Today Carlos and I finalized the design we made for Sylvia’s final urn. He has been working on it for months and it is coming to the last couple details before it gets brought home and we will transfer her ashes from the urn she is currently in to this new one. Both urns are beautiful, but for her to be resting inside one that her daddy made her is so amazing, so special and so heartbreaking. Continue reading
I think I function pretty okay. My day to day, moment to moment level of operation is waking up, getting ready for my day, eating well, getting exercise, going to work and spending every moment I can with the people I love. On the outside, that looks like a pretty good life, and it is, I have no complaints other than the absence of Sylvia, but simultaneously my mind is constantly working and processing on a separate plane. That separate area is entirely filled with thoughts of Sylvia and thoughts of being pregnant again. My guilt associated with her death is a constant in that place as well, and now that I am processing and working through the idea and desire to be pregnant again, I have guilt for that too. I have read a lot of articles that I relate to regarding infant and child loss and though they don’t necessarily ‘help’ in the conventional way that I feel better after reading them, they do validate some of my thoughts and feelings and make me feel a little less crazy sometimes. My sister sent me an article recently that was posted in the New York Times that I found of special relevance for some of my thoughts that have been particularly terrifying. What I can’t get out of my head is the idea that all babies we have will be dead. Just as while I was pregnant I couldn’t imagine actually giving birth, now I just can’t imagine giving birth to a baby that comes out crying, pink, wiggling and reaching for me. I know what 40 weeks of pregnancy looks and feels like. What happens after that seems impossible. Like thats what always happens and the people that have live babies are the minority, and birthing a baby that isn’t breathing is the majority. What if I kill another baby? What if another innocent, perfect, little baby of ours dies? What if 40 weeks pregnant is what we get with our children, and then they die? What if we are talking about trying to get pregnant too soon and my body isn’t ready and we are setting ourselves up for failure? If we loose another baby…how will we ever pick ourselves back up again? I don’t know if I can do this again. And I can’t imagine it going any other way than a still birth, because thats all I know. Continue reading
Last week I went back to work. I work three 12 hour night shifts a week and just completed my fourth shift a couple nights ago. I had been dreading it and the only fear that I correctly anticipated was the fear of being away from Carlos. I knew I would never be ready to return to work, which is the same hospital that Sylvia was delivered at, but at some point I had to just do it. By the last shift I was exhausted. I was drained, worn down and I felt heavy, as if I was wearing 50 pound shoes. I felt like I was melting into the chair when I was sitting at work, I collapse into Carlos’ arms when he visits me half way through my shift and after I deliriously drive home, I stumble through my front door, strip off my scrubs and fall asleep the second my head hits the pillow. It is a much different fatigue than anything else I have experienced and it wasn’t until after four full shifts that I realized what was causing it. It is an exhaustion not due to the job itself, or even being on night shift, it is a state of burn out caused entirely by pretending to be happy for 12 hours. Continue reading
October 15th is the national Day of Remembrance for Pregnancy and Infant Loss. Carlos, myself and our family and some friends attended a balloon release with our support group. The event was emotional and beautiful. I was shocked by how many people were there. They supplied biodegradable paper that contained seeds to write a message and put inside the balloon, also biodegradable. They announced the names of babies and pregnancies gone too soon with a harpist playing a cord in-between names as you released your balloon. I couldn’t believe how many names were read off, the list just seemed to keep going. Truly heartbreakingly beautiful. I sobbed the whole time, along with most of our family and friends. This photo was snapped by a friend, the coordinator for the event who also one of our nurses when we were admitted to the hospital and the day she was delivered. I am so thankful.
There have been lots of things that have come and gone since Sylvia was born. Initially, the first milestone was the first week. That came and went, painfully. Then we had doctor’s appointments to go to weekly, those came and went and are done now. I cried the entire way home from our last appointment, because of the finality of it, the symbolism that we were done seeing him. Therapy appointments, those come and go weekly still. Our vacation, came and went. October 15th, done. My return to work, painful and done. And now what? Things that look so much in the future keep coming and going. Daily I ask myself, ‘What now?…’ I am so conflicted about time now because as these things keep happening and I feel like I am moving further and further away from her. I don’t have the future to look forward to with Sylvia. I only have the past. So as time keeps going, I am further from that day that I held her for the first, only and last time. I am terrified. If I stop to think about it, I can still feel the weight of her body in my arms. I can still remember how her fingers felt and I can still feel her cold head against my lips when I kissed her. I remember how soft and feathery her hair was as I rubbed it between my fingers. This is physically all I have of her and as time goes on and I am terrified of forgetting these things. I constantly look at pictures so the images stay etched in my mind. You know when you see a picture so much from your past that you remember the picture as the memory rather than the actual memory as your memory? Will that happen with my daughter?
The ballon release fell right in the middle of bad storms we have been having here. Rain, wind and ugly days had been going on for at least 3 days prior to the event. It was still overcast as we let the balloons go. As we left the event though, the sky broke for the most striking sunset I have seen in a very long time. Sylvia, I know this was you and all the babies that were honored that day. Thank you little girl, you are so loved.
Sylvia was cremated and sits besides our bed. Often I take her places with us, tucked in my bag with the blankie she was wrapped in during her hours with us. We had an option to bury her of course, but we wanted to bring her home. The funeral home that we worked with when she died is inside a beautiful cemetery here in town. Of all the surreal moments we have had since she died, meeting with a funeral director three days after she was born was perhaps the most out of body experience. This can not be happening, I kept repeating.
Cemeteries used to be an eery place for me. I am no stranger to death, but I certainly wasn’t totally relaxed in a cemetery nor did I really get it. It always seemed odd to me. Backwards in thinking really, to defy the logical cycle of life and bury people in boxes. I wasn’t unsure of cemeteries from a spooked out place of mind, more confusion and a lack of understanding. Even loosing family members, I didn’t have a connection with cemeteries themselves. I grieved the loss, yes, but never felt the connection to the land. One of my grandpas, whom I was very, very close with, was cremated and buried at the cemetery that we worked with for Sylvia. After our meeting with the funeral director Carlos and I walked to my grandpas grave and talked to him, told him how beautiful she was, and if he is with her, thanked him for taking care of her. An entirely new understanding suddenly crashed over me.
During our trip down the coast we passed by through probably hundreds of small towns. Most of them had signs on the highway indicating the direction of their cemetery. I think I noticed almost all of them. Often we drove along side them on the highway or you could see them right off the road, or if you peered down a dirt road a bit we could see them. Just beautiful. The heavy headstones standing up like little soldiers, or elaborate obelisks towering pointing at the sky, tombs and sarcophagus’ even were common, sometimes opulent or gaudy, other times simple with clean lines and an obvious presence. I imaged the families that probably made up the bulk of the population of most of these tiny cities, usually just a couple hundred people, pearched on some farm land on arguablely the most beautiful stretch of America. The cemeteries were probably made up of mostly several family names, the decedents still living within a couple miles. I wish we had stopped at some of them just to walk around. I look at cemeteries and smile now and feel my heart fill with love. They are so beautiful and there is so much love, energy and paradoxical life. From the smallest piece of cement indicating a body is buried beneith it, to the largest, most detailed, extravagant monument, someone has grieved that loss. People have cried over this plot of land that represents so much. That was someone. That name. Those dates. That was someone. Cemeteries take on an entirely new meaning since Sylvia died, because of her, they are different. I see the pain and I see the peace in a cemetery now. It is a place to rest, literally and figuratively to me.
The cemeteries we would pass by often had multi million dollar views but in the simplest most humble way. They were constructed there before the land meant anything and the view was just another beautiful stretch of ocean, one you can find anywhere along the coast. There is no wealth in most of these cities. Even the land value I am sure isn’t what it appears it should be because they are in the middle of nowhere. Carlos mentioned a couple times as we drove by some of them what a beautiful view the deceased have at that cemetery, how amazing and beautiful is it that they get to look at that view every day. I couldn’t agree more.
The cemetery that my grandpa is buried at and handled Sylvia’s cremation has a special spot for stillbirths and infant deaths. It is so heartbreakingly beautiful. Tiny plots, precious headstones, pictures, flowers, stuffed animals and toys are there, marking the beautiful souls gone too soon. There is a statue of a child with a lamb and a plaque honoring the babies with benches across from it. Carlos and I took Sylvia to this area of the cemetery when we picked her up from the funeral home. We also went there on October 15th, which is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day and placed flowers at the statue and cried. It is so tragically beautiful. You can feel so much grief and so much love in this little spot. I imagine it is somewhere I will go many times a year for reflection, meditation or just to cry. It is beautiful. Though Sylvia sleeps by our bed or often comes with us, I feel her energy when I am there.
Perhaps I am wrong but the understanding, respect, appreciation and admiration we now have for cemeteries I don’t think comes until a great loss is suffered. A loss that shakes your core, alters the direction of your life and makes you think it would have been easier to take your own life than to loose this one. These losses, make you look at where the deceased rest as divine place of peace on an entirely different level than you ever thought possible.
When I have had conversations about Sylvia and my pregnancy to people there always is the initial sympathy and condolence responses. Tears and hugs and silence are common at this time too. Everyone has a different way of having that first conversation with me, or a way they act the first time they see me since her death. For many, I know its uncomfortable, its awkward, its sad and its something that is so intense that it is impossible to even prepare yourself or form a script for the first time you see me. I know this because while I was pregnant a friend of mines son died. The first time I saw her I panicked. Its normal. No one ‘knows what to say’. The interesting thing about peoples initial conversations with me since her death is nine times out of ten, people say, ‘But you were so healthy?…’ after the sympathy, condolences, hugs and tears. The statement is said closed like that. It is always those five words. It is always paired with a face of complete confusion. It isn’t ever a continuing statement and rarely that part of the conversation goes much further. My response is always, ‘I know’ and a nod of my head. I don’t know if the statement continued really what it would include and I don’t know if the person saying it does either honestly. Would it be, ‘But you were so healthy, healthy people’s babies don’t die.’ Would it be, ‘But you were so healthy, what went wrong?’ Would it be, ‘But you were so healthy, is there something wrong about your ability to carry babies?’ Continue reading
Fridays mean another week since Sylvia died. And the 12th of every month means another month. Today she would have been two months old. I woke up with a slightly heavier heart than most days. I should be taking a picture of her creatively and artsy styled announcing her two months of life. I should be doing a million other things. There is nothing about my life right now that should be happening. It still doesn’t seem real, at all, that my daughter is dead. Continue reading
Before Sylvia was born, we were told about an organization, Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep, which has volunteer photographers who come to the hospital and take pictures when there has been an infant death. The black and white pictures I have posted so far are from that photographer. In nursing school I remember learning about this organization. Though comparatively it meant nothing to me, as I couldn’t relate or even being to understand the magnitude of being pregnant let alone an infant death. But I do remember learning about it. Even still, knowing about this incredible organization, when we were asked if it was something we were interested in several hours after getting to the hospital, I found myself having an initial reaction of ‘no’. That lasted only seconds though, but still, it was what first popped into my head. I suppose it was coming from a place of fear. Inviting another person, who I didn’t know, into this incredibly terrifying and personal situation, who has no idea who I am, most likely has absolutely no way of relating or understanding and becoming involved. I realized quickly the magnitude and importance of the pictures and agreed to have a photographer called when Sylvia was born. The photographer was amazing. She came into the room put her hand on mind, looked me into the eyes and told me how sorry she was for my loss. It was so genuine, so compassionate and such a real emotion that I felt from her. She took the first picture of Sylvia, paused and said outlaid, ‘She is so beautiful, look at all that hair.’ She somehow captured the exact emotions of the room. So much love and so much pain. The pictures are incredible, priceless and I truly can not imagine not having them. Anyone who has seen them has cried. You can feel the love. You can feel the grief. Sylvia looks peaceful and perfect in all of them which is exactly how I remember her. Continue reading
Today I questioned if Sylvia is upset at me. It happened laying in our San Diego hotel bed just hours ago. I have hundreds of haunting, unmentionable, shameful thoughts that run through my head daily regarding her death and my life moving forward. But this one started by thinking about how Sylvia will have siblings in the future and that though they won’t meet her, their existence will only be because of her. I started to panic about how she would feel about this. Would she think we are trying to move on? Replace her? Are her feelings hurt that we are even talking about future pregnancies and babies? Children who are alive usually experience some form of jealousy when a sibling is born. There is an adjustment, always, that occurs with the introduction of some new life brought into their seemingly perfect little world. In my head, this adjustment will still happen with Sylvia and her future siblings. The idea of her innocent, pure soul having distress about a brother or sister, her thinking that Carlos and my attention is being taken away from her life, her death, and the grief and celebration with both is almost too much for me to bear. I asked her for forgiveness for wanting to be pregnant again so badly. I told her that the pain of her not being here is almost more than I can bear. I told her that I would give anything, my legs, my arms, my voice, anything, to have her here or even to kiss her, hold her, see her again. I told her that while I know she made us parents, we want her to have siblings and we want to tell them all about her. We want to bring a baby home and have them grow up in the room that is, and will always be , hers. I asked her permission to share the crib, changing table, rocker, decorations, car seat, stroller, sheets and closet full of clothing and toys that her daddy,myself and all the people that loved her collected and gifted for her with her little brother or sister. I asked her to help me be strong enough to be pregnant again. I asked her for help being a mommy to another baby someday. I asked her to teach me how to love a baby that isn’t her. I asked her for strength and bravery to be able to go to an appointment and listen for a heartbeat again. And then, I thanked her. I thanked her for her life. I thanked her for being ours. I thanked her for making me a mommy. I thanked her for making Carlos a daddy. I thanked her for meeting her grandparents, her aunts and uncles. I thanked her for teaching me more lessons that I ever thought I needed to learn. I thanked her for her bravery, her strength and her purity. I thanked her for her siblings and our future. And I thanked her for her love.
Thank you my beautiful, sweet little dove, for all the yesterdays, for today, and for a million tomorrows. You are our first. You are our love, our light, our pride, our joy and our happiness. You are everything and more, you are beyond us, bigger than us. More perfect, more pure, more beautiful than anything we could have imagined. We love you so, so much.
Carlos, Lucky and I got to San Diego yesterday October 3rd. We took Lucky to a dog beach where he got in cahoots with a pit bull named Princess. He then drank tons of salt water and spent the next bit of time projectile vomiting. So that beach, while in theory was a fantastic idea, turned into kind of a bust. We let the poor exhausted pup at the hotel while Carlos and I headed to dinner at one of the best beach bars I’ve ever come across. The Wonderland Pub is on a high second story with a panoramic, half circle bar and eating area overlooking the Ocean Beach Pier. They had a live band playing beachy, Jack Johnson-esque music, great crowd and vibe, incredible menu (I had the trio of ahi poke, mahi mahi ceviche and shrimp cocktail) and the bar tender announces a toast at sunset. It was a romantic, peaceful, perfect Southern California evening. Continue reading