You told your brother that you were going to go back to acting like you did when we first got together. That is only going to push me away. I don’t want an even more irresponsible person to take care of. I wanted an equal. I have been fighting for that for over a year.
Funny thing is, I still want to protect you like you are my child.
I know that have been enabling this relationship for too long. Now? I feel like I have one foot out the door already.
