Dear Stevie, I recently got a call from my OB Clinic, letting me know the balance of my prenatal care bill.
$601.20 plus $76.85 for your 20-week ultrasound (you know, the one where they said everything was perfect).
I remember when the lady in the billing office was going over the estimated costs with me after my 16-week appointment and said, "Having a baby is expensive, but so worth it once you have them in your arms!"
Right. What about when you don't have them in your arms? What about when you have one and they die before you can take them home? If I pay the $678.05 at my postpartum appointment tomorrow, will my baby magically appear in the exam room?
I feel so ripped off. I paid for a baby and ended up with empty arms. Kind of feels like I ordered something really sweet off of Ebay, paid for it with my Paypal account, checked the mail for it's arrival everyday, and it never came. I'd be pissed, kind of like I am right now.
I've been ripped off, baby, of so many things, in so many ways.
Dear Stevie, When Dad and I got Foxy two years ago, we became official Dog Parents. I became a Dog Mom. We've honestly debated which was the best day of our lives so far: getting Foxy or our wedding day. Foxy beat out our wedding. That's how much fun it was picking out our puppy and bringing her home. We became obsessed. That summer two years ago was filled with walks around the lake, puppy kindergarten, me dressing her up in silly little dog outfits, Dad rolling his eyes and setting her free of those silly little dog outfits, and lots of interupted sleep during potty training. Then we got Jackie five months later and our lives became even more fun.
I loved being a Dog Mom. I put up way too many pictures of the girls in my office, spent hours on my online Toy Poodle forum, and talked about them every chance I got, especially with other Dog Moms I would meet. At work, I was younger than all of my coworkers and one of the only ones without kids yet, but that didn't stop me from joining in their kid-centered conversations. They'd be talking about taking their kid to the doctor; "Oh yeah, Foxy had the worst eye infection last week and I had to bring her into the vet. She's so funny, she's the only dog in the world who gets excited when the vet goes to stick the doggy thermometer up her butt..." They'd be talking about how well their kid was doing in preschool; "Yeah, Foxy did awesome in puppy class, but she could never quite master the whole sitting on command thing..." They'd be talking about their kids fighting with siblings; "Yeah, Foxy and Jackie love to play-fight for hours over this pink cat beanie baby we have. They'll run around the house, each holding onto one end of the cat with their mouths, for hours. It's so cute..."
We even had "family photos" taken the summer we got Foxy. I told you we were obsessed!
Me and the Fox
Getting kisses from Miss Jackie
Like I said, I loved being a Dog Mom. But after I found out I was pregnant with you, I was so excited to also become a Real Mom. I was so ready to join the "mother club", to take part in those kid-centered conversations and brag about my little girl. I got so close to becoming a member of that club, but my dreams of being a Real Mom were crushed in an instant four weeks ago when my only child, you, died.
So going back to being "just" a Dog Mom again is really, really hard. This summer a lot of our good friends and family are getting their first dogs (like my two best friends and both of Andy's brothers and their wives--crazy!). It's been a lot of fun meeting all the new adorable pups, but as we're all sitting around, watching the dogs play and discussing dog food, the best potty-training methods, and episodes of "the Dog Whisperer," I can't help but be sad I'm not watching you play on the floor with all the dogs, and telling everyone how we're trying to teach you not to pull on their tails.
I feel like I've been demoted. Demoted from Real Mom to Dog Mom. Before I was pregnant with you, I was perfectly content being a Dog Mom, but now that I've tasted what it feels like to be a Real Mom, I want it so bad. I can't just go back to the way it was before. You made me a Real Mom, and now this Real Mom wants a child to mother so bad. I want you to mother so bad.
You brought out a desire, a love in my heart so strong, that I never even knew existed. I feel like I was made to be a mommy, but I have no baby to be a mommy too. Like a bird, meant to fly, with no wings. It's a strange, strange feeling.
Thank you, Baby, for coming into my life and making me a mother, and for showing Dad and I how badly we want to be parents. We both wish you were here with us so, so much. I love you with all my heart.
Dear Stevie, It's no secret God and I aren't on the best of terms lately. The truth is, we haven't really been on what I'd call good terms for quite sometime. Since long before you died. Before your death, I wasn't mad at God, just apathetic to the whole "God thing" in general. I grew up in the church (my Dad is a pastor), was involved in youth group as a teenager, even went to a Christian college. I considered myself a Christian, in the sense that I believe in God and all that, but that whole "personal relationship" with him? Yeah, I've never really had one of those. I don't doubt that others do, and I've always kind of wanted one myself, but I've never felt God the way I've heard other people talk about. I've tried to. I've prayed. I've read my Bible. I've begged him to show me he's real. But nothing. Anyone who knows me knows I'm an incredibly logical person. I've always wanted to believe God is real, but without some kind of "proof," it's been hard for me to get there. I'm sure this is disapointing news to some who might read this, but it's the truth.
Anyway, this morning I think I might have "felt" what I can only assume was God, for the first time ever.
I was laying in bed, browsing my different loss forums online (like I do every morning) when I decided to click on a link someone had posted to a Youtube video; a song she found comforting after the loss of her baby. When I realized the song was by a "Contemporary Christian Artist," I almost clicked away. Not gonna lie, I've developed sort of an irrational hatred for the Contemporary Christian Music genre over the years. Plus, I just wasn't in the mood to hear what I assumed was some cheesy song about rejoicing in death, or angels, or about those who die being in a better place. But I clicked "play" anyway (which might be a miracle in and of itself!)
The song is called "Held" by Natalie Grant (who I had never heard of, but according to Wikipedia is pretty big-time in the Christian music scene). The video is below. Take a listen.
Here are some of the lyrics:
Two months is too little They let him go They had no sudden healing To think that providence Would take a child from his mother While she prays, is appalling Who told us we'd be rescued What has changed and Why should we be saved from nightmares We're asking why this happens to us Who have died to live, it's unfair
[Chorus] This is what it means to be held How it feels, when the sacred is torn from your life And you survive This is what it is to be loved and to know That the promise was when everything fell We'd be held
This hand is bitterness We want to taste it and Let the hatred numb our sorrows The wise hand opens slowly To lilies of the valley and tomorrow As soon as the song started, I just started crying uncontrollably, out of nowhere.I can't really put it into words, but it just touched me. It's not even anywhere close to my style of music, but I felt like I was supposed to hear it at just that moment or something. I felt like I wasn't alone. I felt like there was someone else in the room with me. I felt like I really was being held as I cried. Not like someone was physical holding me, obviously, but I felt something. I've never really understood how to pray before; it's always felt forced and like I was talking to myself. But as this song played, for the first time in my life I had the desire to say something, out loud, to this presence in the room. Nothing profound, just "why?" "why did you take my little girl from me?"
I wish I could say I got an answer, but I didn't. But I did feel a sense of peace. It was an odd experience, and I feel a bit silly even writing all this, but I'm telling you, I felt something this morning. All this isn't to say that now God and I are on great terms and everything is all better. Not even close. But maybe this morning was enough to convince me not to let go of the little bit of faith I have left quite yet.
If you had anything to do with sending me this song this morning, thank you, Baby.
Dear Stevie, I haven't been able to get into most of the "pregnancy and infant loss" books I've tried reading. They're all a little too much like a college textbook I might have had to read for a Physcology class or something. "Losing a child is a difficult time and you will undoubtedly experience feelings of intense sadness." (No, really?) "You will feel [blank] about your pregnancy loss for [blank] amount of time." They just haven't been very helpful for me.
Elizabeth McCracken's "An Exact Replica of A Figment of My Imagination" is a totally different story. It's a brilliantly written memoir about the loss of Elizabeth's first baby and the birth of her second baby, almost exactly one year later. It's sad and funny and thought-provoking and depressing and full of so much hope, all at the same time. It's like this woman has stolen all the disjointed thoughts floating around in my head and arranged them perfectly into book format for me to read.
Anyway, as I was reading this morning, this passage really stuck out to me:
"Lighter things will happen to you, birds will steal your husbands sandwich on the beach, and your child will still be dead, and your husband's shock will still be funny, and you will spend your life trying to resolve this."
How am I ever supposed to resolve this? How am I supposed to balance finding joy and being happy again, with the fact that you are dead? That my precious daughter died? How can I be simultaneously happy and sad?
This is something I've been really struggling with the last week or so. The dogs will do something funny, I'll start to laugh, but then I feel guilty and silently give myself a stern reminder that you died. I mean, what kind of mother laughs when her child is dead? Or Dad will go to take a picture of me and I will start to smile for the camera, then think to myself, "what kind of mother smiles for pictures when her child is dead?" and give him a sad pout or closed-mouth half-smile instead. Even more irrational is how I'll see my friends and family's happy pictures posted on facebook (which I should really just take a break from for a while) and think, "How can they be so happy when my baby has died?" How can the world just move on so quickly?
I think what Elizabeth is trying to say with the above quote is that 1) you will always be dead and I will always be sad about it, 2) I will be happy and laugh again as my life moves on, and 3) those two things are not mutually exclusive. Just because I feel joy, doesn't mean I'm not also sad about you dying. I don't need to feel guilty for feeling happy. It's not one or the other.
I am going to try my best to enjoy the happy moments when they come. Someone told me once, "those happy moments are gifts from your little girl." If that's true, keep on sending them down my way, Baby, I promise I'll try and embrace them for you.
Dear Stevie, We are late on our $24 internet bill. I think it was due a week or so after you died; shockingly, it kind of slipped my mind. So this morning I called to pay it. The person I talked to was not so nice. "Ma'am, you are over 2 weeks late with this bill," she stated. "I know. Sorry. Can I just pay the balance?" I said, credit card in hand. "If you would have waited any longer, they would have shut off service." "Okay, can I just pay what I owe?" "Just so you know, after two weeks they generally shut off service and you have to pay a reinstatement fee to get it started again."
I wanted to say at this point was, "Okay, lady, give me a break here. You wanna know why I'm two weeks late taking care of this? My baby died when I was 6 and a half months pregnant 3 weeks ago. I'm so sorry that my $24 Qwest bill was not at the top of my priority list as I've been trying to pick up the pieces of my broken life since coming home from the hospital. Now please, stop lecturing me and let me pay the balance so I can get on with my plans for the day: bawling on the couch and watching my sixth season this month of Law and Order SVU. Thanks."
Of course I didn't say any of that. But lately I find myself always wanting to tell people what happened to me. It's strange. It's like if anyone is the least bit crabby or "mean" to me, I want to say, "guess what, my baby died." That will really show them! Like the guy who rudely cut us off in the car the other day. I wanted to open my window and shout out, "Hey! I hope you know our daughter just died!" Yeah, that would make him feel bad for what he just did to us. Poor, poor us. I just want everyone to know what we're going through and cut me some slack because of it.
Then I started to think, what if that guy who cut us off is also going through something horrible? Could he also deserve to be "cut some slack" for driving like an idiot?
Your death has made me realize that everyone deserves a little grace. Because really, who knows whether or not that crabby gas station cashier is acting that way because she's just not a very nice person, or because her house is getting foreclosed? Or whether that lady who ran into me with her cart at Cub without so much as an "excuse me" simply has no manners, or if she's really just distracted over the death of someone she loves. You just never know. Before you died, I would get angry at these types of people, maybe even shoot them a dirty look or something. But now, I wonder if they're like me. In need of a little grace.
I guess you're teaching me to be a nicer person. To give people the "benefit of the doubt" more often. Thank you for that, Stevie.
I love you so much and think about you constantly. I hope you know you'll always be Mama's little girl.
Dear Stevie, Mommy needs to go off on a bit of a rant this morning, if that's okay with you. Before I begin, let me say I know I'm a bit extra-sensitive these days (and by "a bit" I mean "extremely"), so don't hold anything I say against me right now.
I'm also fully aware that people have no idea what to say in situations like ours. I certainly wouldn't have had a clue what to say to someone whose baby died before it happened to me. And the fact that people say anything at all is way more important than whether or not they say the "right" thing. I'd love it if everyone were able to jump inside my head, understand exactly how I'm feeling, but unfortunately, that's not possible. So, for everyone who has no clue what to say, here's a list of the phrases I personally would rather not hear, ever again.
"She's in a better place now." Excuse me, but I think she would have had a pretty great life here with me and her Dad. Yeah, she'll never experience sadness or pain, but she'll also never get to experience the wonderful things in life like running through the sprinkler, licking chocolate chip cookie dough off the beater, or going on bike rides with her Dad. And that makes me really, really sad.
"I know exactly how you feel..." Unless you've lost a baby then no, you don't. And that's okay. Anyone who's experienced a loss of any kind can definitely relate, but no two situations, no two losses are exactly the same.
"I don't think I would have the strength to go on if I lost my baby." Yes, you would. Because you have to; there's no other choice. Again, this is probably my crazy over-sensitive side taking over, but this almost insinuates I must not love my baby as much or be as sad as I should be because you would be sadder and more distraught if it happened to you.
"Everything happens for a reason." I'm sorry, right now I just don't think I'll ever look back and say I'm glad Stevie died. Ever.
"It was probably for the best, she might have had something wrong with her." First of all, she actually didn't have anything "wrong" with her. She was perfect. But if she did have medical issues or disabilities, we would have loved her just the same. I would prefer to have my baby alive and in my arms either way.
"At least you're still so young..." Yeah because since I'm only 24 (almost 25!) I'm less sad about my daughter dying? I just don't even understand this one.
"You'll have other kids." Hopefully this is true, but right now I don't just want a kid, I want my kid. The one that I loved and wanted and died. Even when we have other children someday, they will never be Stevie. I will always miss my firstborn.
"You're lucky you now have an angel watching over you." Lucky? Seriously? I'm actually feeling like the most unlucky person in the world right now. I don't want an angel, I want my baby. If I'm so lucky, are you hoping your baby turns into an "angel" too? I didn't think so.
"God has so much to teach you through this experience." Not saying I'm perfect in any way, or that I don't have things to learn, but I can think of plenty of people who could stand to learn a few things in life that get to keep their babies...I would have much preferred to learn my life lessons in a way that didn't involve my child dying.
Rant over. Like I said, as much as some of these phrases annoy me, I would rather hear them a million times over not hearing anything at all, and I really mean that. I don't mean to make anyone feel bad if they've said these things to me (and most haven't); I'm sure I've said them to others myself, with nothing but the best of intentions.
"I'm sorry." "This sucks." "I love you." "I'm here for you." "I've cried for you." "I'm thinking of you." "I'm praying for you." "I have no words." These are the things that I love to hear over and over again. These are the things that are keeping me afloat right now.
Stevie, I wish so badly you were born healthy and alive in August like you were supposed to be, and I was hearing a million "congrats!" and "let me hold her!" instead any of the above. I miss you so bad today and every day.
You’ve been gone for a little over three weeks now. Your mom and I watched the sequel to The Lost Boys last night. There were a few cool scenes, but the lead vampire wasn’t nearly as sexy as Keifer in the original. They used a Hold Steady song in the credits that I didn’t expect to hear. The last time I listened to that song, it was on repeat while I pieced together your crib. We haven’t taken anything down in your room and when I went in there this morning before your mom was awake, it gave me an odd feeling. Someone (I think it was my cousin Christa) wrote in an email to your mom that when kids die before they are born, that their souls come back in future kids. I don’t really care to think about whether or not that lines up with what I believe religiously or if I think it would be physically possible. The oddness that I felt when I walked into your room came from a feeling that you might not be gone forever. Your body was taken by a freak blood clot and it’s been a confusing mess, but does that mean that you were just a stillborn, partially developed baby, end of story? I’d certainly like to think not. Who were you? I like to think I might find out some day…
Dear Stevie, My doctor (who is wonderful, by the way) called me on Friday with the results of all the testing they've been doing to try and figure out why you died. When we discovered you had no heartbeat, my doctor was as shocked as I was. There had been no signs or red flags; up until that horrible day, everything had been perfect. Up until that horrible day, I had your normal, "textbook" pregnancy.
I had been preparing myself for the worst possible news--that you died from some genetic condition that could be/would be passed onto our next baby, if/when we ever get pregnant again. Or that you died from something I did (like taking too much asthma medication or something). Or that we'd fall into the 50% of people who never get any sort of answer to why their baby died.
Here's what they found. First of all, you were perfect. Perfect heart, perfect lungs, perfect brain, perfect little everything. You were even the perfect size for your gestational age, which leads the doctors to believe you hadn't been gone for long when we realized you had no heartbeat. The doctor also told me you were, in fact, female, to which I said, "Um, I had no idea there was any question that she was a girl!" I mean I guess I didn't think to check, but can you imagine if I found out now that you were actually a boy this whole time?? That would mess with my whole world view just a little! Geez!
But anyway, the placenta was also perfect. All the blood work and testing they did on me was perfect.
The only thing that wasn't perfect was your umbilical cord. They found what appears to be a blood clot in the cord, which essentially cut off all oxygen and nutrition for you and caused you to die. Damn umbilical cord ended my perfect pregnancy and killed my perfect little girl.
The strange thing is that they tested me for all the common blood-clotting disorders that usually cause something like this to happen, and I don't have any of them. I guess the next step is to test for some of the more rare and uncommon blood disorders and see if any of them are the culprit. Honestly, I kind of don't think I have a blood disorder because I have never had any issues with this before, but we'll see I guess. Either way, whether I have some weird disorder or if this "just happened" (there's that lovely phrase again!), I will be giving myself twice-daily injections of a blood thinner for the duration of my next pregnancy. Sucks, but I guess at least I'll know I'm being proactive and doing something to make sure this doesn't happen again, right? I guess that beats having to go through 9 months of "hoping" whatever happened the first time doesn't happen again.
Knowing why you died, at least in the medical sense, has helped bring a little bit of closure for me. Having a reason does make this a tiny bit easier to deal with. But even though I now know that is was a freak blood clot in the umbilical cord that made you die, I still don't know why it had to be your umbilical cord, my baby that died.
I guess I'll never know. I don't think I'll ever understand.
To know you were a perfectly healthy baby is both oddly reassuring and incredibly painful. I miss you so much, baby girl.
Dear Stevie, I'm going to be honest, losing you has made me more than a little pissed off at God. I wish I was one of those incredibly strong people who could praise him through the storm or whatever, but I'm not I guess. I'm mad that he would allow this to happen to us. My mom's first baby--my older sister--also died, and it appears what happened to her (issues with the baby herself) and what happened to you (issue with the umbilical cord) are completely unrelated. Why God? I mean really, can't there be some sort of of "one dead baby per immediate family" kind of rule you could enforce? I just don't get it, and frankly it makes me really angry. It seems like whenever something good happens, God gets all the credit ("Thank God for making my baby healthy"), but whenever something horrible happens it's all "well, sometimes things just happen." "Everything happens for a reason." In my mind at least, you can't have it both ways. If you believe God has the power to step in, answer prayers, and miraculously heal some people, you have to also believe he chooses not to use that power for other people. Like me. I just want to know why he chose to sit back and let you die.
Anyway, I write all this to explain this next part, which I promise gets a little less bitter and depressing. Over the last three weeks, I can't even tell you how many people have reached out to let me know they are praying for me and Dad. Family, friends, and an amazing amount (like AMAZING amount) of people we hardly know, or don't even know at all. The way your story has spread is really incredible.
I'll admit it, at first I was like, "I don't want their prayers."
But you know what? They're working.
I can feel them. Of course I'm still incredibly sad, I think I always will be, but I have started to feel surprisingly more what I can only describe as "at peace" with what happened. Two weeks ago, all I could manage to do was curl up in a sad little ball on the couch and wait for it to get dark so I could go back to bed. I thought I would never be happy again. I didn't want to be happy again, not without you. But each day is getting easier and easier. I'm surviving, and I'm even finding some joy in life again.
I honestly don't know how this would be possible without the incredible support we've gotten from friends and strangers, near and far.
I am proud to say we have the best friends in the world. They have "stepped up" in ways I could have never imagined. I feel so loved it's ridiculous. They've come over and just sat with me when I didn't feel like talking. They've cried for me. They've told me how pretty you were and how much they loved you. They've brought over food. They've sent beautiful flowers, kind cards, and such thoughtful gifts. They've sent messages, left voicemails, and texted to check on how we're doing. They've managed to make me laugh. They've made it obvious we're not alone in this mess.
Last night I was able to hang out with all my best friends (minus a precious few!) for the first time. It was hard, but wonderful. Stevie, they loved you so much and you would have loved all your "aunties," I know it. They got this necklace made for me:
I love it. Usually I don't really get into the whole angel thing, but this is perfect. If any of you girls are reading this, thank you.
So what I guess I'm trying to say is that even though to me it kind of feels like God punched me in the face, at least he gave me an ice pack to make the pain feel a little bit more bearable. Thank you to everyone in our lives who is walking beside us. You guys are the best ice pack in the world. :)
Hope you're getting into all sorts of trouble up there in Heaven, little girl.
Dear Stevie, One of my friends told me last night, "If I hadn't known you the last six months, I'd never guess you were ever pregnant." It's true, my body is pretty much exactly back to the way it used to look before I was pregnant with you. I guess I'm lucky that I don't have to deal with strangers thinking I'm still pregnant, or feeling bad about my body on top of everything else, but it's weird. Sometimes I almost forget I was six and a half months pregnant less than three weeks ago. It seems so bizarre that I carried a baby in my body for over half a year and have nothing to show for it. No stretch marks. No major weight gain (okay, maybe like five pounds!). Boobs back to their normal size (thank God). I should be thanking my lucky stars for these things, but part of me wishes I had more tangible, physical proof that you were a part of me.
The one physical reminder I have left of my pregnancy with you is quickly fading away: the so-called "linea nigra" line that runs down my lower stomach. It came in right after I delivered you, and is slowly but surely becoming less and less noticeable. I figured I should take a picture before it went away completely.
It's kind of hard to see in this picture; it's more noticeable in real life.
I hate that I have nothing to show from my pregnancy with you but a weird line on my stomach and a tattoo on my wrist. I should have stretch marks and saggy skin and everything else women who just gave birth have to deal with. I should have a baby to show from it. I should have you.
On the outside, I appear almost back to normal. But on the inside I know I'll never be the same again.
Dear Friends, Family, Acquaintances, Internet Buddies, Friends of Friends, Blog Followers, and Anyone Else Who Happens to be Reading This and/or Following Our Story,
A friend of mine (actually, more like a friend of a friend of mine) sent me a message last night and she probably has no idea how much what she said means to me. Basically, she wanted me to know that reading about Stevie with her mom, who she's never been very close to, allowed them to share a rare emotional mother-daughter moment; in a small way, Stevie brought the two of them closer together.
Hearing that my daughter's brief life made an impact on this girl and her mother, even in a small way, means the world to me. It's easy to get angry and bitter and think "what was all this for?" Why would God create this little life, only to take it away 6 months later? I mean really, what was the point?
I guess I need so badly to believe that her life was not without purpose. That although she never took a breath, she made and will continue to make an impact in this world.
So I'm asking for your help. Many of you have told me that you've been touched by Stevie's life. How? Maybe her story simply made you hug your children extra tight on night. Maybe reading her story made you think about what's really important in life. Maybe hearing about her inspired you to make peace with someone in our life. I don't know. But I want to.
I want to compile a list of the ways my little girl's life has made a difference. And then I want to read the stories over and over again, whenever I need a reminder that her life (and death) was not in vain.
Please, let me know how Stevie's story has touched you. Leave a comment, send me a facebook message, write me an email (kristin.cook23@gmail.com), or mail me a letter (let me know if you need the address). I would love to publish these stories here, so make sure to let me know if you'd rather I didn't make yours public.
If you can't put into words how Stevie has touched you, consider just doing something nice for someone else in Stevie's honor--a "random act of kindness" if you will. Give someone an extra smile. Pay for a stranger's coffee at Starbucks. Whatever. And then tell me about it.
Thanks guys, for helping me remember that a life is a life no matter how short.
Love, Kristin (and Andy too)
Update: Thanks for all the responses so far! Please check out the page linked at the top of the page to read about Stevie's impact. Love you all, K
Dear Stevie, Dad and I walked to an Asian place for dinner tonight. They have free unlimited fortune cookies there, which is awesome. Anyway, I felt like God or the universe or something was trying to tell me something with the fortunes I got:
And my personal favorite:
Maybe these little messages about impending hope and happiness are just a coincidence, but I am choosing to believe these fortune cookies know what they're talking about. That better days are ahead. That someday I will get what my heart so desires.
If not, I'm so going back and asking for a refund.
Dear Stevie, One thing that I've been dealing with lately is not only feeling sad, but feeling ashamed about losing you. I'm embarassed that my body wasn't able to do the one (or at least most important) thing it was created to do: produce a living baby. I mean seriously, the odds of something going wrong at 6 and a half months pregnant are less than like .5% (I would know, I googled these kinds of statistics all the time, mainly to give myself reassurance. Ironic, huh?). It seems like everyone else in the world has no problem making a baby that they get to keep. I feel like a piece of faulty equipment. I feel broken.
I feel so guilty. I failed at my first and most important job as your mother: keeping you alive. I tried to do everything right, I swear. I kept track of my protein, fruit, and vegetable servings, took my prenatal vitamins every day, switched from my diet Mountain Dew to caffeine-free Sprite, got my sandwiches microwaved at Subway (because I heard cold lunch meat was bad when pregnant), and stayed away from sushi, wine, and hot baths. I even bought those expensive DHA supplements to make you extra smart.
But I still failed. I don't know that I'll ever get over the guilt I feel over losing you. I know it's not rational to feel so guilty. I know that no one blames me for what happened; even the doctor said there's nothing I could have done differently. I know these things in my head, but in my heart I feel so guilty and ashamed.
Dear Stevie, These are the times with you I want to remember for the rest of my life. My mind wants to re-live the moment when the doctor showed me the ultrasound screen and told me there was no heartbeat over and over again. But I am trying to will myself to focus on the many moments of pure joy I had with you. Like:
Being on vacation with Dad right after finding out about you and getting a text from my mom that said, "call me when your flight lands, now I have three of you to worry about!"
Picking out your first book, "Bear Hug" from a gift shop in Whistler and dreaming about reading it to you one day.
Eating disgusting instant mashed potatoes from the gas station for lunch everyday because they were the only thing bland enough for my upset tummy to handle.
Being out in public before I was showing; it was so fun knowing I had this amazing secret growing inside me that know one else knew about.
Being out in public once I was showing; I was one of those freaks who actually liked it when strangers reached out and rubbed my belly.
Shopping for maternity clothes with Jersa and imagining how big my belly was going to be by August.
Hearing your heartbeat for the first time at the doctor's office and calling everyone to tell them to the news.
Laying in bed with Dad and researching strollers and bike trailers online for hours.
The day we found out you were a little girl. Happiest day of my life.
The first time Dad felt you kicking. I called him into the bedroom and put his hands on my belly. I'll never forget the look of shock and excitement on his face as he said, "I felt it!"
The time Foxy was laying her head on my tummy and you kicked her in the head so hard she snapped her head up, tilted it to the side and looked at me with the cutest confused look on her face.
Shopping for little outfits and shoes for you.
Practicing using my different slings and wraps with the dogs and imaging how awesome it was going to be carrying you around with me everywhere.
Watching my belly button get closer and closer to popping out. It never quite got there.
Eating super spicy guacamole and feeling you go absolutely insane inside me. You loved spicy food so much!
My 24-week check-up when the doctor could hear you moving around like crazy on the doppler and said, "wow, you have one happy baby!"
Picking up and putting together your crib and changing table. I remember saying to Dad, "this is so surreal! Can you believe we're assembling a crib right now?!"
Going nuts at Ikea picking out all your bedding and nursery accessories. Dad kept saying "slow down!" and I would reply, "I only get the fun of decorating my first-born baby's nursery once!"
Registering for you with my mom.
Telling people about your name and how you were named after my dad.
Talking with my little brother about what he wanted to buy you for Christmas, and hearing him always get mixed up and say, "I'm gonna be a niece!" or "I'm going to have a new Uncle!"
Planning for my maternity leave and thinking about how much fun those first months off with you were going to be.
Seeing how excited our parents were to be your grandparents.
Watching your dad hold you after you were born. I will never forget the look on his face as he told you how much he loved you. I don't think I've ever loved him more than in that moment.
Thanks for all the wonderful memories Baby. Even though your time with us was short, you have no idea what a huge impact you have made on us all.
Dear Stevie, A friend of mine sent me a really nice message last night. One thing she said that really stuck out to me is, "I know this will take a long time to heal, and you shouldn't feel bad for grieving your loss. I think more importantly don't be afraid to feel joy. Don't deny yourself happy moments, when they come, embrace them."
I realizemy lastpost was pretty depressing. I want you to know that I have been able to smile, even laugh a few times since you died. It doesn't happen often, but during the last week especially, I have had moments of what I guess you could call happiness. Watching super cheesy Steven Segal and Sylvester Stalone movies with Dad, long walks with the dogs, eating movie theater popcorn and watching "Iron Man 2," the hillarious care package from my friend Lisa--these things haveall brought a smile to face and even allowed me to forget about how sad I am, if only for a moment.
The thing is, even when I feel happy, it's a different kind of happy. Sure, I'm happy relative to how unhappy I've been lately. It's like being really hungryand realizing all you have in the house to eat is a slightly freezer-burned macaroni and cheese frozen dinner. You eat it, and the hunger pangs go away, but you're not as satisfied as you'd have been if you went and got something you really enjoy, say Chipotle, if that makes any sense.
I can find things that make the overwhelming feeling of sadness go away for a while, but I've yet to feel the kind of pure happiness I had in my life before you died. It's a tainted happy. I can be happy, but I know I'd be happier if you were either still inside my belly or in my arms. You're always in the back of my mind. I'll find myself enjoying something and then it hits me like a ton of bricks how much more enjoyable it would be if you were there to enjoy it with me.
Stevie, I hope wherever you are, you're little spirit is experiencing the kind of pure happiness I hope to feel again myself someday too.
Dear Stevie, It's officially been over 2 weeks since you were born. I keep thinking this has to start getting easier at some point, but it's still so very hard. I'm sad. Just so, so sad. Up until 2 weeks ago, I've been lucky in that I've never really experienced real sadness; at least nothing even close to the intensity of sadness that's consumed me these last 2 weeks.
First of all I'm sad that you died. I'm sad that I won't be bringing you home in August and spending the fall getting to know you. I'm sad I'll never know the color of your eyes (I have a feeling they were blue, like mine) or hear the sound of your voice. I'm sad you'll never call me "mommy." I'm sad for all the could have, should have been.
And I'm also sad that I'm not pregnant anymore. As sucky as it was sometimes (like pretty much the whole first trimester!) being pregnant brought so much excitement, a kind of thrilling, sometimes even scary excitement Dad and I had never felt before. We had something to look forward to. I would wake up everyday with the amazing knowledge that I was one day closer to meeting this child growing inside of me. My life began to revolve around you--thinking about you, getting ready for you, talking about you, dreaming about you.
I miss having something to look forward to. I miss having that excitement in my life. These days I just feel numb. I have nothing to look forward to, nothing to wake up for every morning. Nothing excites me like it used to. I find myself saying "I don't care" in response to almost everything.
What do you want to do today?
"I don't care."
What do you want for lunch?
"I don't care."
What movie do you want to watch?"
"I don't care."
It's hard to explain, but I just really don't give a damn anymore. And this coming from a girl who used to have an opinion on everything.
I know you wouldn't want me to be this type of person, and I myself don't want to be this type of person, but I don't know how to find my way out of this sadness. I don't know how to make myself care again.
Sorry for such a depressing post. I miss you so much.
Dear Stevie, Tonight Dad and I went on a nice walk along the trails behind our house. We would have taken you for walks back there all the time. You would have loved it. There are huge, towering trees everywhere; it's hard to believe the area is just a mile or two away from the city.
Being surrounded by trees really brings me a feeling of peace. It's almost like I can feel you with me, as cheesy as I'm sure that sounds.
Anyway, I took a few pictures tonight. Here they are:
If any of you fellow mamas would like me to take a picture of your babie's name carved in a tree, just let me know!
Today was a hard day. I just miss you so much Baby. It was a rainy morning and I laid in bed for hours remembering how you used to have little dance parties every morning. Mornings were our special time. Like clockwork you'd start kicking me around 7am. I'd lay in bed, rubbing my belly, sometimes even talking to you, until 7:30 when I needed to get up to get ready for work. I miss my mornings with you so much.
I'll treasure those moments we had together for the rest of my life.
Dear Stevie, One thing you would have gotten to know about me is that I'm obsessed with taking pictures. I carry around my huge, 3-pound SLR camera with me everywhere I go, even on walks around the neighborhood and Saturday morning errand runs. I've taken so many pictures of the dogs, I swear they now know how to smile and pose when the camera is pointed in their direction.
One of the things I was most looking forward to was taking millions of pictures of you, too. I had big plans to take a picture of you every single day for your first year of life (and probably the 2nd, 3rd, 4th year and so on too!) so that you'd be able to see how much you grew and changed over the course of time. I was so excited to be one of "those moms," you know, the ones with a million pictures of their kids plastered all over their office; the ones who proudly whip out pictures of their children to every stranger they meet. That was gonna be me.
Yesterday we got the pictures of you the photographer with Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep took for us at the hospital after you were born. Like any new mom, I want to show them off to everyone I meet, to show everyone how special and pretty my daughter is. But there's this other part of me that is scared. Scared that other people won't be able to see your beauty the same way me and your Dad can. I know no one likes seeing pictures of dead babies, but this is the only chance I'll ever get to show off my baby girl. These are the only pictures I have. The only pictures I'll ever have. God that breaks my heart.
For anyone reading this whose not comfortable seeing Stevie's photos, I suggest you look away now.
I see so much of your Dad in you in this picture
Big feet, just like both of your Grandmas!
So tiny and precious. I love this photo.
Our family
You'll always be Daddy's little girl
So much sadness. I've never loved him more though.
I'm glad I have these pictures to remember you by, but I hate that there won't be more to come. You have no idea how much I hate it.
Love you so much, beautiful, beautiful little girl.
Dear Stevie, We are blessed to have so many friends and family that love and care about us. The last couple weeks we've gotten lots of cards, flowers, and other sympathy gifts. It means so much to Dad and I to know your life touched so many people. Today I got a really special necklace in the mail from my Aunt (my mom, your Grandma's sister) and I just wanted to share it with you.
Not gonna lie, I'd give anything to trade all my flowers and sympathy/memorial gifts for a few baby shower gifts for you, but it is so nice to know people care and are thinking of us.
Today we also got a card from Dad's students. I'm sure he has no idea, but one of them wrote what may have touched me the most for some reason:
"Andy, I'm very sorry for you and your wife's lost (I'll ignore the poor grammar here just this once, ha). I kind of understand how you feel a little bit cause I lost someone that meant a lot to me but I know you and your wife are gonna have a blessing coming towards yall way. I wish you guys luck for the future. God bless!"
God I hope he's right, that there really is a blessing coming our way. The hope that I might get another shot at being a mom again someday is one of the only things keeping me going these days.
Love you forever, Mom
Ps. I'm eating Sour Patch Kids right now and remembering how crazy you'd go for those. Wish you could share them with me.
Dear Stevie, This last week, as I've attempted to re-enter the real world (ie: leave the house), I've realized that I need to find a T-shirt that says something like, "Hi. I gave birth to my daughter 11 days ago and she died." I want everyone to know. I want to shout it out loud to every stranger I meet.
Why, you might be wondering?
So that the nice salesperson at Menards who innocently asks me how I'm doing as we walk into the store would know why I can't respond with my usual cheery "great! How are you?"
So the new neighbors I run into while taking the dogs out would understand why I'm not in the mood to chat about the weather; that I'm not rude and unfriendly, just distracted and sad.
So strangers at the mall would know why my stomach looks poochy, my eyes puffy, and that there's a reason I'm wearing grungy sweat pants out in public in the middle of the afternoon.
So that glowing pregnant lady at the grocery store who I swear was following me around would just get away from me already.
So that the proud new mom with her smiling, beautiful baby girl would understand why I was avoiding making eye contact with her; it's not that I don't like babies, I just miss my own little girl so much.
I guess I can't see a "My baby died" shirt being a huge seller, but I really wish I could find one.
Wish you were here enjoying the sunshine with me today, baby.
I am a mama, photographer, writer, bargain-hunter, wannabe crafter and baby shoes expert.
I have two beautiful babies: Stevie Joy, who was stillborn at 26 weeks on 5/8/10, and Elliot James, born 3/23/12.
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