loving maddie & ava

I woke this morning to do my day-off ritual of cruising my email and facebook while lying in bed.  The first interesting thing I saw on FB was this video--apparently done by Cleaveland Clinic about empathy. It resonated on many levels--as a nurse, as a bereaved mother, as someone who has health 'issues.' View it if you get a chance.

http://youtu.be/cDDWvj_q-o8

The second (I can't say interesting--more heartbreaking) thing I saw on FB was a birth announcement. It was not the typical "8# blah blah inches babyboy/girl healthy etc." --it was the announcement of the stillbirth from a woman I went to high school with. The interesting part of the announcement was that she asked people not to say they were sorry, but to cherish who they have in their lives today a little more--they can so easily be taken away in the blink of an eye.

This woman reached out to me after we lost Maddie. She, too, had a loss between two of her children. Placental abruption if I remember correctly. She expressed her sadness for us and believed that our babies were together in heaven.

This news is the third loss I've heard about in 8 weeks. I came to a realization because of this: I am not alone.

I knew on a superficial level that babies dying before they are born, at birth, or as infants is not a new phenomenon. As a teen, I mowed the grass in an older cemetery during the summer. There were many tiny graves--some unmarked--that noted a beloved child who had died. As sad as cemeteries are, I found a strange peace.

After Maddie, there were a lot of people who reached out to us and told stories that helped bond us in the baby loss community. There was support. After Ava, there were fewer people reaching out (with stories of multiple stillbirths). It felt lonely in that space...we lost our "rainbow" baby, too. What do you say to someone who has been unfortunate enough to give birth to two still babies?

It's a special kind of hell, but it's not empty. Unfortunately the number of people I know who have had to bury (I use this term loosely) two babies is growing. I am not alone.

There is some comfort in that, but also a tremendous amount of sadness. How did our ancestors survive all the difficulties of everyday life plus the grief of lost children? I think of that cemetery not far from my grandmother's house with all of the tiny grave markers. I think of their sad mothers--did they talk about the babies they buried? Did their aunts and uncles tell their children about the brother they didn't know growing up?

Our March for Babies is this Saturday. I am excited, nervous, and sad/happy about it. I am equal parts sad/happy about it because I am happy I have two daughters and a nephew and wouldn't wish them away to spare the heartache, I am sad the organization has to exist to help sooooo many people. Walking reminds me how not alone I am. Mother's Day follows on Sunday.

I am a mom. If people don't accept that, I am not going to be crushed this time. It makes me sad, but I understand. Everyday I think of my babies and what might of been. Everyday I unconsciously hope for people I know who are pregnant and deliriously happy and naive. I hope they can stay that way. Everyday I grieve my unfulfilled dream of being a mom to babies on earth. Every day I dream of holding my own child and hope the day comes when that dream becomes a reality. Every day I love my children even though they are not with me. Every day I am a mom.