Litany of Remembrance

Yesterday, we said goodbye to our baby in a small service at our church. Our rector put together the most beautiful service that I wanted to share a portion of with you today. Not only as a part of my own journey, but also because so many of you have reached out and shared that you have walked this road before as well. May this prayer give you the same comfort it gave me. 

(Adapted from the Reform Jewish Prayer Book)

Memories of this child will come to this family, unbidden, sometimes unexpected, in all the various moments of their lives.  Although memories may bring pain, they also bring comfort, for as long as you remember, this child is still part of you.

In the rising of the sun and its going down,

we will remember this child.

At the blowing of the wind and in the chill of winter,

we will remember this child.

At the opening of buds and in the rebirth of spring,

we will remember this child.

At the blueness of the skies and in the warmth of summer,

we will remember this child.

At the rustling of leaves and the beauty of autumn,

we will remember this child.

At the beginning of the year and when it ends,

we will remember this child.

When we are weary and in need of strength,

we will remember this child.

When we are lost and sick at heart,

we will remember this child.

When we have joys we yearn to share,

we will remember this child.

When we have decisions that are difficult to make,

we will remember this child.

Merciful God, look upon the sorrows of this family for whom we pray.  Remember them in your mercy; nourish them with patience; comfort them with a sense of your goodness; lift up your countenance upon them; and give them peace; through Jesus Christ our Lord.  Amen.

Thank you.

Yesterday, it hit me. Another package arrived in the mail. Another incredibly generous gesture from another incredibly thoughtful friend. 

I had felt thankful for every bouquet, every meal, every message that had come over the past week but yesterday, as the sun shone on another perfect spring day, it was as if I felt all the love and the concern and the prayers rain down on me at once.

Loss can be so lonely. Grief can be so isolating. Losing a baby, especially when so much of your worth is tied to your identity as a mother, can be debilitating. 

And yet I don’t feel depilitated. I feel sad, but also hopeful. I feel sore, but also strong. I feel pain, but I feel so so much love.

For that love, I have to say thank you.

For two weeks, friends have brought us dinner. Every night they arrive with warm food and hugs and sometimes tears. One dear friend, who has since moved away, even arranged to “bring dinner” from hundreds of miles away. Others just dropped by with food. Friends from far away even sent frozen meals. I will never forget what the meal train organizer told me when she asked to set it up, “Your family is LOVED and people want you to know that.”

Thank you for the food. Every night Nicholas, the boys, and I have set down to a delicious meal. No prep. Little cleanup. That has allowed us more time (and much more mental energy) to be together. We go for walks. We drove the dogwood trail. We snuggled and danced and watched movies. Those meals were the gift that kept on giving (and will keep on giving as evidenced by my freezer). 

Thank you for the food. 

Last week, every day another bouquet would arrive. My mantle is filled with daisies and tulips and lilies. Every time I would arrive home to another beautiful delivery a smile would fill my face. Every time I would look down in sadness I would force myself to look up at those flowers. 

Thank you for the flowers. 

Thank you for the cards and the treats and the favors big and small that has made these past few weeks so bittersweet. 

And, to every single one of you who has sent me a heartfelt message, I want to say so much more than thank you. Many of you have shared your own impossible pain. You have been my lifeline. The voices in my head are loud at times. They tell me the baby’s death was my fault. They tell me that something will go wrong again. They tell me to be afraid.

The miracle of this moment is that all of you have been so much louder than those voices.

You tell me you love me. You tell me you hate to see me in pain. You tell me that this did not happen to me, it just happened, and life will go one. You have offered to sit with me in my grief. You have offered walks and hugs and prayers and encouragement. You have reminded me I am strong, I am brave, and I will get through this. 

Even when you felt like you had nothing to say, you reached out. Over and over again, I’ve heard that you know you can’t make it better and you know your words won’t help.

This part is important so listen to me very clearly.

You have helped.

You did make it better.

Thank you. 

Grief and the choices we make

Photo Credit: seyed mostafa zamani via Compfight cc

In my mind, I had already heard a nurse or a doctor or my midwife tell me my baby no longer had a heartbeat. Due to instinct or mother’s intuition or plain old anxiety, I had rehearsed that moment a thousand times in my mind.

However, I never went beyond that moment. When my therapist suggested I walk through the “what ifs” as a way to cope with my anxiety, I balked. That moment was painful enough and imagining beyond it seemed like an exercise in futility.

When the nightmare in my head became a reality in my life, I was faced with decision after decision that I had never imagined.

First, I had never imagined giving birth to the baby if something went wrong. When delivery was presented as my only option, I went hunting for an alternative. Yet even when a surgical option presented itself, I wondered if I was doing the right thing.

In the past few weeks, I have met women who experienced pregnancy loss in the second trimester and heard the stories of many more.

Not a single one chose surgery.

I heard story after story of women delivering the baby they lost. I heard story after story of women holding the baby, taking photos with the baby, naming the baby. The doctor informed us the hospital had a program with our local funeral home in which they would bury the baby and hold a memorial service.

It seemed every mother but me chose a path I had no interest in taking. I know grief is an intensely personal journey and no one told me I was making the wrong decision. However, in a wash of emotions and hormones, the voices in my mind told another story.

Was I a bad mother because I didn't want to hold my baby? Was I choosing a harder emotional journey because I didn't want to name my baby? Would I regret not finding out the baby’s sex or seeing it when I had the chance?

One mother told me her baby “deserved” a delivery. What did my baby deserve?

Here’s my own personal truth that I want to scream from the mountain tops. My baby deserved to live and no delivery or photo or name or burial can change that. For me, the tragedy is that this little life will forever remain a blank page, a question mark, a whisper and attempting to fill in the details will not change that.  

Do I think those who chose differently are making the wrong decision? Of course not. Would I have made a different decision had I been 29 weeks or 39 weeks instead of 19? Absolutely.

However, I wasn’t. I was halfway between a few cells and newborn. It’s gray and it’s complicated and it’s difficult. I feel like I lost more than a pregnancy but less than a child. A dear friend put it best. It was the death of a dream.

So, I say this as much to myself as to anyone else facing these impossible choices, do what you have to do. You are not alone. I chose surgery. I chose not to hold my baby. I chose not to find out the sex of my baby. I chose not to name my baby. I chose to have my baby cremated and scatter the remains after a small private memorial service.

In my grief, I chose a different path and all I can do now is walk it with peace. 

April 10-15, 2014

Our ultrasound appointment was for 10:15. I had kept myself busy all morning to distract myself from the worry and dread that seemed to occupy my every thought.

When we got to the office, I confessed to the ultrasound tech – a longtime family friend – that I had been paranoid from the beginning. She told me that was normal. She told me often as mothers we feel like there’s an increased likelihood of something going wrong the more children we have but, in reality, we start each pregnancy on a level playing field. She also told me that older mothers worry more because we have more life experience with things going wrong.

When I reminded her we weren’t finding out the sex of the baby, she asked what was the purpose of the ultrasound. I told her Nicholas knew I’d be paranoid by now and we just wanted to take a peak to assuage my fears.

My heart began racing the second she put sensor to my skin. I looked away under the pretense of not wanting to unexpectedly see the sex of the baby, but the truth was I was on the edge of a panic attack. I took a deep breath and finally looked over because she was remaining so quiet.

The baby was curled up. Still. A perfect little silhouette.

“Something’s wrong isn’t it?” I asked.

She looked at me and said, “Sarah, I’m so sorry but I don't see a heartbeat.” The baby measured 16 weeks, which meant it had been dead for three weeks.

“I knew it.” That’s all I could keep saying over and over again.

*****

The doctor was very kind and informed me I could take my time but I would most likely be induced and deliver the baby. Immediately, I felt every cell in my body scream, "I don't want to do that!" Birth is so incredibly special to me. The thought of experiencing all of the medical interventions I have moved heaven and earth to avoid on top of an already traumatic experience was more than I could bear.

I called a close friend of mine for a second opinion and to rage against what seemed like the most unfair scenario possible. He told me that I had a surgical option as well. He told me I could have a D&E but that he didn't perform them. He mentioned another doctor in town who did and I called the office.

The doctor got me in that afternoon. She was kind and compassionate but very straightforward. She answered all my questions and was patient while I thought up more. Her ultrasound tech - a friend from high school  - confirmed that the baby was 16 weeks. My surgery was scheduled for Tuesday.

*****

I had four days to be with my baby. If the doctor had offered surgery that afternoon, I would have done it. However, as the days passed, I became strangely protective of our time together. 

For the entire pregnancy, I had feared the future. I couldn't be in the present moment because the present moment terrified me. I would look down at my every-growing middle and my head would immediately fill with every dark scenario possible. The only way I could cope was to distract myself and try not to think about being pregnant. 

Now that my worse fears had come true there was nothing left but the present moment. 

The baby and me and our last few days together were all that was left. 

*****

On Monday, we arrived for my pre-op appointment. I signed scary release papers, had my blood drawn, and had to face one of my biggest fears - general anesthesia.

I told the doctor my goal was to never be under general anesthesia.

"Well, we're going to need a new goal."

That evening I took Cytotec and spent most of the evening and the next morning in pain. By the time we got to the hospital, I was having contractions. Once I was in a room, the nurse gave me medication to relieve the pain.

A few drowsy hours later and I was wheeled back to surgery. I vaguely remember a nurse giving me what she described as "I don't care medicine." Then, I was awakened by another nurse telling me I had done great and was already in recovery.

It was completely surreal.

Moments later, the doctor was at my bedside  holding my hand. She told me they were able to remove the baby intact and that the cord had been wrapped around the neck twice very tightly.

It was an answer. I had hoped for an answer. Yet, as I laid there, all I had was questions. 

Loss

On Thursday, Nicholas and I went to the doctor for a routine ultrasound and heard the words no parent wants to hear. "The baby doesn't have a heartbeat." I had worried incessantly about this pregnancy from the beginning and had been expecting to hear those words at every doctor's visit. At first, this seemed to help relieve some of the shock. However, it is doing nothing to help with the overwhelming grief. 

For those of you who have already reached out to us, your love and sympathy are so deeply appreciated. We will be moving forward with the next step medically this week and dealing with our broken hearts for much longer.