Just when I think I’ll surely fall apart, life hands me a respite. Yesterday I woke up feeling the bleakest yet and could barely hold it together. But we turned on the TV (the silence is not a good thing) and just started cleaning our house. We’re cleaning in a way we haven’t done ever – pulling everything out of closets to wash out the shelves, tossing things ruthlessly (it’s really weird what you’ll find stuffed in the back of a closet), organizing everything carefully. I guess it’s just like all the detailed records I kept through infertility… putting something in order helps us feel more in control while everything else is spinning.

I feel anger too. What weighs on my mind is the fact that we will never be the same again. This is not something you can ever fix or truly move past – it will always be there, it will always affect us. It will affect us, our future pregnancy/ies, our future child(ren), for the rest of our lives. It has forever altered who we are. I struggle to accept that reality… that everything has changed. In one way we are right back where we started: childless, infertile. But it’s not the same. It’ll never be the same. We have hope, because we know we can get pregnant. But the weight of the loss will be there forever.

I do believe it will, in many ways, make us stronger – it has already made us stronger as a couple. We have been through a lot in our six years together, and each time of stress brought us closer together in the end. Every day I feel thankful that I have him at my side. I cannot possibly even describe to you what a wonderful husband I have. He makes me laugh when I really need to laugh, he holds me when I really need to cry, and every day he tells me how beautiful I am inside and out, and how lucky he is to have me as his wife.

After giving birth I couldn’t bear to touch my stomach. I would catch myself resting my hand there like I have been doing for months, then I would remember that there was no baby there anymore and I would choke up. It took a couple days before I could rub my shrinking belly without tears. Den and I cuddle up in bed all the time, and he used to always rest his hand protectively on my belly. It was comfortable, safe. After we got home from the hospital and were huddled up in bed against each other I noticed he was taking care to place his hand above my belly, on my ribs. I figured he was having the same problem I was. Last night he spoke up and admitted to me that he’d been careful to avoid my belly because he wasn’t sure if I would be okay with it. That’s just how he’s been…. he’s always checking in with me to see how I’m feeling, to make sure that I’m okay.

::

I slept pretty well last night, considering. I am relieved that, at least temporarily, nights are getting a little easier. It’s not quite as raw as it was before, and every moment isn’t full of far too many thoughts. I woke up feeling… well, I don’t know if “okay” is the right word, but I didn’t wake up crying. We cleaned some more today, me taking breaks to respond to emails and try to write a little bit (I didn’t get too far).

By afternoon I was feeling a little bit anxious… anxious because it felt like I wasn’t remembering enough. I ended up pulling out Devin’s footprints and just stood there crying. I just felt like I needed to. Sometimes it feels like I’m settling too fast into being “just me,” infertile me… like the last 9 months were just a dream. And to be fair, sometimes I wish I could forget the last 9 months. There are times when it would be so much simpler to act like it never happened. But then I feel horrified by the thought and want to cling to all the memories. Good memories. Important memories. So I pull out his footprints as a reminder.

Den found me there, crying, and asked me what I had stumbled across. That has been happening a couple times a day: we’ll pull out something and find a baby item stored inside. Today I opened up my desk drawer and found the four positive pregnancy tests I had never been able to throw out. It sucks the breath right out of us as we remember when we bought the item, the plans we had for it, the hope it carried.

Today I had to go to Walmart. I was out of pads (it’s amazing how many you go through) and realized I really need breast pads as well. The engorgement sucks in a big way, but I wasn’t leaking at least. And then yesterday, probably about the exact same moment I said, “Well at least I’m not leaking,” they started leaking. Not only were my boobs extremely sore, itchy and smelled like cabbage, but now I had to walk around with a washcloth stuffed in my bra. I had intended to buy breast pads the first time we stopped at Walmart… but they are unfortunately to be found in the baby section. So that first trip to Walmart we “forgot” to go get them. I thought I would handle it better today… I’ve been doing pretty well in general. I think my infertility experience has made me a little more inured to seeing babies and baby things. I told Den I would be fine going alone, but he said he’d go with me. I walked quickly through the baby clothes (gulp) and straight to the “feeding” aisle… but couldn’t see the breast pads. It became increasingly harder to breathe as I quickly tried to find them among the bottles and formula and bibs…. I felt like I was underwater and couldn’t hold my breath for very much longer. There was a woman stocking shelves there and I asked her where they were (right in front of my nose, of course). I grabbed some and rushed out. I found Den in the men’s clothing section. “I got two steps in and changed my mind,” he said unsteadily. We had to take a moment to breathe before continuing to the register.

This grief thing is such an up and down journey…. you expect to zig, and instead you zag.

::

Today we cleaned the living room and kitchen in an effort to get everything looking nice in time for dinner. We had invited BIL and SIL over – I hadn’t talked to them or seen them in a week, and as much as I wanted to talk to SIL I wanted to do it in person, not over the phone or email. This is the SIL who is due 7 weeks after I was, and obviously it’s going to be hard emotionally for us in so many ways. It was hard, I won’t lie. It was hard to see her looking pregnant, remembering how close Devin and their baby were going to be, cousins born mere months apart. But talking helped. I realized that I need to talk about him. I need for people to understand who he was.

I wasn’t sure how to read SIL at first – and I’m sure she wasn’t sure how to read me at first either. I could tell she felt unsure about being here, pregnant and knowing it would be a reminder to me of what we had lost. She and I got to sit down and talk. We cried. I could see the deep sorrow in her eyes.

I told her what Den and I had talked about yesterday: that their baby, our neice, was important to us… that we felt connected to her and we wanted to be involved in her life. It would be hard at times, for sure, but we desperately want to be able to celebrate this child and take part in her life. SIL teared up when I told her. She said she was glad, that she had hoped so but worried. A lot of the tension left the air. We talked for quite a while… about Devin, about pregnancy, about the future. It was a relief.

::

I am trying to navigate these new waters, negotiate the new rules in life. Obviously I have had to shift things around a little bit, mentally.

I love all my friends – do not doubt that. But I’m sure they understand that I haven’t been able to read and post all that much. I think it’ll take a while before I’m able to follow along with those friends who were due around the same time I was. I have been checking everyone to make sure babies are born healthy…. I have been terrified for everyone.

I am finding so much comfort in those who have been through this before. I do not know how useful an in-person support group would be, especially one that meets only once a month. I need more than that right now – and to be honest, in-person support groups have never really done much for me. I find so much more support in my online support groups…. a place where I can go vent and talk every day, where I can form close friendships. But either way there is a definite solace to be found in talking to other bereaved parents. I know I have several comments and emails from other bereaved parents… I will be reading blogs and sending emails when I get a chance to.

I can certainly tell that the forums that I frequent/float in are going to be changing. I don’t intend to leave any place entirely, and I certainly don’t want to ignore any friends, but things will change. I guess change is inevitable.

::

I’ve been thinking a lot about “next time.” Like I’ve said before, I have to believe that there will be a next time. Whether it happens on its own or we need to save up everything to afford IVF, Den and I agree that we will not stop trying. We will not give up. This cannot end with Devin.

If I were a praying type of person I’d be praying so hard that we could get pregnant on our own, without intervention. You hear stories of that happening after a pregnancy. We’ve never been the lucky type, but at some point you hope the universe has to balance itself out.

I just read something on a forum written by a bereaved parent that struck me: she mentioned wanting another child, not just desperately wanting your lost child back. That’s what made me most anxious about the thought of getting pregnant again, the idea that it’s a different child. Even if I get pregnant again right away with no help, even if I have a perfect pregnancy with a perfect outcome, it will never be Devin. The fear of never getting pregnant again is an added worry, an added grief. But I can never believe that being pregnant again will ever, ever change this. It will give us renewed hope that this journey will end with a live child. But it will never change what has happened.

I think about this future child. I actually feel guilty in some way, that this child will have to carry the weight of knowing that their older sibling died. I don’t know why that bothers me so much, but it does. It feels like an unfair burden to place on any child. Devin will always remain perfect in our eyes. One of my first thoughts after he was born was, “How will any other baby we have ever, ever be as perfect as this one?” It feels like Devin was everything we ever wanted. Even his name was perfect – it took us 3 years to find the perfect name for him. We were so happy to be able to use it.

Den worries that Devin was his only chance to have a son. Not that he would ever, ever love a daughter any less, but Devin was his dream come true. At that horrible ultrasound when they told me my baby was dead the first thing I said while freaking out was, “Oh my god, my husband, my husband!” I’m sure it sounded like I was asking for him… and yes, I wanted – needed – him there right now. But what was going through my head was, oh my god, my husband, how is he ever going to survive this? This is going to break his heart a million times over. It was all I could think about… how this was our miracle baby, the son he’d been waiting 20 years for. And I know he thinks about it too.

On the other hand sometimes I worry if our second baby is another boy, like there will always be a comparison. More of that guilt for baggage the child must live with. Will we use the same theme? How much of what we picked out for Devin is appropriate to use for someone else? Not like it really matters, not like a baby would notice, not like Devin would mind. But in some ways it feels wrong. And what the hell would we name him? Even Devin’s name was freaking perfect, and nothing else comes close. It’s upsetting to me, thinking that our next child would have a name that we didn’t love as much…. that it’s unfair.

It’s just crazy and stupid how many weird thoughts and emotions come and go through my brain in a day. I try not to judge them, I try not to obsess on any of them. I have to feel them, I can’t deny them… as I keep telling Den, you feel what you feel, there is no right and wrong. But sometimes that’s hard to really believe in your heart.

Most of what is going on is in the emotional realm. Some of it, however, is still happening within my own body.

I was warned that my milk would come in 2-3 days later and recommended that I wear a tight sports bra and tuck cabbage leaves in it to encourage my milk to dry up. So on the way home from the hospital we stopped at Walmart to buy me a simple sports bra. (I did not own one.) We did not, however, purchase any cabbage.

It was exactly two days after birthing Devin that my milk came in. Saturday evening over the course of several hours I felt things tingling and aching a little. Next thing I know I have rock-hard breasts that hurt like hell. “Engorged” is such a fitting word. I spent that entire night stuck laying on my back, because I couldn’t even sleep on my side without something pressing against my very tender boobs. And they seemed so huge! It’s like someone took my regular boobs and then stuffed them full-to-bursting. They ached, they itched. They drove me crazy. (I hear so many first-timers worrying about how bad their vaginal area is going to hurt after giving birth. Now it’s quite possible it’s different for everyone, but for me the boobage hurts WAY more than anything else.)

I did send Den to the store to buy cabbage. He was gone quite a long time, and I was wondering where the hell he went. Finally he came home and announced that he’d gotten cabbage… and bok choi. “Don’t ask,” he said with a sigh. Apparently he had no idea what cabbage looked like and ended up finding out at the register that he had just bought me bok choi. He had to go back and ask another customer which one of the many green leafy things was cabbage!

Some hours I don’t notice much at all… other hours they just keep tingling in a very unpleasant kind of way. They are leaking only a tiny bit – as long as I wear my tight bra. I found out the hard way that switching to a looser bra (a normal, far more comfortable bra) just caused me to leak all over. I really really wish I could wear a loose bra, this is just so freaking uncomfortable.

I can’t say that anything has really helped. Ice pack helped a little bit, but very short-term. Cabbage didn’t seem to do much of anything. Midol or tylenol doesn’t seem to do anything at all. I spend a lot of time fighting the urge to scratch… they are SO itchy. Sometimes they seem to tingle and itch at the same time… frequently that is linked to actual leaking, so some kind of let-down. I am just not fond of the random, strong aches that seem to hit for no reason while I’m just sitting here.

It has now been four days of sore, itchy boobs. I am really hoping this ends soon. And yet… I told Den today that I think I’ll be sad when my milk goes away. Not an expected emotional response, but… in some ways I think having the physical things going on in my body still keep me connected to my pregnancy…. they’re an extension of it. And I’m feeling a little unhappy about the idea of going back to “normal.” It’s a double-edged sword; everything I feel reminds me of what we’ve lost, but at the same time I appreciate the reminders of what we had.

::

One of the things I am struggling with right now is what to do with my life. I dedicated my life to this pregnancy, this baby. I immersed myself in it. I revelled in it. So what the hell do I do now with my free time? It is apparent that I need to find some new hobbies to keep busy. For right now I occupy myself with active grieving – for me that means writing, reading, and scrapbooking. One of the things I feel that I really need to do is put together Devin’s scrapbook. It is going to be huge, I know that already. I want to make sure I capture everything. Obviously I cannot print off this entire blog to put in there, but I do plan to burn it all to disc and keep with my scrapbook. I’ll print off some pivotal entries to include in the actual scrapbook, along with all the photos and notes and charts and everything else I’ve collected over the course of the last 9 months. But when I’m done with all of that? It can’t stay all about Devin forever.

I guess I’ll figure it out as I go. I keep reminding myself that it’s not even been a week yet, I can’t expect to have everything sorted out yet. I somehow managed to live before being pregnant, before infertility, before wedding planning. I always managed to find something to put my energy towards. I’ll find something again while we wait to see what happens for us…

One of the things on our mind through all of this is of course what we are going to do now, fertility-wise. One of the Midwives brought it up in the hospital before I was discharged. Thankfully they know our history, they know that for us actively trying involves doctors and procedures. She said that we need to abstain or prevent for 6 weeks after giving birth, to allow my body time to heal – but after that it is totally up to us what we want to do. We could prevent until we feel emotionally ready to get pregnant again. We could just “see what happens.”

Den and I talked about it while in the hospital. I asked him what he wanted to do and he held my hand tight and told me it’s completely up to me, when and if I feel ready to face another pregnancy… that it didn’t matter how long it took for me to be okay with the idea, or even if I decided I could never face it again, he would support me and be at my side. I quickly reassured him that of course I wanted to get pregnant again… and I couldn’t possibly imagine preventing pregnancy, I would take a pregnancy whenever we were lucky enough to be given one. I saw a huge wave of relief wash over him. I think he was terrified that losing Devin would make me too scared to every go through it again. And yet I do not doubt his word, that he would have supported any decision I made.

So for now our plan is to hope that somehow pregnancy has re-set my body. That somehow we will be given a little break and be able to avoid the huge hurdle of doing IVF again.

My body is returning to normal: zits. Sigh. I had such perfect skin in pregnancy, other than some oiliness in first tri. Now I have to remember to get back into the habit of using my Proactiv.

I want to get my body back before getting pregnant again. I am now at 152lbs, exactly 10lbs under what I was last week before giving birth. Another 12lbs to go to my initial goal. (If I reach it I’ll re-set the goal lower and keep going. But I’d be happy to just get back to 140, what I was beforehand.)

I really would have expected myself to not care what I look like at a time like this, but for some reason it’s the opposite…. it’s something I can control, something I can do to help me feel better about myself. So I’m going to try.

::

This morning was my check-up appointment at the Midwives, to make sure I was doing okay. I was planning on going alone, but last night and this morning I was feeling just so much anxiety about walking back in there that I asked Den to come with me. It was weird walking back into the hospital, passing the gift shop, remembering the last time we walked out those doors. Of course there was a laboring pregnant woman in the hallway… Den and I just held hands tighter as we passed.

As we walked past the midwife office on our way to the waiting room (they’re slightly separate, since the waiting room is also used for ultrasounds, NSTs, and other things) I noticed the midwife office door was wide open – it’s always closed. The receptionist at the desk looked up at us and said, “Natalie?” When I nodded they ushered us straight in, saying they didn’t want us sitting in the waiting room. They put us right in an exam room.

The midwife with whom I had the appointment today was the same midwife who delivered Devin, and I was glad to see her. I like her. There was no exam or anything today, I had thought they were going to check things out to make sure it was healing okay. But she just asked how I was feeling, physically and mentally. No issues, no concerns. She said we sound like we are dealing with everything fine emotionally. She booked me an appointment for about 5 weeks time (I forget the date, currently) for another check-in and told me that if we need anything at all we know how to contact them.

We also booked an appointment with an OB to go over bloodtest and autopsy results. In the hospital we had been told it would be in about 6 weeks, but the doctor wanted to wait another couple of weeks to make sure most of the results were back in. So we’ll see him on May 1. The good part is that the doctor we’ll be seeing is Dr M., someone who knows Den. I don’t remember if I ever mentioned him, but this doctor volunteers with the Guard, with Den. He’s an extremely, extremely nice guy, and he happens to be a big doctor at the hospital…. he’s the one in charge of the super high-risk patients. He was at the hospital last thursday and heard what happened and he came to visit us and talk to us. (Unfortunately it was in that one-hour period that I was drugged up, so I wasn’t too lucid at the time.) I was happy that he had come to see us, to talk to Den. And we are both very thankful that he is the doctor that we will talk to about all of this – we trust him, we like him, and we know if anyone can help us, he can. From what the midwife said he actually requested to be the one to see us.

The questions we had for the midwife revolved around a future pregnancy. We wanted to know what will happen next time, what will they do to keep our baby safe, to reassure us. Would we be considered high risk? She said that it depends on the test results of course – that how they respond would be dependent on if they find a cause for what happened or not. But, assuming it was just a freak accident (and most of them are), what they’ll do is increased monitoring in my third trimester with non-stress tests. I won’t be “high-risk” in the way that I’d need to be transferred to a high-risk doctor, I will still be able to seen by the Midwives. I didn’t ask for specifics, as I’ll worry about that later, but I am relieved to hear that they won’t be treating me like any other pregnant woman, that’s mainly what I wanted to know.

The more I think about it, the more I think I’m going to really panic all the way through my third tri next time. I’ll get through it somehow, but things are going to be very different. We will probably rent a doppler to use at least weekly. I will want frequent NSTs and ultrasounds (and hope they can do that). And if anything, ANYTHING seems “off” I will be driving into the hospital and refusing to leave. My entire perspective has changed.

Some mornings, like today, I wake up and just lay here in a stunned kind of mental silence. I can’t believe he’s gone. I can’t believe it’s all over. I lived with this person inside of me for 8 months and, just like that, he’s gone. I didn’t even cry, not this time. I’m still struggling to accept it.

I have spent so very long imagining a baby in a cosleeper in our bedroom… waiting to hold my child… waiting to breastfeed. Over and over in my head I say, “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. This isn’t how it’s supposed to turn out.” How can my sweet little boy be dead? How could he be fine one week and gone the next? How could we never get a chance to meet him? Oh we held him, we got to see him – and I thank the light for that. But what about the rest? We will never get to hear him cry, to know what kind of baby he was, to find out what his personality was like. We will never get to look down at his precious face and see him smile. We don’t even know what color his eyes would have been.

I will be forever grateful that I got to experience pregnancy like I did. But how much I loved it accentuates how much I miss it now. I didn’t want pregnancy to end as it was – I thought I’d be sad even with a healthy child to love and raise. But I figured that child would make up for the loss of pregnancy, would make it all worthwhile. And now I have nothing, nothing to make up for the loss. My heart and my body aches for what is missing.

I do regret not holding him more in the hospital, and not having better pictures. We did the best we could at the time, so I can’t feel guilty. But I wish I had looked at him more. I find myself looking at his pictures just to remember what he looked like. The memory fades so fast, especially since we were in such a place of shock and sorrow. It feels like a horrible dream. But I want to remember. The one thing that sticks out in our minds is his little hand on my finger. I stroked his tiny little fingers. If you focussed on his hand you could imagine that he was just sleeping, gripping his mama’s finger. That image is burned into our brains – it’s the image that haunted us at night, that broke our hearts over and over again. Den said it was good in a way, and yet in some ways he wishes he could forget, he wishes he could close his eyes without that image in the way, reminding him.

::

A friend, Jess, called yesterday just to talk – and to listen. I mentioned the loss of direction and purpose I was feeling and she suggested channelling some of my energy into some sort of non-profit, advocacy, or peer-counseling program. I really like that idea… I know of a few organizations relating to either infertility or child loss that I feel I could be helpful to. It would be a way to remember Devin without being wholly focussed on the past… I like the idea of using everything I have learned, everything I have gained (and lost) to help others, to cause change in the world and pay it forward. It’s certainly something I will have to look into some more.

I am a little shocked at how quickly my body is healing itself. A week after birthing Devin and it looks and feels so much like it used to. The stinging from my tear down below is already fading (though it honestly was never that bad to begin with). My breasts are finally feeling less sore. And my belly has already shrunk so much. Still flabby, for sure – but I never actually had a tight stomach. I look at myself in the mirror and don’t hate what I see. And, yet again, Den tells me that I look great. How he finds the presence of mind to actually compliment my body, I don’t really know. But I love him for it.

Yesterday we went for a walk with the dogs, as it is finally warming up outside and we both want to get back in shape. I was out of breath very quickly. Good idea to start small.

I weighed myself this morning…. 149.4lbs. I was 140-ish when I got pregnant, and 162 before giving birth. I hope it keeps coming off.

I just wish my stomach wasn’t so upset.

::

Most of the day yesterday I felt pretty numb…. calmly numb. In the late evening I kind of fell apart a little, crying and feeling so lost. This morning I am feeling angry. Den and I are not religious, so we have no one to blame for this, but I am just angry at the world at large. Things like this aren’t supposed to happen. You hear about it happening to people you don’t know, but it’s not supposed to happen to you. We are good people, we did everything right, we loved this baby more than anyone ever could. I loved being pregnant so very, very much. We will be such wonderful parents. And in a flash it’s all taken away from you. Why? There’s no reason for it at all. Some some random fucking accident. My entire life has been changed, all our plans and hopes and dreams ripped from us, because of an accident?

A friend sent me the book Empty Cradle, Broken Heart, and it is fantastic. One of the most striking parts, to me, is a section entitled A Violation of Expectations.

And that struck me. My worst fear was that something would be wrong – an infection, slow growth… whatever it may be. But even in my worst-case scenarios I always pictured it being something that the doctors could fix. That’s why we go to the doctor all the time, that’s why they run all these tests, that’s why you get ultrasounds: to catch problems and prepare to fix them. At no time did I ever imagine that I could go in and he would be already gone. Never, not once. I never thought there would be a situation where there was nothing they could do to fix it. They couldn’t heal my Devin. They didn’t catch a problem in time.

Surprizingly, I am not angry at the doctors or the hospital. They did everything they were supposed to do. I showed up for every appointment, I had all the tests run, and they were following my preferences in monitoring me in a relaxed, natural manner instead of treating everything like an emergency. I cannot fault them for that – I would have been upset if they had done otherwise.

But I am angry at something. Fate? The universe? I don’t exactly have anything to pin the anger on.

Waking up is still crap. I have to wake up and realize all over again that Devin is gone. It’s getting easier – some days it’s easier, some days it’s harder – but it hurts like hell either way.

I also feel so frustrated that I can’t even read a lot of my friends’ journals right now. I had made so many close connections with people having babies, we were all going to have children the same age. There was a special kinship there. And now I just can’t read… I can’t read about waiting for labor, finishing the nursery, bringing home a newborn. It hurts too much. It underscores how different things are. But the part that makes me frustrated is that I feel like I’m losing that connection with these friends. And I don’t want to… I want to participate in their lives again, I want to support them, I want to find some kind of joy in their children. I know that’s a lofty goal right now… I know I can’t expect to be able to jump right back in. But damnit. It’s just another thing to underscore my loss… I’ve lost so much more than my pregnancy, so much more than our son. Everything is different now.

Even things like Den’s college classes. He’s taking only two classes this semester, trying to finish the degree he never completed. They’re electives to complete the diversity portion of his degree, and one class that fulfilled that requirement was a class on Childhood Education. Not at all related to his major (biology/chemistry), but it worked with his schedule. The instructor knows he’s not an educator like the rest of the students so he has Den doing all his projects from the angle of a parent-to-be. And so now he has to finish this goddamn class, and our baby is dead. How fucking fair is that? I wish I could make it all go away for him.

Someone – I forget who or where – commented about the situation by saying there’s now a “before” and “after” that you never thought would be there. And that’s how it feels like. My life is forever split into “before Devin” and “after Devin.” I am struggling to accept that. Yes, there are times that I wish it would all just go away, go back to how it was before. Even during infertility and how hard that was… at least I wouldn’t have this huge weight, this huge pain, to carry around the rest of my life. I think about holidays and how every event will make me think about Devin, make me imagine how old he’d be, make me picture what it should have been like. Den says I can’t spend my time worrying about how I will feel in the future, but I can’t stop my mind from going there.

It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair. That’s all I keep thinking. It’s not fair that people get healthy, live babies… and we get nothing. I always knew that life wasn’t fair, but this… this just underscores it in a most horrific way. I really could have skipped this lesson.

This part was very very emotionally exhausting. I really would have thought that labor and delivery would have been the hardest part, but it was the appointment and ultrasound that still set me to trembling if I think about it too much. Reliving that part of the day was extremely difficult – but I didn’t want to forget.

March 6th should have been any normal appointment day… except that it felt different. I woke up that morning to red spotting and, while I told myself it was just more of my mucous plug coming out, I was worried. I can’t tell you exactly what I was feeling, and I sure didn’t know at the time, but I felt a very real sense of anxiety. I left for my midwife appointment nearly half an hour early – the only time I have ever been early for my appointment.

On my way through the hospital to the Midwife office I passed triage and the elevators up to the labor and delivery rooms. I smiled to myself, thinking about how, in a few weeks, I would be there, giving birth.

My weight and blood pressure checked out just fine. I sat and waited in an exam room for the midwife – one I had not met before – came in. I told her about the spotting and she said it sounded like my mucous plug. “Do you have your bag packed?” she asked. “You might want to do that. It sounds like things are progressing.”

She asked me if I’d been feeling regular movement. “Well… yes… but it’s changed,” I said. Not much kicks. Not much movement. I told her about the day, the week before, when I hadn’t felt anything all day, so I drank some juice and layed down and he woke up and started kicking away at me. And the next day at work he was very active, moving around constantly. I had been reassured. But since then? Well I couldn’t say, really. No flurry of activity. When was the last time I felt him move for sure? I don’t know, I don’t know.

Up onto the exam table I got, like I did every appointment, and she measured my belly. 34cm. Last appointment I was 32cm, so I had grown appropriately. I was pleased.

She felt my belly to figure out how he was laying – and I told her how I thought he had his back to the front – and then she took out the doppler and put it on my belly. There was no immediate heartbeat like other appointments. Around and around she searched. Both sides. She felt my belly again and tried some more. I was calm, for some reason. I had the utmost faith in her, and in my baby. She was very good – she didn’t let on that there was something wrong. “Looks like you’re getting an ultrasound today,” she said. I figured he was just playing games, hiding. I didn’t think too hard about how a baby would hide at 36 weeks; she didn’t sound worried, so I figured there was nothing to be concerned about. We booked my 37 week appointment and I was told to take a seat and they would call me straight in for an ultrasound. I thought that it was good they could get me in right away; last time I needed an ultrasound they couldn’t get me in until the afternoon.

I sat in the waiting room for a while, waiting for my ultrasound. I chatted with another woman in the waiting room. My first baby, I told her. It’s a boy – my husband is so excited about that. I beamed proudly. I patted my belly. I didn’t know.

I waited a while. I saw a couple of ultrasound techs come over and pick up what I figure must be my sheet from the pile. There appeared to be confusion. People were talking about the file, gesturing to it. It was put back in the pile and I waited longer. I figured that there was some confusion because it wasn’t a scheduled ultrasound. Finally someone called my name.

I followed her back and jumped up on the table, same as always. Lifted my shirt and she tucked some towels in to spare my clothes from the gel. She started scanning over my belly. His head was definitely down still. “Just taking some measurements,” she said. She took measurements of his head circumference. Then more measurements… of things I didn’t even recognize. She was scanning through quickly, I couldn’t even tell what she was looking at. I remember thinking, “Why is she measuring things that don’t matter? Just show me his heartbeat. I just want to see his heartbeat.” My heart thudded louder in my chest with every second that went by in silence. I saw no movement on the screen. A button was clicked and I saw a line come up – the line that was always a wave pattern, showing the rhythm of the baby’s heart so they could measure it. Except this time it was flat. There was no glowing moement on the screen to show bloodflow, just a little dot of color.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I have to get a doctor in to take another look, okay?”

The weight of it all crashed down on me. I started hyperventilating, my hands clasped over my mouth.

A doctor came in. He picked up the ultrasound wand and did the same thing. There was still only a flat line.

I couldn’t think, I couldn’t breathe. I was locked in a nightmare. “My husband,” I cried. “My husband!” I asked them if I could call him – they said they’d have to use their phone line, not my cellphone. My hands shook as I reached for my purse, for the emergency numbers I carried around with me. They dialed and handed me the phone. “Den?” I cried. He asked what was wrong. “It’s not okay,” I said. “It’s not okay. There’s no heartbeat. I need you here.” I told him what office to find me in. He said he’d be right there.

The next half an hour, waiting for him to arrive in a small conference room, was the worst hell I’ve ever been in. I was in shock. I’d stare blankly at the Midwife, who stayed with me the entire time. I’d answer questions. I’d sit and stare at the wall. I wondered when I’d wake up… surely this had to be a nightmare. This couldn’t really be happening. And then I would put my head down on my arms and cry like my heart was being ripped out of my body. So much pain… so much grief. My little boy inside me was dead. We would never get to raise him. We would never get to know him. Everything… all our dreams… all our hopes… gone in an instant. My world was suddenly without meaning.

It seemed to take forever for Den to get there. He rushed in with red-rimmed eyes and we clung to each other as we cried. We wept together, together in our sorrow. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I said to him. “Don’t, don’t,” he said. He tried telling me it wasn’t my fault, but all I could think was of how our baby was dead, how I had somehow failed him – failed us.

The midwives came to talk to us about options. I could be admitted to the hospital right now and the induction started. I could go home, gather some things, then come back to the hospital to be induced. Or we could go home and wait for labor to start. I definitely wanted to be induced – the idea of still walking around pregnant while my baby was dead was horrifying to me. But I liked the idea of going home and being able to post and let people know, before being admitted to the hospital. Den disagreed – he didn’t want us going home, he wanted the induction right away. I think a large part of his preference was based out of sparing me having to walk into our house full of baby things, of having to stretch this out any longer. I didn’t take much convincing to agree to an immediate induction.

While a labor room was prepared for us we made phone calls from that little conference room. I called Kel. Den called his brother. I couldn’t get ahold of my parents. It was so hard to tell people – just saying it outloud made us fall completely apart. We sat in silence. We wept.

It was around noon when the midwife told us the room was ready. She walked us down the hallway and to the elevators – the elevators we had passed on my hospital tour, elevators I had fondly thought about many times. I cried as we rode them up. This was not the way this was supposed to go. Walking into that labor and delivery room was horribly hard. I was not there for a joyous birth experience like I had imagined many times over – I was there to give birth to a dead baby.

Part 2
Part 3

A large part of the reason I am handling this all so well is because of my long history with depression. That sounds kind of backwards when you think about it – you would assume that, with my history of depression, this kind of tragedy would cause me to fall out of control. And yes, that is a possibility (I MUST remember to take my meds). However that’s not the way it seems to be turning out.

You see, I have over 8 years of experience in dealing with really rough, negative emotions. I spent a year, before being put on medication, living in the worst emotional hell imaginable. It did not have a cause, no “reason” to feel that way – and that actually made it worse. I knew I had no reason to feel depressed: I lived with my parents, I got good grades, I had a happy family, I had nice “things.” Yet I felt like I was at the bottom of a well and couldn’t claw myself out. I spent my days in bed, weeping – getting out of bed was too much effort. I felt like life would never be okay, there would never be anything worthwhile. I can hardly put it into words how I felt – but it was hell.

People have commented to me on many occasions that I seem so aware of my emotions and feelings. And I am – I have practice. Lots and lots of practice. Living with depression is something that you manage. The medication helps prevent that deep well – but I still have to be very aware of my thought processes and emotions. I had to learn what was normal emotions and what was irrational depression emotions. I had to learn how to redirect my thinking processes. I had to learn to acknowledge my thoughts and emotions and deal with them in a constructive way.

All of this has led me to now. I have all these tools to deal with the grief. I can certainly understand why people who are unprepared need to see a counselor – it would be easy to get lost in it all and never find yourself. It would be easy to give up and wonder why life is even worth living. But I know you just have to put one foot in front of the other and keep plodding through it. I know that even when you feel like you will never feel okay again, someday the darkness won’t be so heavy. Look at what I have, what I had. I have lived. I have experienced hope, and love. I have experienced pregnancy and labor. I have a wonderful husband, I have fantastic friends, I have four very quirky pets that make me laugh – all things I never would have experienced and enjoyed if I had not gotten through the depression. I will get past this, too, and will find more experiences that I never would have imagined. I have to believe that.

Den and I, too – our relationship is strong because of everything we have endured. We actually met before I was put on medication – he was a key person in helping me get through that period, get on medication, and get my life sorted out. And over the past 6 years of our relationship he has had plenty of occassions to deal with me as a giant emotional mess. He knows how to recognize a bad mood, a bad day… and he knows how to pick me up and support me while I find my feet again. We got through 3 years apart, while I finished my degree (8 months apart during the semesters, 4 months together during the summers), which built the foundation for our relationship: communication. You don’t do long distance without learning really good communication skills.

Today Den and I slow danced in the living room to music in our heads, my head on his shoulder, his arms protectively around me. He held me as I cried. He rested his head against mine, feeling his own sorrow. We know how to get through this, together.

Part 1

Once I got dressed in a hospital gown, tucked into the hospital bed, and had my vitals taken the Midwife on call introduced herself. It was one of the Midwives that I had really liked when I had an appointment with her, and I was really glad to see her, glad she was going to be the one taking care of us. She talked to us about the induction and explained that she would be working with the OBs in the hospital to make decisions regarding the induction.

First thing she wanted to do, of course, was to check my cervix to see how far along I was, if at all. This would give them an idea of what they needed to do to start my labor. My very quickly formed opinion was that cervical checks SUCK. She couldn’t reach my cervix at all, and I actually had to prop my fists under my butt to help her out. It hurt like a bitch. I gritted my teeth and looked over at Den with a “Holy $#!%!” look on my face.

Result of exam: not dialated, not effaced. Like, at all. I wasn’t surprized or disappointed, I just resigned myself to a very long night at the hospital.

Next order of business was the nurse wanted to get an IV line in me. They didn’t need to use it just yet, but they needed to get the hep lock in. I sighed and Den started asking her if it was really necessary – he was so sweet, trying, even in the midst of tragedy, to find some way to spare me the IV that I hated so very much. I patted his hand and reassured him that they really did need to put an IV in for an induction, and that I’d be okay. I told the nurse about my bad experiences, and she was very careful in putting it in. She put it in my arm/wrist, instead of the back of the hand. She went very slowly, testing it several times before deciding it was going to work just fine. I appreciated her taking the time. The IV in my hand still bugged the hell out of me the entire day, but it wasn’t horrible. But, then again, my definition of horrible had changed drastically at that point.

Someone else came in and took a bunch of vials of blood. They wanted to run tests, and we of course encouraged them to take as much blood and run as much tests as they could – we wanted answers.

The Midwife returned and explained the process they were going to use for the induction: they were going to insert some pills vaginally to soften up my cervix and hopefully get things started. Then, later, when my body was ready for it, they’d hook me up to some pitocin through the IV. I got up to use the bathroom one last time before being confined to bed for an hour (to let the pills absorb). All day, every time I used the washroom, I’d pause on my way out, staring at myself in the mirror. Me with my big round belly and red-rimmed eyes. I didn’t want to look, but I had to every time. It seemed like such a slap in the face every time.

After the pills were inserted Den and I turned on the television and we started the waiting. It was just after 1:00pm.

The contractions started right away for me. They felt just like the braxton-hicks contractions that I’d been having for the last couple of weeks: I could feel my belly tighten, then release, but it didn’t cause any pain. They were very irregular at first. I’d go 10 or 15 minutes without a contraction, then three in a row. They were also very long contractions, lasting 3 minutes or so. But they weren’t painful, so it didn’t bother me too much. I stopped really paying attention to them and just watched TV.

After an hour and a half I really had to go to the bathroom. I waited for a nurse to come in, and they said it was okay to get up now. I got up and peed. A few minutes later the Midwife came in to talk to me. She asked how I was feeling, if I was contracting. I explained to her what I was feeling: long contractions, irregularly spaced. She told us that she had consulted some more with the OB and they decided to drop my dose down. She said there were two approaches using the pills they had used: a high-dose method and a low-dose method. They initially had gone with the high-dose method but now they were changing their mind. So she wanted to take some of the pills out. I just nodded and said “Okay.” Den looked irritated. So I got another vaginal exam, of sorts, and she rooted around up there to sweep out as much of the pills as she could. This was also unpleasant. But she thought she got it all. She told us they’d check on us in a few hours.

So Den and I spent time watching TV, holding hands. We watched some Law and Order, and I think some Terminator 2. Odd choices, maybe – not that we had much choice on the few channels they had. But it was nice just to get our mind off of what we were doing in the hospital. We were pretty numb at that point. We cried on and off.

People came in our room now and then to talk to us and to express sympathy. They apologised for having to bring things up, but had to talk to us about legalities and what we wanted to happen to Devin after he was born. Things like funeral homes and burials and autopsies. It was such a weird feeling to be talking about these things while I was in labor. I was in a deeply numb kind of state, and didn’t find talking about it all to be too hard. Den found it much harder. He would get very emotional when they’d come in to talk to us. He’d express anger after they left. He didn’t want to think about it, he didn’t want to talk about it.

The contractions were getting more uncomfortable. I was laying propped up in the hospital bed, just watching TV and talking with Den. Sometimes I would make a face as another contraction started. I was still able to concentrate, talk, do whatever. The contractions felt very mild, just a stronger tightening of the belly than they were before. They were annoying me, though – I didn’t want to feel anything at all. So the next time the nurse came in to check on me I asked for some kind of pain med. She said I could get an epidural or just a shot of something in my IV, and I just wanted something in my IV… something to take the edge off, make me a little woozy. That sounded really good. So the midwife came in to check me again – yes, painful yet again – and found that I was 3cm dialated. I was pleased with that. The nurse warned Den that I may become giggly and say very odd things while I was medicated, then she stuck a needle in the IV and put some sort of drug into it. As it flushed into my system I immediately started feeling the room spin in a very pleasant way. People were talking, but I didn’t bother even trying to pay attention. My eyes didn’t want to focus on anything. I happily just let go to the sensation of drifting and dozed off.

I drifted in and out for the next hour. I slept for a while, then would wake up a little bit. I got really really hot and kicked off all the blankets I had on me. I could feel my skin radiating warmth. At one point a doctor that Den works with sometimes came in to offer his condolences. I was happy that he came, happy for Den… he trusts this doctor, and I thought he’d feel a little better knowing that he was around and looking out for us.

After a while the drugged feeling wore off and I really had to pee. They said I could get up and use the bathroom, but to be careful because the drug was still in my system. Den helped me and my IV stand navigate to the toilet without falling over – though I really didn’t feel all that woozy anymore.

The contractions were coming back, I could feel them again. We continued to watch TV, and I would just roll from side to side, still propped up with the bed, to take some pressure off my tailbone which was starting to hurt from laying down all that time. The contractions came and went, and I would just breathe and let it go. At first I found myself tensing up a little when I could feel them, and it would start to hurt. Then I realized what I was doing and made myself let go of the tension and just breathe. The pain went away. They were uncomfortable, but not horrible. I remember lifting my head every time a contraction started and ended to peek at the clock and get a rough idea of what they were doing. They were coming every 3 minutes now, lasting about a minute.

The nurse came in and asked if I was still contracting. I told her: every 3 minutes, roughly, lasting about a minute. She strapped a little monitor onto my belly to keep track of contractions. The monitor thing didn’t bother me much at all. I forgot it was there and continued to half watch TV and half sink into myself.

After about half an hour I decided they were getting bad enough to ask for another shot of that stuff. I really missed that numbness. I wanted to float again. The next time the nurse came in I asked if I could have something. She looked over the monitor and said I was contracting pretty good, and suggested that I get my progress checked before deciding what to do – that if I was progressing I might want to consider getting an epidural in place. I agreed. When the midwife came in she checked me: 6cm. I was surprized. Going from 0-3 didn’t surprize me much because I knew early labor could be pretty easy, but how was I at 6 already? The contractions weren’t all that bad! I didn’t even really want the epidural yet, but I agreed that it was best to get it in place now so I’d have it for delivery.

A few minutes later the nurse was back saying that the anesthesiologist was in the OR, but they’d be by soon as they were done in there. I was fine with that. So we waited. And waited. I ended up sitting cross-legged on the hospital bed, as it seemed the most comfortable for getting through contractions. Every time a contraction hit I’d say, “Another one,” then just drop my head to my chest and relax. Den rubbed my back as I got through each one. “Gone,” I’d let him know when it was over. We just kept doing that.

I think we waited about 45 minutes for the anesthesiologist to show up. By the time she got there my contractions required almost all my concentration to relax through them. She was very impersonal, the anesthesiologist – she didn’t even introduce herself (that I can remember). She got her cart in the room, then shuffled around at the counter with a ton of paperwork. She stood there asking me a hundred questions about my medical history. Ever smoke? Drink? Are you on any medications? Have you ever had surgery? Any allergies? Do you have any family history of this or that? On and on and on. All the while I’m contracting every 2 minutes. I was finding it very hard to answer her…. I could barely process what she was saying. After a while I remembered what my instructor said and would just say, “Just a second,” while I was in the middle of a contraction. She responded with, “Whenever you’re ready” – but in a very impatient tone. (Den later said he wanted to punch her. Her attitude just sucked.)

It was getting VERY hard to concentrate on anything at all, and suddenly I realized I really wanted that epidural. I wanted it right now. This was hurting. I remember at one point Den had his hand resting on my leg and I had to ask him to move it, I just couldn’t stand to be touched, everything hurt. I was really trying to relax all my muscles, but my body was tensing up. I layed back against the bed and turned to my right side, hoping that shifting my positions would help. The next contraction that hit was PAIN! I started shaking all over, I couldn’t get my leg out from under the covers, I panicked a little. Den was really worried, he jumped to his feet and asked me what was wrong. “I need to roll over,” I panted. “I need to…” I finally got my leg un-tangled and sat back up in a cross-legged pose. Knowing the anesthesiologist would need access to my back, I shifted around so my back was facing the edge of the bed. It took effort. My whole body was shaking and I wondered how in the hell she was going to get a needle in me… the contractions were coming right on top of each other at that point. I was very worried about that.

The next contraction was the most pain ever…. at least an 8 on the pain scale. I was struggling to relax, but my back was arching and I could feel so much pressure! My body wasn’t listening to me. I was crying out, my body shook uncontrollably. It hurt so very much.

The nurse looked at me with a very concerned, serious look on her face. “Do you feel like you have to push?” I thought for a moment. “Yes… I think I do.” I realized that’s what that pressure had to be… my body was trying to push, and I was fighting it.

The nurse jumped into action, she made me lay down on my back so she could check me. As I opened my legs there was an audible pop and water gushed out. Her fingers had barely touched me when she shouted, “Too late!” and hit the intercom button. “Need people in here NOW!” I was 10cm.

I freaked out and started hyperventillating. “You mean I can’t get anything? Nothing?? I need something. I need something! Can’t I even get something in my IV??” No, she said to me. It’s too late. You need to push now. Concentrate on pushing.

I almost lost my grip on sanity. Another contraction hit and my body pushed, but I was still deep in panic. The nurse on my left side was trying to get my attention, kept saying, “Natalie, look at me. Natalie. Look at me. Concentrate.” I felt like I was flailing around underwater with no air. Then her voice penetrated and I looked into her eyes and I felt suddenly calm. I knew what I had to do. Someone stepped away from my left foot and I asked that someone hold it up. Having my feet pressed against someone’s body just felt so much more secure.

The next contraction started and I took a couple of deep breaths, then held and pushed. It felt good to push. There was still pain, but it was a disconnected kind of pain…. the kind of pain that just spurs you to try harder. I had to keep pushing, as hard as I could… I knew that was the only way to make the pain stop. I’d say it wasn’t more than a 4 or 5 on the pain scale. The contraction stopped and I relaxed… I remember thinking that it should hurt, but I didn’t mind taking a break. Another contraction, another deep breath, another push from the very deepest part of my body. I felt his head come out. “One more push,” they said to me. “The shoulders aren’t as bad as the head.” And sure enough, one more contraction, one more push, and there was a gush of water as Devin was born. I felt him slide out of me. I remember glancing over and noticing the TV was still on, no one had turned it off in all the rush. It was around 7:00pm.

Immediately I was trying to sit up. “Do you want him on your chest?” they said. “No,” I replied, “I just want to look at him.” I scooted my butt backwards so I could sit up and look down at him. I started crying, looking down at the still body of my baby. Den was sobbing. The midwives and nurses were all crying too. I saw the midwife unwrap the cord from around Devin’s neck. His skin didn’t look quite right. His skull looked very strange, the plates in his head were very loose and sagging more than a newborn’s ought to. I wanted to look at him, but I wanted them to put a hat on him, dress him. It hurt to look at him like that. They took him away when we said they could. They told us they would bring him back whenever we wanted, that they would wash him and dress him and take care of him.

I layed back in the bed, exhausted physically and emotionally. Den leaned over and hugged me. “You were amazing,” he said to me. We cried and hung on to each other. It was such an amazing experience, giving birth. I was so amazed at what I’d done, what my body had done. I’d do it again. I was in awe of how quickly it all had gone – they hadn’t even gotten to the pitocin. They hadn’t even done a second dose of the pills, which they had intended to do in around 4 hours after the first one. My body responded to those pills and just went into full-fledged labor. From nothing to birth in 6 hours – and I had only had some IV drug in my system for about an hour, the rest was all me. I gave birth without a bit of medicine in my system. I got my natural birth – Devin gave me that gift, and I am thankful.

It should have been the best day of my life.

Part 3

I find myself in an in-between place on so many things. I don’t fit into any category anymore, even those I did before.

I think about all the times in live when people you don’t really know make conversation… at the hair-dresser, waiting in line, chatting at a party. All those times people ask, “Do you have children?” I think about this and wonder what the hell will I answer now? Either answer I give is unpleasant. I could say simply, “No.” It’s sort of true: we don’t have any living children, it is just me and my husband. I know that is more or less the answer they would expect. But it’s not really true, we did have a child. I carried a child for 8 months; I gave birth to a child. But if I do answer, “Yes,” people will assume I mean a live child and ask how old he is or some other comment appropriate for a mother of a live child. Somehow I don’t think, “Yes, we had a child – he died,” is what people would expect in a lighthearted conversation.

I’m sure in time I will figure out a way to answer that is both appropriate and honest. Someday I’ll be able to say, “Our firstborn died,” without crying. But this is the very question that keeps me away from public places right now. I am fine being around people who know – people who I can talk to honestly, people who don’t mind me crying as I talk about my son. But I am not ready for the hairdresser. I am not ready for the cashier. I am not ready to talk about him without pouring my heart out. And I can only imagine how uncomfortable and caught-off-guard a stranger would feel to stumble across that kind of emotional rats nest unintentionally.

There are other things that I find myself falling between the categories with. Infertility, for one. Am I infertile? Well, technically as far as we know, yes. Having a child doesn’t really change that, I’ll be forever infertile. But what the hell are we dealing with now? Primary infertility or secondary? Do I belong on TTC#1 forums? That seems not quite right. We got pregnant, we had a son. I am a mother. I got to experience all of pregnancy, and I recognize that pretty much all of the women on those forums have not had that chance. But by the same token, I certainly don’t feel right on TTC#2 or more forums where everyone is talking about their child(ren). I am in between. I slip between the cracks.

I am finding a lot of comfort talking to others who have also lost their babies, those who are struggling or have struggled with the same things I find myself dealing with. That doesn’t mean I don’t value everyone else’s support, not at all…. everything counts. But there is some measure of comfort simply in finding a place that you belong, even if it’s a place that you never ever wanted to be. Whether or not I want to be, I am the mother of a stillborn child. It’s who I am now. And somehow it helps me heal to acknowledge that and embrace it.

Even thinking about our next child. The next one will always be just that: our second child.

::

I am encouraged when I read the blogs of those who either had a child before their loss, or had a child after the loss… it’s helpful to see how children deal with it. I admit, at first I was really upset with the fact that our future children would have to grow up with the terrible knowledge that their older sibling died. It seems so unfair to them, to be born into such a sad circumstance. I guess that comes partially from me having grown up with such a perfect, happy family. Of course I want that for my children.

But you know… when I became an adult I started hearing more stories of the extended family, things I never knew. Several relatives had children they gave up for adoption at birth. I’m just learning now that some of our relatives and long-time family friends – both Den’s and mine – lost children to miscarriage or stillbirth. We are a little surprized, a little shocked. How come we never knew this part of our family history? Why does no one talk about it? That used to be the way of things: bad things were swept under the rug. No one told the siblings about the child that was given up – no one was even told about the pregnancy. I think about those relatives going through that period of their life and feel so very sad. Not only did they had this huge horrible life event to deal with, but they had to do it alone. They weren’t allowed to talk about it. They weren’t allowed to acknowledge it. They suffered in silence.

I am so thankful that is not how it is for us. That is not how it will be with Devin. He is not ever going to be forgotten, not by us, not by anyone. Den’s mom has a grandmother’s ring that she adds to whenever she gets new grandchildren. She told us that she is still going to add a stone for Devin. I can’t even tell you how much that means to me, to both of us. I just wanted to cry with relief when Den told me.

I’m sure some people will think that it’s easier to gloss over it, pretend it never happened… to get on with life. But that’s not how it is. I hope to gently let people know that it’s okay to talk about him – it’s good to acknowledge his life and death. Through us people will know him – people do know him. This journal lets me share with the world all the joy he brought to us. Now it lets us share our grief and sorrow. We do not walk alone.

One of the things that really affected me after Devin’s death was finding out how often stillbirth happens. Statistics say there are anywhere between 26,000 and 30,000 stillbirths that happen every year in the United States alone. One site states that 1 out of every 115 deliveries is a stillbirth. How did we not know that? How, with all my reading and educating myself, did I not know that this was even possible? No one talks about it. Just like infertility. Society is still learning how to have open discussion about it… still learning how to approach the subject.

I have always been very open about our struggle with infertility (sometimes more than Den would prefer!). I’ve never hid from it, I’ve never glossed over our struggles. I think it helped not only me, but it helped people to understand us, and hopefully to understand others that they encounter who are going through a similar experience. I hope I’ll be able to do the same with the loss of our Devin. It’s not comfortable. It’s not happy. But this is our life, this is how it is.

Looking over some very recent photos of myself I realized I gained a little bit more than I thought I had. I have more left than just a flabby stomach. My face is a little more round than it used to be, my thighs a little bit wider. My body is doing well enough with shedding the pregnancy weight, but it does occur to me that I’m going to need to do more than sit on my ass if I want to get my body back into some semblence of health and shape again. (At midwife appointments they would ask me if I was getting exercise. I would say, “Ummm, well, I go up and down the stairs a lot at work…”)

So… I’ve started walking. Walking, people. I hate walking. And I apparently suck at it – I can’t even make the little loop around the block (less than a mile) without my chest and sides hurting and feeling completely out of breath. It’s pathetic. But it’s getting a little easier each day. Den and I go together, we take both dogs with us. We’re all four out of shape, but I’m definitely the one lagging behind.

I am pleased with the progress I’ve already made though – not that I think it was any of my own doing. Down to around 148lbs already.

I feel really driven by this need to get in shape. Maybe it won’t last very long – that remains to be seen. But while I’m waiting to get pregnant again, I just feel this desire to do what I can to be happy with my body. Maybe it’s simply something that I can have some control over.

My boobs are back to normal, by the way. Two or three days ago they started feeling a little better. Yesterday they felt a LOT better – I even felt brave enough to sleep without a bra on. Today they feel pretty much the way they always have. And I’m quite pleased to say that if they did get any new stretch marks they are very minor ones, and constrained to the underside of my boobs. And they don’t seem any less perky than ever. Yay.

::

My reactiveness to babies/pregnancy seems to be limited to people in the third trimester and newborns. Older children (like even those 9 months and older) don’t seem to trigger a huge kneejerk reaction in me. And people earlier in their pregnancy don’t seem to bother me as much, I can handle that and even sometimes look forward to my next pregnancy (if I’m feeling positive enough to think that it’ll happen soon). But third trimester getting-ready-to-give-birth? Newborn I-can’t-believe-I-have-a-baby? Not so good for me right now. I’ve had a couple of unexpected meltdowns when just randomly reading things online. It really, truly sucks because of course I was nesting and building relationships with people who were due right around when I was and now suddenly I can’t go near the very thing that comforted and reassured me. And I know that friends understand (and if they don’t they’re not much of a friend!). But it’s upsetting to me. I want to participate and cheer people on. I just can’t.

I’ve had a lot of experience feeling jealous and upset by babies. At least I don’t feel bitter anymore (not at the moment, anyway). I was so bitter before I got pregnant, and I hated it. Now I’m just sad. But I’m just really pissed off to be back here right when I was finally getting over it, getting past it. I’m so done with this shit.