Meeting Kenny's Mom

When I was thrown into this journey, almost two years ago (wow, how has it been that long already?!) I never dreamed I would form such special relationships with other bereaved mothers online. Ones I had never met but bonded with on such an intimate level. I read their blogs and feel like I wrote them myself. In so many ways, we are all the same. And we take comfort in this. It makes us feel less alone in this world where horrible things happen and they have no prejudice.

For some reason, until recently, it never occurred to me that I could actually meet in real life any of these amazing and strong women whom I feel like I already know. But today, it actually happened. I met Julie. :) Julie lost her sweet Kenny last May when she was 25 weeks along, just like me. She and her husband came down to visit some family who happens to live just twenty minutes away from me. We arranged to meet and had lunch today at Chili's, Julie, Daniel, Jude, and me.

It was so great to sit and talk of our babies together and we both felt the same way about so many things. It's so easy to feel like a freak of nature when your body fails you and the only people you can relate to are not a part of your everyday immediate life. But to be face to face with someone who shares your same pain... There's some comfort in that.

It's amazing how universal so many of the emotions of baby loss are. It is such a personal devastation, but it can so easily be shared with strangers. Strangers that become friends.

I am so grateful that I got to meet Julie today. It was like catching up with an old friend. I hope it's not the last time we cross paths or the last time I get to meet a fellow baby loss mom!

Brother and sister

There's a big piece of my heart that has been mended since Jude was born. A Rainbow Baby does bring so much healing. My arms are no longer empty. My house doesn't lack the sounds of a little one. There are finally pacifiers, burp cloths, and little socks scattered in random places... These things and so many more that I have been dreaming of are finally a reality for us. But do not be mistaken. I still miss her.

I miss Avery everyday. I look at Jude's little face and I wonder if he looks like she would have. I hear his cry and his little sounds and wonder what hers would have sounded like. I see Jude's beautiful blue eyes and wonder what it would have been like to see Avery looking back at me. I cuddle Jude, all warm and alive, and I wonder what it would have been like to cuddle Avery with the absence of coldness and death. I wonder what it would be like to see Avery play with Jude, like a sister and brother play. Would she be helpful or jealous? Would she be gentle or rough with him? I know they would have grown up to be best friends, just like I am with my brothers.

I'll always be left to wonder, because Avery still isn't here. And it's still hard without her. Jude doesn't erase or replace her. He doesn't fill her void. He just distracts us from it. I praise God for the gift of Jude. He's amazing and beautiful. Such a precious little brother.

Sadly enough, something I was looking forward to was bringing Jude to the cemetery to visit his big sister. It was the only way we could have our babies be together. So on October 5th, it happened. We got to take Jude to Avery's spot. It was a very special, bittersweet moment.

Here's Jude at 9 weeks 3 days, actually just 3 days after his due date. He's "holding" Avery's new pinwheel.

The sun was crazy that day, but here they are... my babies. "Together."

We came back on October 8th to visit again.

Me with my kids. Not the way I planned it.

Daniel with our two babies. He's such a great Daddy to both of them.

I still can't believe it most times that this is our story. When you have a baby, so many people ask "is this your first?" I always tell the truth. "No. He has a big sister who was stillborn last year." Usually something to that effect. I don't care if I make them uncomfortable or if they feel awkward. Avery is still my first baby and she always will be. She is Jude's sister and he will always be her brother. He will grow up knowing about her and loving her as if she was here with us. Jude will know that she's waiting for us in Heaven. We will be with her again someday.

After the Rainbow

Our Rainbow baby will be 9 weeks old tomorrow, October 2nd. That day is also his due date. Jude Wesley was born on July 31st at just 31 weeks gestation. The same thing that took Avery was beginning to happen to our little boy. He had to be born via emergency c-section and spent four weeks and four days in the NICU. He's been home for just three days shy of how long he was in the hospital. Funny how it goes so much slower in the NICU. He's already getting so big. I wish time could slow down...

So, how is life after the Rainbow? Has our grief over the loss of Avery changed since Jude has been born? I can imagine some people may expect us not to miss Avery anymore, or maybe that everything is fixed now that we have "a real baby." In a lot of ways, Jude makes us miss her even more, experiencing all of the things we mourned losing with her. Finally being able to lose sleep at night to nurture a precious baby, instead of losing sleep because you can't stop crying over your empty aching arms. Oh, and I was right... having to get up all night long to feed and change a crying baby is nothing compared to what I got to do after I had Avery. Being Jude's mom is so much easier than being Avery's mom. It's nice to know I wasn't mistaken. I knew exactly what I was missing with Avery. The challenge of parenting is worth every second and I take on all of it gladly. I cherish it. This is exactly what I wanted, everything I dreamed of. Life is perfect. Well, almost.

You would have to read my latest post in Jude's blog to see why things aren't all they could be. And then you'll know how I feel about the fact that I cannot have anymore children. Avery and Jude are all I get. Yes, I am physically able to conceive, but the risk is too great. I cannot handle another loss and it would be selfish to put my life on the line. But it's not easy to accept. I am not ungrateful for the gift of Jude, but I just didn't expect this to be our life. I just don't think it's fair.

Today, Daniel and I were talking about how we will never experience a daughter. We lost the only one we could ever have. I'll never braid my little girl's hair or dress her up in pretty outfits. I'll never have dolls or Barbies lying around my house. No pink... No little toenails to paint. I won't be able to teach my daughter how to use make-up or listen to her talk about her crushes. I'll never have that amazing mother-daughter relationship that I share with my own mother. After losing Avery, I didn't know I would never get the chance to experience all the girl things with another daughter in the future. I had no idea Avery would never have a sister. Now I feel like that's another form of loss to deal with. As much as I love having a son, there will still be something we missed out on. Something we were supposed to have.

Having another baby after a loss doesn't erase anything. It doesn't replace the baby that died. I really hope people don't believe that. I miss thinking that Avery's death was the only burden I'd have to carry. The Rainbow is supposed to be the end of the storm and I wish that were still so. I am cherishing every second with Jude... every accidental smile, every little preemie grunt, every silly expression, every yawn, every cute sneeze, every breath, every thing... But after he's outgrown each stage, I can never have that back. I can never experience it the next time around with another baby. This is it. I wish losing Avery was enough devastation for one life.

In a way I feel like Avery sort of died in vain, for lack of a better word. I really believed that she died to save the rest of her siblings. That her death taught us what was wrong with my body so we could make my next pregnancies safe and we would find victory over my mutations. Turns out, all the extra difficult intervention only bought us six weeks and we nearly lost Jude the same way we lost Avery. And there won't be anymore siblings to live for her. I always pictured several little ones in our home, alive because of Avery. Enjoying life because of Avery. I know Jude is alive because of Avery... but it almost wasn't a happy ending for him. My body failed to carry a pregnancy to term once again. The one thing I swear I was made for, my body cannot handle. This is a low blow to me, a slap in the face.

I know my heart will begin to heal over this new reality, the loss of my dream of having a big family. I know the time will pass and it will become the new normal, just like life without Avery has become. And one day, we will be able to tell Jude about his big sister and how amazing she is. He will grow up loving her and he'll know that she is in Heaven waiting, saving a special place just for us.

Andy's song for Avery

One of the things I am grateful for through losing Avery is the bond that has been formed between us- those who loved her and still do. Those who miss her and don't let us forget that. One of those people, who has always amazed us with his love for Avery, is her uncle, Andy. Andy is Daniel's younger brother. Even his Honda has the same 'Avery' sticker that mine and Daniel's cars sport. Long after some have stopped mentioning Avery or act as if she's just something of the past, Andy is still here with us, making her feel relevant. It's so touching when others are so obviously affected by our precious little girl. Especially when over a year after she's gone and her brother is on his way, someone could come over to our home just to share a song they wrote about her. That's what Andy did on Thursday night. Just to know that someone thought about her that much, to pen lyrics in their head while they worked hard at their job, to go home and write the music to put those words to, to make a song about our Avery... It's such a gift to us.

Andy is very talented. He always has been. Writing music, singing, playing guitar... It all seems to come so naturally to him. His voice is beautiful and has always been one of my favorites to hear. God has really blessed him with these talents. And he uses them to honor God, which makes it all that much more beautiful. And of course, honoring Avery is beautiful to me as well. When he sat in our living room next to his new wife, singing and playing Avery's song, Daniel was next to me with tears streaming down his face. Daniel may be the older one but there are many times when he looks up to his little brother. I think this was one of those times. So in awe at his brother's heart and how he was sharing the same pain that Daniel bears every day. It was a special moment. I'm so touched and so honored by Andy's gift to us. It's so personal and so special.

I asked Andy if he could email me the lyrics and if I could share them here. So here it is, Andy's song for his little niece:

The news hits me so hard
My brother's baby girl won't make it out alive
This feeling of helplessness overtakes me
I don't know why this happened but I miss you Avery


Mommy and daddy are so proud of you
Even though they missed your first word and step
God knows I believe that you're singing and dancing in His holy presence


We love you so much
We hate to say goodbye
Those tiny hands hold our hearts so tight
Don't you worry we'll hold you soon
But till then don't forget that We love you
We miss you
We wish you were here with us


Even when the waves are crashing down
You're still good
God you're so good


The news hits me so hard
My brother's baby girl won't make it out alive
This feeling of helplessness overtakes me
I don't know why this happened but We miss you Avery

Andy and sweet, tiny Avery.



Thank you, Andy... For being a great brother to us... and a perfect uncle to sweet Avery. <3 We love you.

Fathers Day

Today was Daniel's second Fathers Day. His first came just three months after Avery died. I remember last year that the day was so hard on me. I felt worse for him that day than I had for myself on my first Mothers Day. This year was obviously much more hopeful, with Jude on the way and doing so well. Today also just happened to be the start of my 25th week pregnant. That, as we all know, was the week we lost Avery.

Hitting week 25 feels much better than the weeks leading up to it. Getting here and knowing Jude is still thriving and kicking away calms so many fears. But this week is still an emotional one for so many reasons. Avery's due date is on Wednesday, the 22nd. That's still so sad to me. She should be having her first birthday sometime in the next week or so. But it won't happen. Then of course, today being Fathers Day was hard.

I always worry that people won't acknowledge Daniel as the father that he is. He isn't as publicly vocal about his feelings of Avery and that's just his personality. His thoughts mirror mine and he hurts just like I do. Time has not chased away his love for her or his pain. He even told me today that he felt sad about her and missed her a lot. Fathers Day worsens that sting, just as Mothers Day does for me. But it makes it so much worse when people deny you the day. I felt so upset today, and I catch myself still feeling bothered by it now, when someone close to us wished Daniel a happy "future" fathers day. That comment was followed by "This time next year, you'll be a gleaming father!" It broke my heart. Especially because we love this person and they would never want to hurt us. I just feel so surprised that they wouldn't consider Daniel a part of fathers day after all we have been through. I hate to think that people only consider us as "almost" parents only because I'm pregnant with Jude. I do not get how people could think that way. How is Daniel not a father? That baby we buried? She looked exactly like him.

Why would I have to give birth to a baby if she was just so easily discarded? Why would we have a funeral for someone who doesn't count as a person? Why do we miss someone if she isn't considered our daughter? Our flesh and blood? Why would I tattoo her name on my body to keep with me forever if she is so easily forgotten? How does being pregnant for six months with someone that has a face and a beating heart, laboring and giving birth, burying a baby, and grieving their absence on a daily basis not count for anything? I really hate feeling like I have to justify that we are still parents even before conceiving Jude.

The definition of parenting isn't just limited to taking care of a child for a specific period of time. Sure, typically, you care for your child until they are 18 or so and go off on their own. But what if your child dies at age 10, does that just erase their existence and completely revoke your title as father or mother? Or do they count because they were here for a little while and other people got a chance to know them? So then tell me, how many years need to go by for the life of a person to count? I'm not sure I've come across that time table. If your parents die, that doesn't mean that you never had a mother or father and it doesn't mean you're no longer a son or a daughter. Even parents who give up their babies by choice for adoption at birth and never see them again are still called birth parents... Birth mother, birth father... If getting the chance to raise or take care of a child for a substantial period of time is what makes it count, then what about fathers who are deployed for a large part of their child's life? Do you say that that father isn't a real father because he hasn't even met his child or had the chance to take care of him? Of course not. His child is just not with him.

And so it's the same with us. Our child is not with us. But she lived. And she lives now in Heaven.

I guess I just find it hurtful to go through so much devastation and to love a child so much even in death and then be denied her. It makes me feel like people don't care about her, that they don't consider her a meaningful life or something that matters. I feel like her death is dismissed as nothing more than simply being not pregnant anymore. Why do I have to keep being made to feel like this? How can people that were at her funeral and saw our brokenness and received her photos and watched her get buried just ignore the fact that she was here? It makes me feel so much more sad for her. So sad that she's really made less of an impact than I thought she had. Breaks a mothers heart.

Just a last thought... Some (not all) people with living kids think they have it so much harder than bereaved parents. Please do not make the mistake of assuming that the challenge of raising children is harder than the absence of children due to death. We were in no way "let off the hook" when we lost our children. We grieving parents aren't ignorant enough to think that raising a child is all sunshine and easy street. We don't have this ridiculous fantasy world painted in our minds where we have absolutely no clue what we're missing. We are aware that there is definite stress and hardships involved. But no parent of a living child could ever tell me, even on their most difficult, end-of-their-rope, ripping-their-hair-out day that they would rather trade places with me and have their child be dead and visit a stone in a cemetery instead of snuggle them close or watch them grow up. I'd take infinite stress over devastation any day. It's worth all the challenges and hassles to take care of a child. You don't get anything out of the death of your child. You lose more than you can bear. And the void lasts forever.

So besides that simple comment that caused so much emotion, Daniel had a decent day. I made him feel as special as I could, telling him what a wonderful father he is. It takes such a special man to be the father of a dead child. He has loved both of our children even before they were conceived. Lots of men have trouble bonding even sometime after birth. Not Daniel. He loves both Avery and Jude as if he carried them himself. He never felt Avery kick. He only saw her on three ultrasounds and heard her heartbeat while she was alive. And still he loves her and mourns her just as I do. Already, he is in love with our son. He talks to Jude, touches my belly, marvels at his developments each week and loves to feel him kick. He doesn't need to meet Jude to love him. He already does. I love that about Daniel. Such a beautiful father. Avery and Jude are so blessed to be his.

Not always bad

Sometimes I feel sad that Avery's blog is almost always about negative things. That my entries are full of complaints or sadness. While being Avery's mom is very difficult and life has a void without her, being her mom also fills me with joy. She is my little girl. She always will be. She is what made me a mother in the first place. She is why Jude has a chance to survive and live a full life. Those are beautiful things and so is she, in her glorified, whole body, dancing with Jesus and her little friends in Heaven.

I am still forever changed. In good ways and bad ones. I don't believe I needed a lesson in compassion or in appreciating life. But this still happened to me anyway. I just have to believe that special people are chosen to endure these traumas. I know God didn't just point His finger at us and decide to kill our child. He doesn't work that way. He is a loving and caring God, not an evil smiter who longs to strike us with lightning bolts or punish us for things. That's not Who He is. But I do believe He tries to work in us when devastation mutilates our lives. And He does all He can to make something beautiful out of it, to teach others something, to strengthen us through it. Anything He can to put the pieces back together. Because He loves us. I know He never wanted Avery to die. But He knew it would happen. It comes with the territory of being a part of such an imperfect and cruel world, made that way through mankind's free will. That's just the way it is.

And I know I always rave about how people don't get it... and they don't. But there are a few around me who don't forget Avery. I probably don't mention them, since the forgetters outnumber them, but they do exist. They know who they are, and they are very special to me. All it takes is a mention of her name to thrill my heart.

Lately

Lately, I have really been struggling. I've been struggling with how Avery's death has changed my outlook and my mindsets. When your baby dies, you entire attitude and opinions on life in general become so narrow and specific. The life and sacredness of babies and children become so vital. But then you find that not many people feel this way. Not even all mothers of living children, who know what it's like to love a baby.

My heart aches for Avery everyday. Most people have forgotten her. My heart longs for Jude to make it here safely. Most people just assume he'll be fine. And ya know what? He very well may be... and I pray to God he stays well. But I just feel like very few take the time to think about how much it takes each day, emotionally and physically, to get him here. What happened to Avery is etched permanently in my very being. Jude's life in my womb does not erase her, nor the pain of losing her. Jude grows and dances and lives exactly where his big sister died. Being pregnant with him reminds me of how it felt to be pregnant with Avery. That's hard. Hearing Jude's heartbeat reminds me all over again that Avery's used to beat and it no longer does.

I am 18 weeks pregnant with Jude today. In just seven quick weeks, I'll reach the week where we lost Avery. Already, Jude is doing much better than Avery was at this point. Of course at the time we couldn't realize that since we had nothing to compare her to. But it's all still scary. All I know of pregnancy and childbirth is devastation. I have never held my living child in my arms. I have never heard my child cry. I only know silence and death. So sometimes it's very easy to worry about Jude. To worry that he'll meet Avery way before he should. I pray all the time that he gets to be here first. Be here longer than we do. Parents are not supposed to bury their children.

So lately I have been feeling angry. Yes, I am overjoyed over Jude. He is what fills my days with happiness. He thrills me to no end. I am in love with my son. But I am angry over what has happened to his sister. My little girl. I think my anger is caused by how people treat my situation. It seems that no one wants to allow me to feel the way I do. Even those who have not walked in my shoes find it necessary to tell me how not to feel. They can't just accept that I have been through HELL losing my baby, even if they don't understand. I am the only one in my entire very large family who has a tombstone with their child's name on it. I don't think anyone has the right to tell me anything about how to feel or to judge me for my feelings.

My other problem that makes my life unpleasant is how I feel toward other people. I unintentionally have this radar for what people say about pregnancy or children. I have become so sensitive toward people's views on the very thing that is so sacred to me. I cannot stand when people complain about pregnancy and act like it's a huge inconvenience or their cross to bear. They are so blessed to even be pregnant, and how about suddenly not being pregnant anymore because your baby died? I wish people knew how to be more grateful. There are people out there who are so ignorant and so naive. Praying for something as petty as a specific gender and making a big deal out of it, while I sit here and beg God to allow my child just to make it here alive. I can't help but feel insulted. While my husband stabs me in the stomach every single night with my blood thinning injection, other pregnant women are complaining that they're uncomfortable. Darn. If only discomfort could be my biggest problem.

It has also been insensitively brought to my attention that these women have an excuse to be ungrateful for their pregnancies and babies. They're practically expected to be ignorant because they haven't been through what I have. I'm sorry... I don't buy that. Even people that KNOW me and know exactly what happened to my baby go on and take things for granted. How could what happened to my little girl have NO effect on anyone?! And really? Only women who know what it's like to lose a baby are completely grateful for their children? I don't want to believe that. I'm sure there are many mothers out there who haven't experienced loss that would be very insulted to hear that. So why the excuse for such ungratefulness? Why make me feel like even more of a freak of nature or even more alienated by empowering the ignorance of others? If I share my feelings, I don't need someone making me feel invalidated or brushing off how I feel by completely defending the other party. Even if you don't agree with me, know that I have been through a tremendous devastation and you couldn't possibly begin to use logic against me or downplay my feelings. This loss has left with me a bottomless pit in my heart that even Jude can't fill. If you tell me that even people who know me, even people I'm related to, can act so cavalier toward something so precious and delicate, then you are telling me that my daughter had absolutely no effect on anyone... that her life and her death has left no impact... that she made no mark on this world whatsoever other than a stone in the cemetery... that she is easily forgotten and that no one cares at all. Thanks. That's exactly what a mother dreams of for her child's legacy.

Another reason why I can't buy the whole "they don't get it because it hasn't happened to them" excuse is because even before Avery died, I promise you, I swear to you that I did not take her for granted. I did not complain about her. I had no idea I could lose her and I still treasured her existence to no end. I loved her deeply and completely before she was even here. Before I knew I had to be without her. So it wasn't my experience with her death that gave me this eye-opening appreciation for the life of my child. I always had it. So why doesn't everyone else? And even if you can't be affected by daughter's death, to where it changes your outlook on life, is it too much to ask for people to watch what they say in front of me? To make sure they're not insensitive to what I have been through? Or am I the only one who is aware of other people's feelings and makes sure not to say things that could offend? I hope not. Feel the way you want, but just don't say it in front of me.

My last struggle is feeling like people don't consider me a mother, especially as Mothers Day unforunately draws near. I am sure that I have hashed this out before but I guess no one read it! I don't like hearing, now that I'm pregnant again, that I'm "going to be such a great mom." That implies that right now, I am not a mom. Everyone needs to understand that Avery counts as my child. When my brother almost drowned at 2 years old in 1992, would my mother have no longer been considered his mother if he hadn't survived? So because she got to mother him for two short years, she'd forever be his mother? Avery spent her whole life inside of me, yes. But I took care of her. I held my breath walking by smokers. I made sure not to drink more caffeine than I was allowed. I did my very best to ensure healthy eating while I was pregnant. And I LOVED her. I excitedly awaited her arrival and the joy she'd bring into our home. I loved her even before she was conceived. I wrote her letters. Sometimes I still do. I had contractions and labor and gave birth to her. And when she was born, though she was already gone, I held her.  I watched her deteriorate over the course of our time together because I wanted to spend time with my daughter. I wiped the fluid leaking from her little nose and blotted the oozing cracks in her lifeless skin. I cuddled her, kissed her, savored her, memorized her, took photos of her. I handled her gently as if it mattered to keep her comfortable. I cried over her, watched the nurse wheel her out of our room for the last time. I left empty-handed, and soon, my milk came in, just like any mother's does, for a baby that wasn't here. And I watched her get buried a few days later. And even now, over a year later, I still visit her resting place and decorate it for her. I still grief for her, I still miss her, I still love her. How the hell does that not make me a mother?!

How do people not know by now all of this that I went through and still go through? Why do I feel like no one cares or remembers? All I have is alienation. Just because Avery didn't enter this world alive, it doesn't make her count any less. Especially if you believe in the sanctity of life... and if you believe that life begins at conception. I just don't understand. I hate that this is my life. I hate feeling like Avery doesn't matter. I hate feeling so alone amongst the people I know. I wish more people would just try to understand. Or at least pretend to.

Avery's 1st Birthday 3.13.11

A little over a week has passed since Avery's birthday and the celebration we had for her. I wanted to post sooner, but I really think the weekend surrounding the one year anniversary of her death and her birth really took a lot out of me. Recalling moment by moment happenings of those days in my last few entries was very emotional for me. So why do it? Well, I relive those days all the time still, just never in that much detail. And my biggest reason is because I don't want to forget one moment, and I don't want others to forget. When a mother goes through something like this, recognition and remembrance are the biggest things. They're so important. I still feel like there are people out there who know me, who still have no realization of how monumental the death of my baby is in my life. I still have "friends" who have yet to even acknowledge that she died. And I know there are people out there who believe that if you haven't spent time with your child on this earth, there should be nothing to mourn if they should leave before birth. Definitely not true. Maybe that's why I do this, why I spill it all here. I want people to know and to understand what Avery means to us, and what she will always mean to us... new pregnancy or not.

Without further ado, here is Avery's 1st birthday...

We all met at the cemetery at 3:00pm. The first thing we did was decorate Avery's spot. She got fresh flowers for the first time; she usually has fake ones. Daniel picked out the little caterpillar. We tied a 'Happy Birthday' balloon to her vase. The roses were from Daniel's family.

We reflected on what the day meant, my family and Daniel's, together just like we were a year ago.

Then it was time for the balloon release. The balloons were supposed to be pink and purple, but apparently, balloons in the 'purple' bin are blue. Oh well.

Seven balloons for the seven hours we spent with Avery the day she was born. For some reason, I had a hard time letting them go. I hesitated a little.

They stayed together for a little while, flying up so fast.

I started to cry, watching them float away. I was thinking about how this is not the birthday Avery should have been having. She should have balloons to bat around and we should be at home celebrating with her. We all watched the balloons until we couldn't see them anymore.

We spent a little more time at the cemetery, about an hour total, before we headed back to my parents' house for dinner. This is not the family portrait I had in mind for my daughter's first birthday.

My parents got us a little gift, complete with beautiful butterfly magnet attached. It was nice to get a present, but I wish there had been a stack of presents for a one year old to tear into.

They got us a Willow Tree figure. I love Willow Tree. I always wanted this one when I was pregnant with Avery. Now I'm glad I have it with this baby. But regardless of which pregnancy it symbolizes, this is my favorite way to be... By Daniel's side, carrying our sweet baby.

After dinner, we had cake. Daniel and I ordered this one from Publix (supermarket for those who don't have them). They did an amazing job. Better than we even imagined. 'Happy 1st Birthday in Heaven, Avery.' No singing, no candles. Just cake.

And it even came with the free smash cake since it was a first birthday. But of course Avery didn't get to smash it and make a mess out of herself. I wish she had. In fact, we still haven't brought ourselves to eat her little cake. It's still sitting in its container on my kitchen counter. Untouched. Unsmashed by chubby one year old hands.

Avery's birthday was a bit of a rough day for us, remembering how the day with her had gone. Her birth. Saying goodbye. Handing her little body off forever. It's a very hard thing to go through. We miss her everyday. Life will always be incomplete without her. It won't matter how much time goes by. But we are very glad to know where she is. Where the birthday parties are worlds greater than they could ever be here. And we will see her again.

March 13th - Bittersweet birth day

Today is Avery's first birthday. But there are no presents. No streamers. No candles. No girly plates and napkins. No little friends to come and play. No gathering laughing extended family. Because a year ago today, Avery was stillborn, coming into this world but already gone.

Of course, I remember every part of this long, heart-branding day. And of course, I'm going to share it here. It was Saturday. I'd been in the hospital since 6:30pm the previous evening. I had slept off and on through the night but awoke groggily before dawn. The nurse came in to check on me and see how I was progressing. She told me I was almost there and pulled the covers back over me. Immediately, I felt something. Not to be too graphic, but I could feel something sliding out. I told the nurse and she seemed surprised since she had just checked me. Sure enough, there was my baby girl, being born right there, all by herself at 5:05 am. I felt no pain physically. My sweet girl didn't hurt me at all.

By the time she was out, the midwife on call from my doctor's office came in. Avery had been born in the amniotic sac. At first I was alarmed because it made her look deformed and abnormal. The midwife cut it off of her and then let Daniel cut the umbilical cord, my mom at my side taking pictures for us. They wrapped our baby in a towel and handed her to me. I was crying, seeing her for the first time. She was perfect. Perfectly formed. Perfectly developed. Just small. Her body was a reddish color because she hadn't developed enough body fat to keep her from looking somewhat translucent. She weighed only 8.2 ounces and was just 8 1/4 inches long. She was only half the size she should have been for her age. But all the right developments were there up to 25 weeks.

I had to hand her off to Daniel so I could deliver the placenta. My labor stopped and I had a hard time with it but finally it was done. I actually got to see it. The midwife showed me how bad it looked, holes in it. At this point we had no idea why things had gone so wrong.

After Daniel spent some alone time with Avery on the couch, he brought her back over to. We marveled at her. Devastated and delighted at the same time. She looked like Daniel. She had no hair. It didn't take long for her peach fuzz to fall out. She had the cutest little round nose and the sweetest little lips. I looked into her tiny mouth and saw her little tongue and her gums. She was so intricate. In a way, it hurt more that she was so perfect. Because she was gone. One of the nurses helped me wrap Avery in the blanket that one of the nurses had given me the night before. She brought in several preemie hats and even the smallest was too big and had to be folded a few times to fit her. It was pink.

It seemed like seconds later that the rest of my family and Daniel's family arrived. For a while, we passed Avery around, everyone taking a turn meeting her and holding her. She was so tiny in our brothers' and fathers' big hands. It amazed me how little she was.

Daniel and I took took turns taking pictures of her as we spent our time together. Hours passed but it didn't feel like it at all. Looking back on the day, it feels like minutes. A nurse came and took her out of the room for a little while to do her hand and foot prints and for her to get her hospital photos taken. They turned out awful, by the way. They did a wonderful job of making her look like a dead baby. I didn't appreciate that the nurse had written "Demise" on the order form to indicate that my photos would be free. Thanks. It was bad enough already. I am very disappointed in the hospital, that they didn't know to offer me the services of Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep, an organization who comes out to photograph babies who have passed. What makes me more mad is that I already knew about them but in my grief, they did not come to mind. I don't think that was my job. Oh well though. No use in regrets. At least we have photos of her.

I was alarmed when Avery was returned to us. She looked a lot different since she'd been with us last. Her body was starting to show the signs of death and deterioration. It was very heartbreaking. I took her back into my arms, savoring and memorizing her. I wished it could last forever. I played with her little hands and feet, kissing them. I kissed her cheeks and her little lips. The thing I remember most is how cold she was. Her body was so limp and clammy, almost sticky in my hands. My instincts were to warm her, even placing her against my bare chest when I peeled part of my gown away. But nothing could help her. Nothing could fix my baby. After all, she wasn't even with us, though we were with her.

Toward the end, everyone left the room, leaving Daniel and me alone with our daughter. We were crying again, looking her over and loving on her. I looked at Daniel and said, "What happened to our little girl?" He looked back at me silently, but saying so much with his teary eyes. We took a few more photos of her until we realized we could no longer. Her skin was starting to peel and her color had changed. She looked so terrible, so devastatingly gone. When the camera was put down, we knew it was time to say goodbye to her. It wouldn't be fair to keep her longer. Plus, we couldn't bear to see her get much worse.

Our families returned and we told them it was time. They each said their goodbyes to her and then Daniel pressed the call button for the nurse. I hated hearing him tell her that we were ready to have our baby taken. It was so awful. So sad. So painful. And then, by God's perfect timing, our pastor, who is so dear to hearts, just happened to walk in the door. Had he been just two minutes later, Avery would have been gone. Pastor John was very broken for us. He led us in a beautiful prayer for Avery and for our healing. I cannot tell you what he said. I was staring down at my baby for the last moments, taking her in the best I could. I dreaded the end of the prayer because then I knew the nurse beside me would be taking her away.

At the 'amen' Daniel and I gave Avery her last kisses and told her we loved her. With everything in me, I forced myself to hand my baby to the nurse, knowing I would never feel her again. Never see her face again. Not here. The nurse placed her in the bassinet cart and to my horror, pulled a sheet over her, treating her like a dead body instead of our beloved baby, while she wheeled her out of the room, out of sight. I didn't get to take one last look at her. Then she was gone and we just broke down. All that was left were the stains of her leaked body fluids on my hands and my gown, and the deep agonizing gashes in my heart.

We all stayed in the room for another hour or so. I felt so tired but I could not sleep. My favorite nurse, Daniele, came in and sat in my bed with me, looking through our camera at all the photos of Avery. My aunt and two cousins came to visit. Finally we decided it was time to leave. I was not obligated to stay though I'd given birth just hours before.

I changed out of my gown, which I stashed in my bag since it had Avery's fluids on it and it smelled like her. When it was time to go, the nurse who'd taken Avery away returned. She gave me a sheet of paper with instructions on how to take care of myself and my new baby. The only thing that applied to me was the bleeding. I was angry and pained to read the first line of the sheet: "Congratulations of the birth of your new baby!" Wow. Thanks a lot. Rub it in. Really. She was nice, but her sensitivity to this very delicate situation was replaced with ignorance.

It was time to go. It felt strange to leave my room and go back out to the real world. It felt so strange. We walked down the long hall to the lobby and all I could think about was how empty my arms were. I was that mother that no one wants to be, that horror story that people hear about. The one that leaves the hospital empty-handed. It hurt. It ached. To put it lightly.

We spent seven hours in that room with Avery. Just seven. Most people get to spend a lifetime with their children, watching them grow and learn. First smiles and steps. Kindergarten, birthday parties, toys in the house, kid tunes in the car, child-proofed house, bedtime stories... The list is endless. An entire life with a child is not long enough... and all we got was seven hours. Seven hours filled with devastation and holding the shell of your child. And constantly I am forced to be bitter by the parents around me who take their children for granted, or those who take something as simple as their child's shots to make a huge fuss over. I wish Avery's biggest pain was a prick in the thighs. I wish I could hear her cry. But my baby faced death and lost. She may have suffered. Her life was taken from her before she even got to live. I still feel like people don't understand the magnitude of what happened to us and our baby. It laces every part of who I am. It has changed the way I think and the quality of life. She will always be missing. I will always know my little girl is absent, and will always wonder if people even notice.

So today is Avery's birthday. I know if she were given the choice, she would never want to come back here. Heaven is that amazing and I believe it. We will go to the cemetery in about an hour with my family and Daniel's and we'll decorate her spot with fresh flowers and we'll release seven balloons. One balloon for each hour that we got to spend with her. Seven hours. Just seven.

Happy birthday, my precious girl. I miss you more than words can say and I love you so much. I always will. Wish you were here. <3

March 12th - The day of waiting and induction

Today, last year, was another hard day. It was the day between the knowledge of death and the day of birth. We started off this day very weary and emotionally broken. I had not slept. We had to be at my doctor's office to meet with my OB early, around 9:00am if I remember right. (Times are the only trouble I have in my memory of these days. I recall the events perfectly, but minutes and hours melt together and I couldn't tell you what time many things occurred.)

It was very painful to sit in my doctor's office, waiting. The place where I had just been only three days before for a routine visit was now a place of torment. Pregnant women everywhere, while my baby lay dead inside of my womb. Of course, the office would have to be busy today. Finally, I was called back and Daniel and I followed the nurse to a room where we sat and waited for the doctor.

She was very kind to us and was visibly broken for us. She said she went through my chart over and over again to see if there was something she had missed but could not figure out why our baby had died. I could tell this was something that bothered her, that she felt she had failed us as a doctor. I didn't feel this was her fault though. According to ultrasound techs (at a separate facility) Avery was doing just fine.

We decided to go through with inducing and the nurse's assistant got on the phone with the labor and delivery department at the hospital just around the corner to set up a time. The first available delivery suite wouldn't be ready for me until 6:30 that evening. A long day of waiting. Waiting for the most bittersweet moments a person could possibly experience. The birth of a dead child.

We went back to my parents' house since they live no more than five minutes from the hospital. We took our places on the couch where we had sat all the day before and just cried and shared our thoughts. I broke down over and over again, thinking of all the things I had lost. First smiles, first laughs, first crawls, first steps, first words... So many things that some take for granted as just being typical life. Family frequently called my dad to see how we were doing. I couldn't bear to talk to anyone.

Then my dad was on the phone with his friend, who owns a funeral home. He would be the one to come and pick Avery up from the hospital. He wanted to know what our preferences were for the funeral. We had to pick what color her casket would be. (We chose white.) And then, he needed to know her name for the obituary.

At this point, we hadn't chosen a definite name for our little girl. Only two weeks before, at our last ultrasound, we were given an '80-90% chance' that she was a girl. Up until this point, we'd been considering Sawyer for her, but hadn't made it definite since I was afraid others would think it was too boyish. So when thinking about our sweet little girl, Sawyer just didn't fit anymore. I thought through my mental list of favorite names, back to the one we loved originally. I started to cry when I thought of it. "I want to name her Avery," I told Daniel. He immediately agreed. We decided to give her my name as her middle name, as a way to have a piece of me with her. Avery Nicole. We had just named our baby.

The day went on. So much crying. So much agony. Awaiting what was to come that evening. I hadn't eaten in almost two days. The thought of doing so made me so incredibly sad, thinking about how Avery used to share my food with me and now she no longer would. Regardless, I forced myself to eat half of a bagel, figuring I may need some energy for that night. Who knows how much pushing and labor I may have to go through. My attempt failed, however, because I threw it up almost immediately.

Suddenly, it was somehow time for us to go to the hospital. My parents drove us there and my brothers and Daniel's family would be meeting us a bit later. I had my mom check in for me and tell the front desk why I was there, but even she could barely get through the words. My amazing nurse, Daniele, appeared and called me to her side to show me to my room. She put her arm so lovingly around me and I just leaned against her and started sobbing once again. She knew exactly what I was going through. Not too many years ago, she had a baby girl who died shortly after birth. It felt nice to have someone there who understood this pain.

In my room, I had to change into a gown. I went into the bathroom and just started crying all over again. I had always dreamed of coming to one of these rooms to have my own baby, instead of just being here to visit everyone else's. Finally, I was here to deliver my baby, but it was all wrong. So wrong. She would not be coming home with us like everyone else's has. This was not the happy moment it was supposed to be, the excitement of bringing a crying chubby pink baby into the world, our eyes about to meet for the first time. No one would bring 'It's A Girl!' balloons or stuffed animals. No one was celebrating her life... just mourning her death before she was even here. When I think back on these horrific moments, I feel so insulted by some of the women who complain at the end of their pregnancy, who are upset that their baby hasn't come when they wanted them to, acting like it's a huge cross to bear. I understand that one could become impatient since it's uncomfortable to be that large and that pregnant, but there's a difference between being uncomfortable and being ungrateful. And also the people who sympathize with the ingrates and act as if the woman is enduring something terrible by having to wait longer. Really? If you are going to be pushing out a living child that you get to take home and watch grow up, then you deserve no pity. Go through labor to deliver a dead baby and leave the hospital empty-handed and then see how 'miserable' you feel. End of rant.

Once in bed, I'd been given the medication to begin inducing labor, which was administered in a very uncomfortable and violating manner (that I will not speak of) every three hours. It was probably about 7pm at this time. Daniele stayed with me even after her shift ended. She told us the story of her baby girl and even brought some humor into the room. I actually smiled. I felt guilty at first, but realized how amazing it felt to be distracted enough to show positive emotions. Another nurse, who'd lost a son due to preterm labor, came in. She had been one of the nurses who had tried to find Avery's heartbeat the day before. She brought in a crocheted blanket and matching hat for Avery to wear when she was born. I remember thinking that the hat looked so tiny and there was no way she was going to be that small, not according to her gestational age. I would find out later that that same hat would be much too big and we'd end up with an even smaller one.

Soon, my brothers, and Daniel's parents and siblings had arrived, followed by my aunt and uncle. Everyone just sat around, some trying to lighten the mood. I could hear a brand new baby just on the other side of the wall, crying. Every time I heard that little one, tears poured down my face. I knew my little one would never cry. She would come silently into this world, just as silently as she left it.

Every hour I had to get up to use the restroom. Every time I'd drag my IV pole inside and shut the door, all the emotions would flood in all over again. Maybe it was being alone that did it. But I would look at myself in the mirror, hold my belly and just hate and dread everything. I got extremely upset when I began bleeding. Pregnant women aren't supposed to bleed. But technically I wasn't pregnant anymore. This medication was taking my baby away from me. She wasn't supposed to be gone. Each time I exited the bathroom, my eyes fell upon the the little, wheeled hospital bed that the babies are supposed to sleep in. Seeing that pierced my heart every time. I knew my baby would not be using that. In fact, it would only be used to wheel her out of the room for the last time. Thankfully, I couldn't see it from my bed.

Hours passed and I could feel my contractions. They got more and more painful as the time went on. I wanted to brave them without any pain medication for as long as possible. I was allowed to have an epidural if I chose, but I knew I didn't want that. Not this time. I'd save that for a bigger baby, I thought. I remember thinking that I wanted to feel the pain. I wanted to hurt for Avery. I had no idea if she suffered but if she had at all, then I wanted to suffer some too. I waited almost seven hours before I finally asked for pain medication. I waited until they hurt bad enough to make me cry. I could no longer be distracted from why I was here.

By this time it was 1:30am. My nurse gave me some pain medicine and sleeping pills so I could finally get some rest. It had been a while since I'd slept. All of my family, except Daniel and my mom left for the night. I felt so tired but even with the drugs, my mind kept working. I wondered when Avery would finally come and what she would look like. I was so afraid of how much it would hurt to see her and so quickly say goodbye. Trading a lifetime with her for just a few hours. Eventually, I fell asleep, but it was definitely not peaceful.

March 11th - The hardest day

Today, a year ago, our whole world came crashing down. Last night, a year ago, I had the strangest feeling that something was wrong. Heart palpitations all evening. Worry. Out of nowhere, really. Then, it all escalated into tears and a small panic attack. I believe in my heart that that's when our sweet girl was leaving us for Heaven. My body and my heart knew. But my mind wouldn't until the following day.

It was Thursday, March 11, 2010... I had called my mom and told her my concerns. She thought it would be best to go to labor and delivery at the hospital just for peace of mind. After all, we did have a date later to see Dear John at the movies together. So Daniel and I went. I felt kind of silly, assuming I didn't know what I was talking about since this was my first baby. But I needed to hear that Avery was fine and I didn't care if they thought I was paranoid.

After an agonizing wait, which was probably not half as long as it felt, they called us back and hooked me up to a fetal monitor. Well, they tried to. They couldn't pick up a heartbeat and decided to go with a regular fetal doppler. Three different nurses tried their hand at it. None of them said anything but I could see it in their faces that this was not good. Plus I knew Avery. In the doctor's office, her heartbeat was always found so quickly. Still, I refused to entertain the thought that she was gone. I couldn't handle that.

They sent me over to ultrasound and I got on the table, actually feeling a little excited to see our baby on the screen. A part of me was still hoping that the doppler issue was a fluke and that the ultrasound would show us a healthy beautiful girl. But she was so still. She looked so cloudy, faded. Two different techs looked for a heartbeat. I could see the flatline across the screen as they typed 'NO FHT.' No fetal heart tone. They weren't allowed to tell me Avery was gone, but I knew it. The techs left Daniel and I alone for a moment and I turned to him and finally beginning to cry, I said, "I'm going to have to deliver her." His eyes welled up, "No," he answered, still not wanting to believe it.
The tech returned and told me to go to the restroom. I remember it so perfectly. I felt like I was in a dream. I closed the bathroom door behind me and looked at myself in the mirror. I whispered, "This is the worst day of my life." Then I added, "My baby is dead." That's when I started crying more. To say it, to admit it... I knew it was true.

They took us back to OB and had us wait in an empty delivery suite. I looked around the room, knowing I wouldn't be coming to one of these rooms with joy. I would come back here to say goodbye. In a few moments, a nurse, Daniele, entered the room. Her face said everything. I was already crying. She came right up to me, knelt down in front of me and just pulled me to her. That is when I lost it, sobbing and sobbing. And that's when she finally said it. She told me 'the baby is gone.' I really don't think I've ever cried that hard before or since. It was truly the most devastating and painful moment of my life.

Daniele and another nurse, Vicki, told us our options. We could stay and I could be induced to deliver right then. Or I could go home, meet with my doctor in the morning and decide when to come back. It was all too much, too soon. We decided to come back the following day. I couldn't part with our sweet girl just yet. The nurses left the room for a moment and Daniel called the pizza place he delivered for at that time to tell them he wouldn't make it in that night. I started crying all over again when I heard him tell his boss, "I just found out my baby died." It hurt me so much to hear him say that. I hated that he was hurting so much. But Avery is something we share together.

One of my biggest memories from that day is when I called my mom. I dreaded her answering because I knew I was about to shatter her world too. "Mom... she's dead," was all I could manage to say through my tears. "No, don't tell me that," she answered, immediately crying. I don't remember much else from our conversation, but I know I told her they couldn't find a heartbeat and the ultrasound confirmed she was gone. I'm sure I told her we decided to come back 'tomorrow' to induce and deliver. My father was appalled that I had to deliver a dead baby. But that was the reality of it.

After we left the hospital, we went straight to my parents' house. My parents and two of my brothers met us at the door. I broke down all over again when I saw them and they each hugged me. It all just felt so awful. More than awful. There is no word for it.
We spent the rest of the day and evening sitting in the living room. I cried all day and night, wishing I could be consoled. I just kept thinking about how my sweet little baby was dead inside of me. I hated it so much. I felt so much dread and sadness. I was afraid of what the next day would bring. So much pain. So much devastation.

I'll never forget how my dad wanted to try anything he could to help me. He ran out and got me a liter of Mountain Dew, my favorite drink of all time, and Doritos and a Butterfinger, which are a couple other favorites. I couldn't bear to eat, but I did allow myself to have the soda. I stayed away from caffeine through my pregnancy so it was nice to have it. Little good my caffeine avoidance had done.

That night, when Daniel and I finally got home, we got into bed. We cried for a while, holding each other so miserably. It was pretty late. Daniel is blessed to be able to fall asleep easily no matter what. I, on the other hand, was awake all night. I cried and cried. I pictured how the next day would go and what it might be like to see our baby. How would she look? Would it be disturbing? Would she look normal? Would she look beautiful and perfect? So many questions and worry. But most of all I was just afraid of how much it would hurt my heart to go through that. The labor to deliver a child is worth it, but to deliver a baby who is not coming home with you is a like a kick in the face.

Of all the days surrounding Avery's death and birth, this day was the hardest. Finding out that the baby I had waited my whole life to have was gone, was really and truly the very worst thing that I have ever been through. Sometimes I still cannot believe that this happened to us and that our sweet little girl is not here. Today is hard for me, reliving the day and remembering exactly how I felt to know our baby died. I will never forget that.

10 days

Ten more days until Avery's first birthday. If things had gone the way they were supposed to, Avery would be eight months old. We wouldn't be planning her birthday for another four months. But we are... Only it's not a party. And it's not the kind of birthday we want it to be. It's the rememberance that she lived and she was born, but she doesn't live anymore.

Daniel and I visited the cemetery today. I still read her stone over and over and I find myself in disbelief that this is our life. When I step back and look at my world, I can't believe that this has happened to us. Even a year later it still just feels so wrong and so unfair. And wow... I can't believe it's been a year.

This week last year, we celebrated two of my brothers' birthdays. Sam's is the 1st of March and Shaun's is the 4th. We found out Avery was gone on the 11th. I remember thinking back to this week and wishing we could go back. It was the last normal week of our lives. When Avery was still here. And now, a year later, this week of brotherly birthdays just brings me back.

It does soften the blow to be pregnant again. I have that hope back. My arms aren't just empty. But Avery's absence still hurts and I still miss her every second.

All coming back

Before I was pregnant again, Avery's life felt more like a dream. Like something surreal that may or may not have actually happened. The attachment to her life was there. The love for her life was there. But the reality of how it actually felt to have Avery alive felt so distant and foggy. Sadly, her death felt so much more real. More tangible. Because it's all we had left.

But now... Being pregnant with Avery's little brother or sister brings me back to what it was like to be pregnant before. No, I don't have some kind of confusion where I feel like Avery has come back or that I have regressed to my first pregnancy. I am very aware of my two separate children, and I don't have a problem differentiating between the two. But it's been almost a year since Avery died. And it was so hard to remember even remotely what it was like to carry life when I was surrounded with death.

The nausea. The exhaustion. The fear of first trimester miscarriage. Feeling nervous over every tiny pain. I did all that with Avery too. So afraid I could lose her. I never thought I actually would after I got through to that second trimester into the so-called "safe zone." All that to say that I remember more clearly now how it felt to have Avery here with me and to think that she was going to be here with us one day. That her arrival would be marked with joy instead of marred with devastation.

Being pregnant again makes me miss Avery more. She should be here to meet her coming sibling. In all actuality, this baby would not be on the way if Avery was here. Maybe that's part of the master plan. I know Avery gave her life to teach us what is wrong with my body so none of her other siblings would have to die for nothing. Maybe there's a huge purpose for this new baby. I don't know. I just know that everything is in God's hands. And I'm grateful that it's not in mine.

New blog

I started a new blog for my pregnancy with Avery's little brother or sister. If you are interested in reading, come on over. :)



Big sister

We found out on Friday the 21st that Avery is going to be a big sister!

I still can't believe it. I am ecstatic and nervous. Thrilled and unconvinced. All at the same time. I guess that's how it is with rainbow babies. It's all so surreal.

Nine long cycles for this new little one.  It felt like an eternity. October, when he or she is due, feels like an eternity away. But I have to trust God, just like I trust Him with Avery. I will do anything to get this little one here safe and sound.

I might start a new blog for my pregnancy and keep this one soley about Avery... even though it's 'our life without her.' But we shall see!!

Any and all prayers for baby number two's health and growth would be appreciated beyond words. Thank you so much! <3

"For this child I prayed." - 1 Samuel 1:27