Self Care Sunday 07.01.18

Self Care Challenge #1
Find someone in your life, or a stranger, or yourself, who can use a life changing, simple, profound hug. <3

You might think this idea was a thought out therapeutic way to add to my healing. Instead, I was just looking at a photo of my kids hugging, and posting it at midnight, came up with a caption and realized it was turning into something much bigger in my head.  

The blood drive is behind us. With it came so much healing and community. It was eye opening to me to see deep connected caring in the world around us. It made me feel so much comfort that we have already begun planning the next one, an annual event to look forward to, instead of a painful anniversary. 

There are other anniversaries. Much smaller ones, that come once a week. Grief is like sitting on a deserted island and counting the weeks off. One line for each week, scratched into your life, gone. They pile up fast. The more there is, the further away you get from that last moment that you were happy. Sunday is that day of the week for me.

It used to be Tuesday I would wait for each week. The pregnancy weeks marked on my calendar. We have just passed the last one, 39 weeks. I am no longer counting down. I am counting up. I have collected 6 tick marks on my cave of grief. And the collection grows each Sunday. 

I dread this day of the week. Its the day I usually don't leave bed at all. But that can't last forever. So in an effort to try and change Sundays into something I can plan and look forward to. At midnight tonight, an idea was born. I had planned to get up tomorrow and do some things that make me feel a little more human. And as I was scrolling through my phone, drowning out my mind, begging it to go to sleep already, I saw the photo. 

My two living children - ugh I hate that I can't say 'all my children' anymore, that there is a distinct difference, not in gender of boys vs girls, but in living vs gone. - A simple photo of them hugging. There is SO many I have of them hugging. Always in a way that adults just cannot seem to usually do. Unconditionally. Can you imagine what a better place the world would be, if we loved each other as unconditionally as children do? 

Those deeply compassionate hugs seem to only come in times of hurt. When we see someone so broken, we feel that holding them can somehow hold their brokenness together for even a short time. And if the hug is a genuine hug, sometimes it can magically do that. So I felt compelled to tell everyone who has given me one of those kinds of hugs in the last 6 weeks, how much they meant to me. And how they should come more than just when life is dark. 

It spurred the idea that other people would be able to benefit from this idea of a challenge. Knowing that it would help me in a vain way of feeling that Anna's death will continue to bring some light into this dark world. Knowing that I need to start caring for myself in the same way again too. The last 6 weeks I have not recognized myself physically and mentally, and I can work on things to change that.

So if you would like to join me, you can follow along for the weekly idea. Some might seem profound, and some might seem so simple. A hug may sound like a simple challenge, but for me they have been on the profound side. And I wish for everyone to feel that kind of human compassion. I think we hold ourselves back in today's world of social media connection, instead of face to face humanity. 

If you would like to join me with this same weekly self care challenge, you can leave me a comment about your weekly act. You can also follow along here, or on instagram. My account is @lissables and I am using #GiveLoveForAnna & #SelfCareSundayChallenges to document each week. 

With love, lissa
 

The actual death experience

Yesterday's post may have rocked your world. It certainly rocked mine. This is the continued story of that day. Its on the after side of my life. You should be warned, it's just as hard to read as the previous story. That was near death. This is actual death.

It's not like I grew up believing babies didn't ever die in childbirth. But you feel like its a thing that is being pushed to the past. That medicine is able to help us so much more. I know there is logic and things happen. It just doesn't ever seem like a thing, until you are in that moment wondering what just happened. 

When you are in a room you recognize. The delivery rooms of the hospital. You took a tour of the hospital 7 years ago. And this you know, is the very farthest corner room. It is one of the biggest and there is stuff in the corner being stored because it is not used as often. We are in it out of kindness. We are as far away as possible, from the sound of a baby actually being born. We are in silence. We are in Stillbirth. 

This is the hour that I got to experience real shock. Where the human form is so stripped of its being that all you are is a beating heart. And that makes you very aware of the unbeating heart in your life.

The nurses were still trying to get my blood condition under control. I continued to get transfusions in this room and the next. I remember thinking, "I don't know why I've been so afraid of needles my whole life, because they are all over me right now." I remember talking to Brandon but I don't have any idea what about. I can see me in that bed, and where he was sitting to my right, and talking to him. He tracked down a nurses charger for my phone because it was almost dead. And he knew, I didn't have my camera with me, and we were only going to get hours. He was preparing for what I didn't want to face. 

They asked if we wanted to see her. 

And my first answer was no. 

I wasted one hour because I didn't know what was worse.
Seeing our daughter in death.
Or not seeing her at all. 

There is nothing that can prepare you for this moment. Everything in life will tell you, pregnancy leads to a baby. I have had two pregnancies. Both have had high risk issues. Both my babies have gone to the NICU immediately after birth. And then both were brought to me, completely safe and fine. That is what my brain knows as fact. 

This is stillbirth, and there is no making sense of it with fact. 

We decided together when the time was right. And someone opened the door and from the hallway wheeled in one of the hospital bassinets. The clear walls of it showing a child inside. And then they handed her to me and I met my daughter for the first, and last time. There is a photo that exists of this moment. And I don't think the world could handle the raw emotion of it. My words pale in comparison. It is the most real photograph of a human, I have ever witnessed. 

She was everything I thought she would be.

She had curls of hair all over her head. I silently thought to myself, "I knew you had hair, I've had the heartburn to prove it since 8 weeks." I was so excited she had hair, and at the same time, how unfair it was that I would never get to braid it, or put bows in it. Or see if those curls stayed like her moms. I touched them, I can still feel them in my memory. 

Her fingers were long. Her little nails that I had dreamed of painting. I asked right before she arrived, how soon was too soon to paint tiny nails. I couldn't wait to share that joy with her. I couldn't wait till she would one day ask to paint mine, and the polish would be more on my skin than my actual nails. I let them wrap around my finger. They curled over it like a baby naturally does. But they never moved on their own. 

Her feet. They are my favorite feature on a baby. And they were the only part of her skin that still held color. The first thing you will ever notice on a stillborn baby, is that their skin has no color. But her feet, they still looked normal. I hated and loved that at the same time. 

Her features of her face were delicate and feminine. She was beautiful. I remember the doctor saying when he delivered her, how beautiful she was. She had Max's little nose. And Sawyers lips. She was their sibling. And I could see it. But they will never see her. I will never know if she shared their eye color. If her belly button was an innie or outie. I will never know if she was going to be plump like sawyer or scrawny like max.

She will never change. I will never know what could have been. As parents we like to say we wish our kids would stop growing up. But if you ask a mom who has lost a child. They will tell you, they wish with all the world that they could grow up, even one more day. 

I knew I did not have one more day. I had 12 hours and they are the fastest 12 hours of my life. Somehow an hour before, 40 minutes stretched a lifetime. And now the hours were melting away. I can see in the photos on my phone, that there is hours where my body simply gave out. And her and I are sleeping in each others arms. It is painful to see after I cannot change it, how much I missed. 

I only asked for one thing. The entire pregnancy I had dreamed of one experience I couldn't wait to have. It wasn't about the clothes or the bows. I wanted a baby to lay on my chest, when they snuggle into your neck. Their legs tucked under. I just wanted to cuddle her. I love the newborn stage the most. And I could not wait for those long awful nights where they wont go back to sleep and you end up laying on the couch with them on your chest. Its so simple. I just wanted the most simple memory in life, and it was being stolen from me. 

So I held her, and I was so careful moving her to my chest. I felt like she was so much more fragile than a baby who is breathing. I was so afraid to hurt her. Feeling like I had already been the cause of her life cut short. I wanted her to know that she was loved, and I felt like I could somehow comfort her in that moment. But I was only comforting myself. 

I watched Brandon hold her. He swaddled her and the nurse made a comment about how he was a pro wrapping her up. My heart might have broke even more in that moment. We know what a baby is like to hold. The weight of a child who is still, is unbelievably heavier. I saw my husband, a grown man, silently let the tears slip off his cheeks. He tried so hard not to let me see them in those first days. Because we both knew we were only adding more, and more heartbreak to each other.  

Then my mom arrived. I remembered thinking, how is it possible that she is here? She lives in another country, and she just walked in the door. Anna is still in my arms. It's another thing that fate let land in the only way possible. Somehow in 9 hours, she found out, packed, and booked a flight, travelled internationally, and was here. And she is one of three people who got to hold Anna. We have a single photo of 3 generations of women together. I am holding my child not breathing, and my mom is holding me. It is gut wrenchingly beautiful. 

Someone brought the only 2 newborn sleepers I owed. Both pink. A color that I am so sensitive to now, when I lived for it the day before at the baby shower. And a single pink bow. I have tiny pink outfits that range from newborn to 24 months. Neatly washed and folded, put away in drawers waiting for her. And these are the single two outfits she will ever wear. One in the hospital with me, in photos, that I could not give up. And the other sleeper, the one that she was supposed to come home in, little hello's all over it, that she was cremated in.

We sent my mom home to be with the boys. They were blissfully unaware at what had just happened to our family. At how close they came to losing their mom. And we wanted to spend the last hour alone with Anna. The clock continued to click, and a nurse kept pressing us to make the decision. It was after midnight.

May 20 had come and gone. And taken so much with it. 

And then the moment came. That my daughter left my arms, and never returned. And there is simply no human way to describe that moment. It is every intensely horrific thing you can begin to imagine, and that doesn't come close to the feeling of stillbirth.

Having to say goodbye, before you said hello. 

with love, lissa.

***A friend of mine who works in the NICU started walking me through the day. She gently prompted me to do things I would never get the chance to do again. She was with me from "I haven't felt her move in awhile," to "you need to have someone bring you clothes and a headband, you want to have that experience and memories." And she still texts me every couple days. I will never be able to thank her enough for making this experience slightly easier. Please hug and thank your nurse friends. Your doctor friends. Your midwife friends. They see and feel so much more than the joy you think they have in the job of delivering babies. They knew before me, that his happens too much. 

The near death experience

This is part of my story I haven't been as vocal about. It's still always there on the edge of my mind. But that mind can only handle so much right now. So things are stored in messy boxes all over my memory. Sometimes they spill over if I ignore them too long. This is one of those things I'm trying to ignore because thinking about it too much makes it something that you will never move past. I almost died. I am a 'miracle' case. I am the "I've never had a patient come that close to dying, and live." 

That's hard to live with, knowing those things. Experiencing what happened. Trying to be grateful the worst day of my life wasn't even worse. Wasn't the last day of my life. 

So today I am going to break down that entire day. Not for anyone else but me. These are intense events & emotions, this is a big post. Read ahead with warning. 

On May 19 I was surrounded by people celebrating Anna and myself. It was a long day, and I was laying on the couch feeling a little crappy. I went to bed early but feeling overall amazing still. I woke up in the early hours of May 20, which isn't uncommon in the last days of pregnancy. I felt sick in my stomach. But I had had pneumonia and other sickness a lot during this pregnancy. I chalked it up to that, and my exhaustion put me back to sleep a few hours later. I woke up early and fed the kids. I let Brandon sleep in that morning. When he came down at about 9am I was seeing spots in my vision. This is also not uncommon for me. I get the same thing before a migraine. It's called an aura, and its a warning. It was meant to be a bigger warning but I discounted it. I made Brandon take my temperature because I felt like I was off. It was normal. 

I went to try and relax, I ran a bath and started reading a book I had been waiting to release. It was about 10 min into the bath that I realized Anna wasn't moving. She loved dancing in the bathtub. Especially when the heat was opposite of the ice I was crunching. I started to notice it. I am not new to pregnancy. I know over reacting and I know I am an anxious person. I got a cold glass of orange juice and laid for ten minutes on my left side. Nothing. Stillness. 

I threw on one of my favorite softest dresses and told Brandon I was just going to go to the urgent care and make sure nothing was wrong. I didn't say bye to the boys, I just waved at Brandon through the french doors of his office as I walked out the door. I thought she would move on the drive and I would laugh and think, see Alissa all of this for nothing. 

I got to the urgent care near our house and was turned away immediately. 34 weeks, thats full term, they couldn't admit me because it was likely going to result in the birth of a baby and they weren't equipped for that. I walked to the car after being directed to go to the hospital. I called Brandon. We had done this once already. An ER visit was going to be an expensive way to be told, everything is ok. He almost said don't go. I know he struggles with the guilt of that, and the repercussions of what could have been. I Sat int he parking lot debating it myself. I thought I felt a single kick. I thought, there you are silly girl, don't make me worry, we will have years of worry ahead of us still. I waited for another but it never came. I decided we had better go get that answer. 

I got on the freeway. I called my mom and she answered. I was crying. I wasn't ready to have a baby yet. It was early, what kind of scary things would lay ahead if she came early. The NICU, my mom not being here, Brandon not being with me on this drive. I was upset, but I had no idea that my worst fears for that day, would have been the BEST case scenario. I did not speed to the hospital. I have a deep rooted respect for rules and didn't feel that I was in that danger. I did not park in the emergency because I did not think I was that case. I stayed on the phone with my mom. I walked in the doors to radiology, no one was there. I didn't know where to go to find Labor & delivery. I followed a LONG hallway, looking back I could have died there and no one would have found me for a long time. I got the elevators that looked familiar and walked inside it without having to wait. I was still on the phone, I had found the L&D desk. I told my mom I would call her in 5 minutes after checking in. 

There was SO many nurses behind the desk, chatting away. They barely glanced at me and told me to fill out some forms to check in. I picked up a pen and started writing my name on the clipboard. I noticed that my hand was starting to not respond to my intent to finish writing my own name. My printing went from precise to a slurred long line. I looked up, and things started to move in slow motion. And I got the words "I think something is wrong" out, in a voice I didn't recognize as mine. I saw nurses faces turn to horror as my body went to the ground. 

Suddenly I was in a wheel chair. And there was a group of women yelling commands at each other. I couldn't lift my legs onto the supports and they were being dragged under the force of the chair being run down a hallway.  I don't remember being moved from the chair to the table. I just opened my eyes to laying flat on my back, in a room of 30 nurses and doctors. Everyone screaming over the next. A nurse said my blood was like water, I remember thinking, does she mean its clear? What does blood like water mean? Someone said I was too pale and I tried to tell them I am always pale. "She's conscious?!" Two nurses were having an argument over the fact that they didn't hear the ambulance come in, the other said I had driven myself, and the first said there was NO way someone in my condition, was driving a car a few minutes ago.  

Someone yelled "SHE'S IN DIC!" I didn't know what this meant. Medical terms were being flung around the room. I had about 4 needles in each arm. Blood transfusions, platelets, plasma, medications to treat DIC. Of the 30 nurses, ones job was to simply keep holding my hand and telling me I was going to be ok, and then in between she would hit my face and tell me to stay awake. 

A nurse was on the table above me, and she was urgently cutting my dress off. At the same time I thought, no please don't ruin my favorite dress. And then, they only do this when someone is dying. 

I tried to remain calm as it was sinking in. I looked down at my giant stomach. I noticed my OB was there with an ultrasound wand. He was wearing a suit and tie. It was grey and yellow I think. I noticed it because he was the only one not in scrubs. And I didn't understand how he was standing in this emergency room so suddenly. I learned after the fact, that he happened to be across the street at church when he got a call about me. He rushed over and that act probably saved my life. He told me every tiny piece of that day, fell in a way that saved me. Because I should have died. 

He said it three times. The last time he said, "Do you understand me, the baby has no heartbeat. We cannot get her out right now because you are not stable enough to survive it. You're bleeding out internally." I remember arching my back and crying, in a primal pleading to reverse time. He clearly must be mistaken because my mom told me everything was going to be fine just 5 minutes ago. I ask for Brandon, someone had to get Brandon here right now. Because this was going to be it. This was going to be goodbye to Anna, and goodbye to me. And I didn't know if he was going to make it in time to hear that goodbye. 

The next person I asked for was my mom. I was a child in that moment, and I simply needed my mom to tell me again that everything was ok. I worried about her. I knew what this last year had done to both of us. I wanted to say sorry, I wanted to tell her I loved her, I wanted to talk to her one last time. I wanted her there. I was alone and the two people I wanted there, didn't even know what was happening. 

At this point an anesthesiologist appeared near my head. Again shocked that I was responsive. They began making plans to put me under general anesthetic. I felt if they put me under, I would never wake up again. And Brandon wasn't there yet. I begged to be left awake, I was going to pull all my strength to see my husband one last time. I needed to tell him I loved him. I needed to tell him that I loved Sawyer, remind him that he is so smart, he is the sweetest boy I know, and that he gives the best hugs in the world and I love him. I needed to tell him that I loved Max, remind him that his smile lights up the world, that he is crazy and mayhem and everything perfect. Tell the boys that their laughter is the best sound I've ever heard in my life. I needed to tell Brandon, I'm so sorry. I couldn't save our daughter. I'm so sorry I am leaving you in this life and you are going to be a single father raising our children. I'm so sorry I am dividing our family into here on earth, and heaven above. I was going with Anna who was already gone. I am so sorry, I didn't want it to end like this. I love you, I love all of you, and I don't want to die. 

I fought and I had a team of doctors fighting for me. And against the odds they let me stay awake because I was able to verbally ask for it, and sign a piece of paper, even though I couldn't hold the pen, and a nurse waved my hand back and forth and called it a signature. I was on a bed being rushed to an OR. I remember thinking, I've seen this movie, this tv show, this scene. The people don't make it. I was being prepped for surgery. I had done this surgery twice before, but this was not like that. The doctor asked for a time stamp. 40 minutes. It had only been 40 minutes since I walked into Labor & delivery. All of this had happened in under an hour, and it felt like time was stretching longer and longer than possible.

I looked to my right and there was Brandon's face. He was wearing full scrubs, and I could read his emotion on his face. His eye's were sad and holding back tears. A strong fake front for my sake, but I knew. I couldn't speak. I knew the answer but I asked him anyways. I thought maybe he had a different answer. "Did we lose the baby?" I asked it over, and over, and over. I thought if I asked it enough, he would answer differently. I waited for the cry of a baby to enter the room. It was silent. The answer would never change. My life would never be the same.

I closed my eyes and entered a blackness in my mind that I have never witnessed. I saw long linear paths of the brightest white, and colors swirled into it that don't exist. I walked this path, and I felt a calmness. If this was death, it was beautiful. I would interrupt it and open my eyes again, looking at Brandon. I wanted to stay with him. I closed my eyes again and went immediately back. I was existing in two places. One where the worst experience ever was happening, and one where there was peace. There was light in a tunnel of darkness. I had to choose. And I would choose it again every time. I wanted to stay, I didn't care what the cost was, I wanted to open my eyes and see Brandon holding my hand and my whole life in his. 

The cost was losing Anna. The cost is a lifetime of emotional toll. The cost is a line in my life of before and after. The cost is that part of me did die that day. The cost will continue to ask for more, for the rest of my life. It is worth the cost. But I would still do anything to change it. 

This is the near death experience. This is what it is like to come as close to the other side as possible. I lost half of my bodies blood supply. I bled out internally. I was told I would 100% have died if I stayed home. They believed if I had arrived 2 minutes later, I would have died. 120 seconds between life and death.

I am a miracle. Every tiny detail, of every second of that day landed in a way to save my life. I should be beyond grateful. But this is only the beginning of this story. This is how we arrived at, "would you like to see your daughter." For the first and last time. Dying and surviving only brought me to: living after stillbirth.  And that's a story for another time. This huge post and experience is only a fraction of what is happening in my heart and mind right now.

It is a moment in time, forever frozen. I will never forget 11am-11:59am. 

Anna Mae Christensen
born May 20 2018
11:59

This version of Alissa
Born May 20 2018
12:00

I did die that day. A miracle, and a team of incredible doctors & nurses refused to accept that fact. So here I am 40 day, 1 hour, and 14 min later. Still alive, and yet a completely new human. I am like an infant in the universe, trying to take in and learn its vastness. I am struggling, and I am grateful for a second chance. I am trying not to waste it, but I am also too broken to remember how to breathe sometimes. I was given time, but I am going to need a lot of it to not feel like this 40 minutes of my life is on pause and repeat at the same time.

I am still living. 
I lived.
live.

with love, lissa

PTSD

I feel like I cant use that term. I felt I wasn't worthy of it. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I just googled it. It has 10 signs. They are as follows.

1. Physical Chronic Pain - I suddenly realize why my back is so incredibly painful. Knots that a professional massage therapist cannot even alleviate at all. The headaches, but those are probably from not eating, constantly crying, and not sleeping enough or too much, depending on the day. The immense heaviness that is physically in my chest. Heartache that is manifesting itself all over my body. Pain, check.

2. Flashbacks - It hits you so suddenly, turning over to lay flat on my back, on a hard surface of the massage table, I should have seen it coming. But suddenly I was back, laying and dying on that table in the ER. The first time I drove the car, I took it on the freeway, and had to pull over because I realized the last time I drove the car, it was this same road, and I was driving to the hospital. I almost died that day, she did. This is the road I will have to drive every single day now, with that reminder. Flashbacks, check.

3. Depression & anxiety - I think since I've been fairly open about being on anti depressants, and xanax, this covers that. But if losing a child did anything to my brain the most, its that I am aware of children dying. And how I have two living children, who can die too now. I had a crazy panic attack while Brandon was coughing in his sleep one of the first nights after Anna's death. I was sure it meant he had some hidden cancer, and I would lose him next. I am aware that this could still be, not the hardest thing I deal with, and its definitely the hardest thing I can deal with. Depression, anxiety, check & check. 

4. Withdrawal from society - Some days I can't leave my bed, much less the house. On days I do, it often leads to intense emotional ramifications. So I retreat back to the only place nothing else can hurt me. Under the covers, with drugs letting my brain turn off again. Because it's all too much. Withdrawal, check. 

5. Avoidance - After being in a car crash, you would avoid driving. This is much trickier. I have learned that facebook has a snooze button, and instagram has a mute button. Every one I know that has babies or is pregnant this year has fallen to those. I wont go to Target anymore because the baby section of the store haunts me. I can't chance running into another mom there carrying an infant daughter, wearing the exact outfit I had just bought. I know I can't chance it again, because the ONE time I set foot in target to buy a black dress for my daughters memorial, it happened. Avoidance, check. 

6. Repression -  Some of the memories from May 20 are so vividly burned into my mind, I didn't think there was possibly things I was repressing. But talking to other people about their experiences from that day makes me realize there is more that I don't remember. I don't remember talking to people on that day. I don't remember conversations that I wrote and can reread. They are not me. A nurse contacted me after the fact and I didn't know who she was. She was the nurse who handed Anna to me. She is one of the only people who met my daughter, and I don't remember. Repression, check. 

7. Emotional Numbing - On any given day you might be surprised how not emotional I am. I bounce between numb and sobbing so much, that sometimes I can be laughing and crying at the same time. Or the complete opposite, no emotion AT ALL. I have watched at least 85% of netflix, because my brain does better when I can concentrate on anything that has nothing to do with this. The tv is on all day and night, the more complex the show is, the better. Not thinking is the only way to not think about Anna every second of the day. Emotional Numbing, check. 

8. Hyper Arousal - This is classified as jitters, on edge, unable to concentrate or relax. 5 weeks after, I made dinner for the first time. Something I used to do daily. I made a meal I was used to making at least once a week. I could not remember where the pot was in the kitchen, in the house we have lived in for 4 years. I forgot to put the noodles in the pot of boiling water for a solid 10 min while I made the meat sauce. Brandon found me crying in the kitchen, he thought it was because a sad song was on. But it was because I can't make spaghetti on my own anymore. Check. 

9. Irritability - constant stress can cause indecisiveness and anger. The unfairness of stillbirth creates such intense feelings. I cannot make a simple decision to save my life. I am sensitive to everything. I turned the tv brightness down and it still feels glaring. Sounds seem like screams. The idea of being in public makes my skin crawl.  Words that used to be words are now neon signs. Someone told me something was a "labor of love," and what used to be a term to describe something, is now just a reminder of birth. And the lack of life because of my birth. Everything, every little thing, hurts. Check. 

10. Guilt & Shame - what a way to end the list. I wrote this post while reading the symptoms and writing about them. One at a time. Why didn't I see this one on the list coming. Guilt is always the biggest symptom. It's all of the previous symptoms wrapped up in one. I have guilt for so many things. But to put it most boldly, I will feel guilt for the rest of my life, that I myself, my body, is the reason my daughter is dead. Don't try to tell me anything different. Thats the only fact I do have. It was my body, and it caused her death. Check. And then shame. This, this is why stillbirth isn't a more talked about topic. Its 1 in 68 births. It's staggeringly common. And yet, I feel shame in talking about it daily. Even though it's all I want to talk about, its all I CAN talk about. But I feel shame about it because who else would possibly want to discuss such a horrific thing? Empathize and go to those deep dark places of life with me. Who would willingly do that? And yet I continue, and I do it with shame most days. But I can't stop it either, so full circle, guilt again. Check, check, check. 

I don't know why I thought I wouldn't see those signs in myself. Why I thought that my situation didn't qualify for PTSD. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

How did I think
losing my baby,
holding a still,
not breathing,
cold child,
in my arms,
while coming as close to death as possible myself,
wouldn't fall into this category.

Why do I think that I should be doing any better than this level of living. It is barely living. It is living past a trauma. It is PTSD and I didn't realize it. I wasn't allowing myself to see it unfold around me. It has been 5 and a half weeks. And I have only just begun to realize the magnitude of what is happening to me. 

This is grief
This is PTSD
This is childloss
This is stillbirth
This is me

with love, lissa

She should be in my arms.

It is June 26, 2018. 3:00Pm. 

I am on my way to the park. We have been back and forth all day, setting up for the event I planned for the last 4 weeks. It is beautiful and special. I will see many people who have been supporting me through this last month. I carefully braided my hair, it's how I planned to wear it today, if today was what it was meant to be. I am driving myself for the first time in 5 weeks. I am in the car I last drove to the hospital. I should be driving to the hospital. But I am going to the park. I am going to a memorial for my daughter.

She should be in my arms right now. 

The blood drive is full. Of people, of friends, of family, of love. People from around the world join us in celebrating Anna. All day people continue to flow in and out of the park, with tears, and so many hugs. I am never alone. People sit with me and visit after each donation. Women and husbands from book club. Families from baseball. Neighbors who used to be strangers a short time ago. So many people. 47 donors came to the park today. We are so loved.

She should be in my arms right now. 

The kids are rolling down the grass hill. Laughing. Sawyer told me he know's its Anna's Birthday, but she died. Their laughter is echoing in my mind as I write this. Max was going to finally be a big brother, just like Sawyer. He was so excited. 

She should be in my arms right now. 

The sun is setting on June 26. We are still at the park, as the moon replaces my sunshine. My sunshine baby is on my mind, and the world turns dark with me. It's mirroring my pain. And somewhere else in the city, one of my good friends is snuggling with her baby that was born yesterday. We joked that they were already engaged. 

She should be in my arms right now. 

We get home after being at the blood drive for 8 hours. We sit in the kitchen, too mentally exhausted to even check out phones for the amazing posts that have been shared with #GiveLoveForAnna. It feels like a normal night together as we discuss our day. 

She should be in my arms right now.

Brandon pulls me into his arms and says, "I know, it was a tough day." Our tears are mixing. We are holding each other are tight as possible. Then he tries to make a joke, because he doesn't want me to hurt this bad. And there is nothing he can do to change it. We laugh together, and then we cry some more. It's the subtle tightrope dance that our life is lately. 

She should be in my arms right now. 

I have a long hot shower to wash the day off of me. I clean my Csection scar that is almost healed. I wash the tattoo I now have permanently with me. All of the products in my shower are pink. I always notice this color in the world now. I scrub the waterproof mascara off. They hid the tears stains from today. I stand under the water drowning in emotion. 

She should be in my arms right now.

I crawl into bed. My only place of solace. I pull out my computer to write. To read all the love in the world today because of our girl. I turn on the tv out of habit, to continue distracting my mind from the date.  I have watched so much tv these last 5 weeks. I need netflix to let my brain survive another day of this mental prison. 

She should be in my arms right now. 

Today was about celebrating a life, but also trying to keep my mind from realizing that that same life is gone. Today was beautiful in so many ways. But it was one of the worst days of my life. 

She should be in my arms right now. 

And she will never be in my arms again. 

with love, lissa

Anna's song

My keyboard is wet. I think for a second why it might be, before I realize, its my tears that have fallen off my cheeks. I was just listening to my sister in law sing a song just for Anna's birthday. Technology links us in a way that I can hear her voice from a country away. 

They were supposed to share a birthday. I was so excited about it. It felt it was another thing that was perfectly fated to be. Anna was healing me in every sense from the grief of losing a sister. 2017 was filled with so much grief, and then a positive pregnancy test happened. We almost lost this baby on Christmas morning, and it felt like a miracle being spared that addition loss, another grief to pile into the last days of 2017. We rode out a horrible holiday waiting, and she fought to make it through. I thought we were past the scary stage then, almost miscarrying at 13.5 weeks. So I definitely felt passed the scary stage at 34 weeks. I never realized you are NEVER passed the scary stage.

With each month that passed this baby seemed to be PERFECT, next came a gender reveal, a girl, a daughter, after dreaming of it forever. The last kind words between Kimmy and I before her accident were "I found your drawer of baby girl clothes, I prayed you will one day have a daughter." And then I did. A daughter after losing a sister. A last wish being answered. Grief was slowly turning to joy. With each day that passed it became more and more a part of me. More joy than grief. That shift was happening. Her birthday felt like I was going to be able to say grief was a chapter behind me. Now it feels like its an entire book, I was only at the dedication before, now I must write the words to finish this book I have been handed. 

We got to the point where they were scheduling her Csection. So close, so close that it hurts just that little bit more each time I think about it. They gave us a date. June 26. Her birthday landed exactly on Brandon's little sister's, and his Grandmothers birthday. 3 generations of women to carry the same date of life. To celebrate so much with every new age. It really was too perfect. All of this perfect pregnancy. Right down to the last day being her baby shower, she was celebrated even though we never reached her birthday. From the first day we found out we were pregnant, to every moment in between, we celebrated her in tiny ways, every single day that the pregnancy.  

Until it didn't continue.

Its just halted. A pregnancy that doesn't lead to birth in the third trimester is just inhumane. Today was supposed to be her birthday. Instead we honor her life she never got to live. My sister in law struggles to celebrate her special day, because what was supposed to be filled with extra joy, is now doused in sadness. She will share in that pain on every anniversary of this day. Every Birthday that she celebrates will have a soft undertone of what could have been. And because of that, she feels that extra connection & wanted to honor Anna in her own special way. 

Paige has always expressed her talent in singing. I have loved listening to her sing over the last 10 years of knowing her. Her talent taking her to other countries and recording her own album. So when she wrote me on that first night and asked if there was a song that I felt was Anna's, this is the song I told her about. That in those few precious hours, in the only memories I have of Anna, laying with her, wanting to comfort her instead of myself. The lyrics seem ripped from my heart. Remembering how soft that newborn skin is. The dark emptiness that is loss. That each tear tells a story. That I am constantly reaching out to her. What I would give to lay by her side again. 

And so Paige, having never heard the song before, learned and sent it to me. She described it as not perfect, and isn't that perfect in itself. That this life I am living is far from perfect, no one else's is either. Her rendition is softer and slower, acoustic with emotion instead of background noise to distract from it. It is perfectly imperfect.  

Happy Birthday Anna
Happy Birthday Paige
Happy Birthday June

I wish we were happily celebrating today. If Birthday wishes could bring her back, She surely would be here in our arms. Instead I will lay down, with empty arms, and weep while listening to this song filled with so much love for Anna. Thank you Paige. 

The lyrics
Lay Me Down - Sam Smith

Yes I do, I believe
That one day I will be, where I was
Right there, right next to you
And it's hard, the days just seem so dark
The moon, and the stars, are nothing without you
Your touch, your skin, where do I begin?
No words can explain, the way i’m missing you
Deny this emptiness, this hole that i’m inside
These tears, they tell their own story

You told me not to cry when you were gone
But the feeling’s overwhelming, it's much too strong
Can I lay by your side, next to you, you
And make sure you’re alright
I’ll take care of you,
And I don’t want to be here if I can’t be with you tonight

I’m reaching out to you
Can you hear my call
This hurt that I’ve been through
I’m missing you, missing you like crazy

Can I lay by your side, next to you, to you
And make sure you’re alright
I’ll take care of you,
And I don’t want to be here if I can’t be with you tonight

Lay me down tonight, lay me by your side
Lay me down tonight
Lay me by your side
Can I lay by your side, next to you, you

with love, lissa

The day before a birthday

Today would have been so many things.
My life lives in past tense now. 

I would have been preparing every minute of today for her arrival. Only described in insane giddiness as I counted down the minutes. I remember every detail of the day before Max's arrival. I remember what I should have been doing in every minute of today. Its thoughts that I cannot turn off. I live them all today in both versions, what should have been, and what is.  

Instead of preparing for her birthday, I am finalizing details for a blood drive in her memory. I am pouring out emotions because they physically slip out of my being in the form of tears. I am laying in bed avoiding doing anything, because it might be something I would have done for Anna. I am trying to drown out my mind, even though it is already drowning. I am afraid of myself, and I am afraid of tomorrow.

I have suddenly thought that I don't have anything to wear to this memorial. I have spent the last 5 weeks in sweat pants and oversized shirts. Clothes that were tight 5 weeks ago, are now falling off of me, as the weight of a pregnancy disappeared. I look visibly like shit, because I feel like shit. I don't ever want to look nice again. If I could wear a neon shirt that says, "I lost my baby" I would.

Now I try to find something to wear that both honors and respects tomorrow. I had Brandon take me to target in a panic that I had nothing to do this. As I wandered in a fog, looking like I just got hit by a truck, picking up every black dress I saw. I simply don't want to wear happy colors right now. I wore a bright pink dress to my Grandfathers funeral, his life was vibrant and happy until the last moment, and I wanted to honor that. This time I only feel ok in dark colors, reflecting my deep pain and loss. I picked one that has the tiniest hint of yellow in it too. For my sunshine baby, that never came. 

Then I moved onto my nails. I have tried to make myself do my nails for the last 5 weeks. Such a big part of my life for the last 3.5 years. It was my version of self care, and there hasn't been much of that lately. Every time I have looked at them, constantly growing out, a reminder of time passing. But I always put so much thought into each set I did. Nothing seemed special enough to be the first I wore after Anna. I had already picked out ones to wear with her, I don't know if I can ever wear the ones I wanted to wear tomorrow on her birthday.

Today in my memories on fb that pop up, a trip I took last year for Jamberry. An Album started with an exclusive wrap, named after a song, a song I have loved so much. A song I cried to as I left my last OB appt, not knowing it was my last one. I think to myself, here it is, this is the one. This is the one I can wear that will feel right. It is black floral lace. It is called, "A bed of roses." and it belongs to these lyrics. 

If I die young bury me in satin
Lay me down on a bed of roses
Sink me in the river at dawn
Send me away with the words of a love song
Uh oh uh oh

Lord make me a rainbow, I'll shine down on my mother
She'll know I'm safe with you when
She stands under my colours, oh and
Life ain't always what you think it oughta be, no
Ain't even grey, but she buries her baby
The sharp knife of a short life.

This song is old in my life. I have loved it for years. I always felt like it was one that spoke to my soul. But now I see those words strung out to a soft melody, and I remember the tears I cried so recently listening to it. I will play it, as I take some time today to do my nails for the first time. I will apply "bed of roses" to my nails that are shaped into the aptly named, coffin shape. I have found the manicure that finally feels right. Even though it feels so very wrong to wear black on a day that was supposed to only be sunshine, light and rainbows. 

Tonight, knowing how hard it was going to be, and how emotional tomorrow will be, my book club planned a 'non book' book club meeting. Getting together to just be together. We have been there for each other in so many ways this last year, and they are some of my biggest supporters. It was the easiest part of my day. It was the few hours I could turn my brain off and just be me. 

I dread tomorrow. It will be healing and so amazing to see how many people love us and Anna. But it will be another day of what if, what could have been. My loss will shift from feeling the sense of pregnancy missing, to focus on feeling truly all the things the newborn stage brings. It is another chapter, but it is not new. It is more grief, as it changes, so do we, and we struggle because thats all we can do. And there will be so many more chapters to this grief to come this next year. This past month just an introduction to our book of grief. Tomorrow it truly starts, but so does the healing. 

This post seems more disconnected than most, because thats what I am living. A fractured life. Where thoughts enter and beg to be told. And just as fast, another one takes it's place. Grief is like a thousand people living in your head and all screaming at once. And none of them are me. I am lost in there somewhere. Some days I find my way to the top, and I can quiet the other voices. Speaking softly, I remind them of good things, of love, of living after and in the face of loss. But today is not one of those days. 

with love, lissa

Grandma's Letter

There are two letters in my nursery. On the envelope, I recognize my mother's writing. They simply say "Sweet baby girl, & Anna" on the front. One was left in April on her last visit while I was pregnant. It talks of excitement. The joy and the healing we were all so ready to feel with her arrival. The second, was left after her birth. What should have still talked of the future, only talked of the past, and what could have been. 

Today I woke up to another letter. Sent across the world in seconds. My mother and I are separated in distance but together in this pain. She feels so helpless when she wants to be a mother in every way she knows possible. It is my struggle as well. Not being able to hold the one that will bring comfort. For her, her daughter dealing with this immense loss. For me, the one I did lose, Anna. Tomorrow continues to get closer & closer, and we are all feeling its presence in her absence.

This is her latest, but I am sure, not her last letter to Anna


"I find myself often in a fog, they say this is part of grief. Somehow you manage to get up and do the things you're supposed to do. I believe the only people who know how much my heart hurts are the ones that truly look into my eyes. There they would see the tears almost ready to slip out. My dear sweet Anna. You were our light at the end of a dark night. I had already imagined all I would do with you . First hairdo's, tea parties with all the dolls I had kept so lovingly , so I could share them with you.

I can't talk about May 20th without tears spilling from my eyes and blurring the words I write. When Alissa phoned to tell me she hadn't felt you moving, I felt calm. I believed that maybe you would be born that day. I stayed on the phone with your mommy, telling her she would be fine. I had no idea that the words I spoke to my daughter might have been the last she would ever hear. 

When Alissa arrived on the second floor of the hospital, she let me go, and I in my trusting belief thought that I would receive a call soon to let me know everything was OK. The call I would receive shortly after from Brandon would sink my world. Our sweet baby girl was gone, and Alissa was in emergency surgery. I think when news so devastating comes to you, your only thought is I need to be there. My daughter's life was in danger, she had also lost her daughter, there was nothing that would have stopped me from going. 

Somehow I made it to Las Vegas , then to the hospital. The hallway leading to a room with a picture of a purple leaf laying in a puddle of rain on the door. {this is a symbol they place on doors to represent the loss of a baby in a post partum wing of a hospital, a gentleness to let nurses who enter know that this is a sacred place of pain.} The hallway seemed to last forever, and yet somehow my legs drew me closer to the door. As a mom, this would be my greatest heartbreak to see my beautiful girl holding her sweet very still daughter. It seemed as if time stood still in the small room. I felt honored my sweet Anna that I could hold you and let my tears wash over your perfect little face.

I will never forget how you felt in my arms. I shook with all the love that I had for you, and couldn't give. As Anna's Gramma, my grief was not only for Anna, but for my beautiful daughter. I longed to give Alissa  the very thing I could not, so I folded Alissa into my arms and cried with her as she prepared to say goodbye to her little girl.

Time is the only thing that softens grief. MY tears easily still slip down my face, but it is in my heart that a heaviness has slipped in. After all, we as a family had not yet accepted the loss of Kimmy, the person she used to be. The loss of Anna felt cruel. I know bad things happen all the time. Anna's death is pure heartbreak. A beautiful little girl that never had the chance to chase her brothers collecting rocks, and just spin forever until she fell down in a heap of giggles and ruffles.

Dear sweet Anna, my namesake, you have changed us all. You will never be forgotten. Your Grampa found a small white feather on the floor beside his favorite chair today. Somehow I can't help but think that you were here."

with love, Grandma

Madison

I have been waiting to share this story on a day when I needed it most. 

Like many moms I joined a babycenter birth board when I found out we would be expecting in June. I was mostly silent, this was my third baby and things progressed how I expected them to. I read it a few times here and there but didn't make my presence known. 

On May 20 I got my daily email at 8pm about all the topics being talked about. The birth announcement thread was beginning to take off as babies don't stick to time lines. You are allowed to post birth announcements there, even in stillbirth. I posted a photo of the daughter I loved so much, she had just left my arms for the last time. I wanted the world to know she was here. She was just here, and now she was gone. 

"We lost our sweet baby girl Anna today. I hadn't felt movement and drove myself to the ER. By the time I got there, I passed out in L&D, and almost died by minutes of making it there. Im currently stable but high risk. And poor Anna didn't make it. Im trying to wrap my head around how this happened. We just celebrated her baby shower yesterday. I think Im still in shock. She was so loved. And we never got to say hello."

I don't remember writing these words. Much like when I go back to re-read telling close friends and family. My mind has placed scars over some experiences, and though you can feel them, you don't remember them. These words I wrote, I can see the pain in writing them. So in shock and somehow needing the world to know them. I felt compelled that night to write just a piece of Anna in that place. A tribute and a warning in one. 

On June 11 I received a message on instagram, from a stranger, on baby center. 

"Dearest Alissa
I came from the June board on babycenter. I just want to express my deepest sympathy. I struggle to find the words to express something that is too horrible for words. Im so sorry, I'm just so so sorry for your immeasurable loss. I have been thinking of you every day since I saw your birth announcement on May 21"

I replied, "Don't take  a single moment for granted. I wish so much I could be up all night with her crying. Treasure it all." Those were the darkest days for me. The shock wearing off. And seeing everyone around me continue to be blessed with healthy arrivals. I was not bitter or angry about it, I had twice been that person who is blissfully unaware of the heartache of child birth. Not knowing that for ever 99 babies who comes home, there is one family that leaves the hospital with empty arms and an even emptier heart. 

I did not expect a reply, my response had been so bleak and cold. Whispers of regret filled what I thought was a message of knowing child loss and realizing how precious those first hard days are. Instead another message came up. 

"I promise you that not a moment goes by where I am anything other than grateful. I saw your comment on the birth announcement thread and a few hours later, noticed that my own sweet girl was not moving. I hesitated for a moment about going in, wondering if I was overthinking, but I thought back to seeing your post that morning while in the bath -(This is the same thing that made me notice Anna not moving) And decided to go in. Your comment on that thread likely saved my baby's life. Madison came quietly into the world on May 21, not breathing, with a true cord wrapped tightly around her tiny little body. I lay in the OR praying and praying while they worked on her. The silence was deafening. She was in the NICU for 10 days due to complications. As a result of her dramatic entrance into the world. But she is home with us now. I have thought of you and Anna consistently and shed tears for you. Thank you for sharing your story on baby center. And continuing to share it here. I will pray for strength for you as you attempt to heal from this unfair blow, while still being a mother to both your boys, and a wife to Brandon."

I was sent back to moments of shock. Here was this baby thousands of miles away, I will never meet. And my story, Anna's story, saved her life. The blood drive is honoring the idea of saving lives, but here is an actual account of one child's loss being another child's first breath. I can't explain the comfort I find in that. But it is immense. I was brought to tears. Both happy and sad. That I have to live this life, and feel her absence every minute of every day, but also for happiness that in such a short amount of time, Anna's life, or lack there of, has changed SO many people's lives. There has been so many stories shared with us over the last month. Each one touching a unique space in my heart. A single stitch as it tries to mend itself. 

On dark days, like this weekend, as we continue to creep forward to a date I once loved, and now dread. I like to remind myself of these stories. Of all the people Anna is saving. She is a genuine guardian angel. Seeking to repair the world. Ours is shattered as we miss her beyond words. But around us, people hear her name, filled with so much love, that it is actually changing the world for the better. 

Madison will follow the exact life milestones that I would have had with Anna, born hours apart. Never to meet in this lifetime. A reminder of what could have been. That seems like something that should hurt my broken heart. But instead, I know, she is here living those milestones, because Anna could not. Instead of two mothers bonding over the same loss, there is one that is spared that grief. I have one guardian angel watching over me. And I have one life here on earth to count as hers. 

Thank you Dana for not remaining silent. Telling me you didn't have the words to take away my pain. But giving me a gift in sharing your own daughters life. And letting me share this story when I need it most, to forever remind me that even in my worst days, there was still overwhelming goodness in the world. Because of Anna. 

with love, lissa

The Silence

Stay with me here, Im about to get a little nerdy tonight. I was just watching Doctor Who, my favorite show. I think there is something I always related to in it, in the pain of so much loss, trying to make the world a better place, and running away from it all. I have watched each episode so many times. And yet with life experiences constantly changing us, we see things in a new way all the time. The season I am currently watching has one main 'enemy' The Silence. An aptly named creature that is both terrifying and mysterious. And once you look away from it, you don't remember it. It's advantage is avoidance. Sound familiar? It behaves much like our society does with grief.

Many people who are grieving a stillborn loss will tell you the worst part of the experience is the silence. When a baby is brought into the world, it is with so much noise. Screams in labor, sounds of a Csection, always followed with cries from a baby. I have been in that moment. It is expected, a given, Your brain, even if it is the first time delivering a child, your brain KNOWS this is the way. So when you give birth and there is only Silence that follows, its the worst sound possible. A lack of sound, a lack of life. It is both silent and deafening at the same time. 

Because the silence is so traumatic, anything else that represents silence is like PTSD. And often in grief many people feel silenced in the aftermath of such an event. people who want to support stay silent because they are afraid to say the wrong thing, so instead they say nothing. Of course there is wrong things to say, but knowing that they are usually meant with love, softens them a bit. I am lucky in that the people around me have let me be unusually open with my grief, and they are apparently unusually vocal about their support. Im told in every grief book that our society does not like to be so open about grief, but we are changing. I can see it, because I am living it, and my friends and family are defying this logic that grief experts are writing. 

I feel, possibly in vain, that that is what my writing achieves. With each post it brings more understanding to this world I am living. Something that you cannot grasp until you live it. But for how staggeringly common it is, it should, and deserves to be talked about much more. It brings a voice to the people who are silenced in their grief. It helps those wanting to reach out to loved ones living similar stories, know that silence is not the answer. It is not ever the answer. We who have experienced the silence in a way that only stillbirth can be so absolute in, have had too much of it. 

So fight the urge to stay silent. It takes so little to be of comfort to someone in these times of trials. Someone simply commented tonight on one of my instagram posts, "We love you. We hear you, and we hurt with you. Keep Sharing friend." It is so freeing when you feel able to express these feelings. All of them, the happy ones and the horrible ones. I know myself being able to constantly share this experience, and not feel judged, has brought so much healing. I am sad for the people who do not feel they can do the same. I have felt nothing but support in this outlet to deal with grief.

I hope if you are reading this, you find the courage to do the same. As a griever, to start sharing your stories, so people know they are not alone. And as a supporter, to give those you love that are grieving, what they truly need. For there to be no more silence in their lives. Do not look away from the grief and turn silent. Remember it, remember them, break the silence. 

Now I'll go back to falling asleep watching Doctor who. Another enemy vanquished. As I drift off to sleep, it continues to play in the back ground, because I still can't stand the silence. 

with love, lissa

it wasnt supposed to be like this

I woke up to an email this morning. Reminding me that we were 3 days away from the blood drive. Seeing the number somehow changed it. I have been working on and planning this blood drive for so long, 5 weeks. That until today, its not really sunk in. 

On June 23 I would have been picking my mom up from the airport. So she could help me get the house in order before we brought a baby home. I would have been packing my hospital bag and putting that special outfit inside. I would have been making everything perfect, the last stages of nesting. I would have been going out for dinner with Brandon, talking about all the fears of the upcoming week. Adding a 3rd child to our family. Talking about the excitement of a girl. I remember all of these feelings from the days before Sawyer & Max. I was so ready to do them again. 

It wasn't supposed to be this way. 

I am supposed to be days away from a baby. My brain can't reverse that thought. The last weekend as a family of four, has turned into grieving as a family of 4 only. I can see my empty stomach in the mirror but my mind keeps thinking maybe it's all a mistake. That feeling of wondering what other parallel universes are out there, I am trapped in one. I want desperately to get back to reality. My reality where none of this happened. 

On my calendar in big black PERMANENT marker, "Baby Arrives 3pm!!" 

Instead, we will begin a blood drive and Brandon will be the first donor at exactly 3pm. I didn't think or plan it that way, and only noticed it this week. Poetic. And wrong. All of it is wrong. I did everything right. And it still turned out wrong. So vastly, unfairly, cosmically hugely WRONG. 

I would have been feeling so much emotion, joy, fear, anticipation, worry, love. I would have been expecting so much. 

I would have still been expecting. 

Now Im not. In every way. 

with love, lissa

GIVE LOVE FOR ANNA

We were still sitting in shock in the hospital. It was the first 24 hours. Nothing made sense, it still doesn't. We were asked to make the choices that no parent wants to make. Cremation or burial. Which funeral home. When would you like to see her, and when can we take her away. For the last time. There is literally not words to describe that experience. It is otherworldly. Like you are out of your body watching your worst nightmare unfold. And that doesn't even come close to it. 

She didn't even have a name when she was born. I was told I had time still. I had 4 weeks, lots of time to decide. Until I had minutes to decide what to write on a death certificate. Naming a baby is one of the best parts of finding out you are pregnant. And here we were only choosing her name, to lose it immediately. 

As we sat in that roomI became more and more unsure of life. What it was suddenly didn't, and will never make sense. I am living the unimaginable. Someone asked us about a memorial service, and I knew I didn't want to do that. To bring people together in sadness, for this life that never got to live. No one but us got to hold and see her precious face. See how much she reminded us of her siblings. the memories are both razor sharp and already fading at the same time. It's not fair, I cling to the memories of my worst day. 

I knew immediately that the only service I wanted to hold in her honor was a blood drive. They were still giving me transfusions at that time. My body trying to recover as much as my mind. I had lost a life that day, I had almost lost mine as well. In a time and age where we take childbirth for granted, a staggering amount of babies and mothers still die. I am half that statistic, I could have easily been both. A 120 second difference would have made me both. I would have died without blood donations already at the hospital waiting. I needed 8 transfusions, plasma, and platelets. I couldn't stop bleeding and entered DIC, a rare and often fatal blood clotting condition, as I arrived at L&D. Had I had to wait for an elevator, I could have died inside it. I had so many needles and transfusions in me within a min of falling to the ground. What happened to save my life is nothing short of miracles, and AMAZING nurses & doctors. Blood donors are a part of that. 

Just a week before this happened I posted about blood donation and thanking the miracles of medicine in discovering the RH- shot in someone's unique blood. I wrote the words "You never know when someone you love, will need it." That someone was me. 

Much like the outpouring of love we have felt after this loss, overwhelmingly, people have already joined our cause. We picked a hashtag to use on social media so we could see the stories and the reach of Anna's support & love. I posted about it on June 1 and people began donating the next day. The more it was talked about, the more it spread. I didn't think we would have enough pledges to fill the blood drive bus, but instead we have had to turn people away. A friend pleaded our case on a base in Germany, and 33 people joined her at the Armed Services Blood Bank. I get almost daily pictures of donations, stretching around the world. So far 4 countries, countless states and provinces. The world is small in comparison to love.  Each donation with a story about how much Anna has touched their life, each one a way that Anna brings more love into the world. 

As of today, plus the pledges for the bus, we have 88 donors. Each donation saves 3 lives. That adds up to 264 people that won't have to live the pain we are in. That don't get told the worst words anyone will ever hear, "Im sorry, we couldn't save them." I cannot donate myself for the next 12 months, having had a transfusion makes you ineligible, your body still needs to recover for that long. So I could not do this without YOU.

264 lives, and counting. Tuesday will be my personal hell. Living out the day I should have been handed my baby, instead we are having her memorial. Her Birthday celebrates her Death day. But we planned this blood drive on purpose. Bringing healing to our hearts, and healing literally to the world. I know so many people are committing to walking us through that day. In donation, in support, in love. 

Thank you for making it more than I thought possible. Thank you for continuing to support us in this journey in every way. Reading these words, providing us meals, dropping by for visits, sending thoughtful gifts, reaching out to say you care, and by making a blood donation in Anna's name. 

There will never be full healing. But this is a good place to start. 

With love, lissa

she is gone, but she used to be me

I have always found solace in music. Songs of sadness are written at artists lowest points. When life is sharper and you can see true emotion. You feel it in your bones. Sometimes songs you've heard a million times, and thought were beautiful, are suddenly tainted in tears. 

One of the strongest things in loss is not feeling like yourself. It happens in a second. The old version of you is gone. You can never go back. They are life shattering moments because you die in that moment, and are brought back as a different version of yourself. I know this because I was struggling with the version of me that was left after Kimmy's loss. Its frustrating to get used to someone you don't recognize in the mirror. And I really truly don't recognize me. 

In the physical sense, that went from pregnant to mourning overnight. My face losing the weight it had been putting on creating life. The tiredness showing, because even though I am sleeping, I am not at peace. I have aged decades in weeks. The face that used to be so joyful is broken. It no longer remembers how to smile. When I do, I can see the false force behind it, willing it not to crack. The side that no longer cares if I brush my hair, I prefer to look like shit, because I feel like shit. Its the only trueness I can represent. 

In the emotional side, that no longer knows who I am. I was a mother of three children, but now I only have two. I had created life and knew it, but no longer have it. Lost emotionally and physically. I don't know what my identity is in ever way. Im unraveling daily to reveal this newness that is trying desperately to survive. But with each moment of acceptance of that, I lose more of my old self. 

And I know I will never get her back. I am changed. Like time changes us all. But mine is in warp speed and I cannot keep up. Who is that girl that used to be me. I miss her too. 

These lyrics were so profound to me the first time I broke into a new version. The in between version. Not quite the old Alissa who was so blissfully unaware of true heartbreak. The one who felt loss but was learning its ways. I felt I was just seeing glimpses I recognized right before this. Feeling like myself again, even though I knew I had changed. Now when I hear them I KNOW them. I'm living them. 

It's not simple to say
That most days I don't recognize me

I still remember that girl

She's imperfect, but she tries
She is good, but she lies
She is hard on herself
She is broken and won't ask for help
She is messy, but she's kind
She is lonely most of the time
She is all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie
She is gone, but she used to be mine

It's not what I asked for
Sometimes life just slips in through a back door

If I'm honest, I know I would give it all back
For a chance to start over and rewrite an ending or two
For the girl that I knew

Here is the entire song. It really is a dark beautiful melody. A brokenness tied together. Though there is still lines that don't apply to me, because no one will fully understand someone else's pain in the same way. I still love the sentiment behind it. Maybe if you've heard it before, you will hear it differently. Maybe I've ruined it for you now. If its the first time listening, maybe it will always remind you of me, and those hurting in your life. I'm sorry, and you're welcome.

We're all going to miss who we used to be at some point in life. 

with love, lissa

Honesty

Remember the girl who you thought was handling this earth shattering experience so well. She spent 4 weeks wallowing in bed, and suddenly was out doing life again. Monday was good, Tuesday was good, Wednesday was good, Thursday was good.

Thursday night was a mess. 

I went from checking off healthy grieving steps: Get out of bed, go for a walk, visit a friend, find a way to honor the loss, talk about it, smile and not feel immensely bad. Living life even after loss. 

And then for no reason at all. Or quite obviously, the most intense reason. I felt incredibly sad. Deep in my chest. You will often hear people who are grieving complain about the physical side effects of grief. This is one of them. The actual physical heaviness in your chest. Its almost like anxiety, but somehow its even more extreme. I was just telling Brandon how extremely well I was doing today. Even though I still spent most of the day in bed. Even though I was currently in bed. 

The antidepressants are doing their job. Keeping a lot of these emotions at bay. But tonight the simple act of my husband asking if he could kiss me, for the first time in 4 weeks, it brought those walls crashing down. Then the weird outpour of all the emotions let loose. I was crying, my body shaking, then laughing, my body shaking. Back and forth as he tried to comfort me, my body couldn't figure out which one wanted to win. So it did both. 

I am a mess. Quite literally. My mind is a prison and I don't know who is in charge. It certainly isn't me. Maybe its the celexa & xanax, because I certainly know grief, and this isn't how I grieve normally. I knew this week was going too well. So I know the break is coming. My brain is just feeling above the waters right now and desperately trying to self preserve. 

Right now the strongest winner is this odd side of me that keeps repeating that this whole thing isn't real. You might be wondering how that is possible since I have minute by minute reminders that it is. The empty cradle in our room. The locket I wear around my neck, and now a tattoo permanently on me. I haven't forgotten what I am going through. It just feels so irrevocably wrong that your brain can't comprehend the loss. It's easier to imagine that reality is false, than to accept it. Even though I spent 8 months being pregnant, even though I held her in my arms for 12 hours, even though there is a room that is so empty in my house, but so ready for life. All of it must not be true. I would rather believe I was losing my mind in insanity of imagining the last year of my life preparing for anna, than admit to myself what has truly happened. 

I am caught between a strong mind, and a fragile heart. 

So I write. I write all day long. And far too late into most nights. Sometimes the pills take over and I fall asleep with words on my mind, and like being unpaused, I wake up with them still needing to be said. There is no peace with sleeping, there is only a shut down of the physical form. When I open my eyes, those feelings are still bright red scars demanding to be felt. Demanding to be said. Life is painful, and it deserves to be seen. I want to celebrate the conquering moments in the face of this. But I also want to honor the love that is deep grief in child loss. 

with love, lissa
 

Tell people you love them

I know its so cliche. 

You never know when it will be the last time. 

You don't want the last thing you say to someone you love, be anger. 

Its cliche because its true. 

I so wish I didn't know it. I know it well. I know the guilt that comes with wishing you could go back and say the words you felt, but were too stubborn, tired, emotional, to say. I know regret in unspoken words. I wish I could turn back time for so many reasons lately. This is one of them. 

I was fighting with kimmy, really when wasn't I? That's the nature of sisters, and worse, loving an addict. I was fighting with her when it happened. In the moment's you hear someone is gone, your brain tries to reverse until the last time you saw that person. Because IT can't possibly be true, if you can recall them in detail recently. And deep seeded guilt, that will never go away, is what happens when the last conversation you had was in anger, when you wish it was in love. 

Sometimes I even miss that anger. I miss anything that could feel like I was talking to my version of Kimmy again. Though she is physically here, she is mentally gone. And what is a person without their personality you have grown to love. I try, and we forge a new relationship. I have lost her the same as in death, but I don't have last words from her. Just last words to her. And they are sad and angry. 

My last words to Anna are always a repeated "Im so sorry." Because she was already gone when I realized there was last words to be said. So much left unsaid. A lifetime. But I do not have regret and guilt, because she was truly loved her whole life. She was whispered dreams of the future I hoped we would share. She felt hugged every day by my body. She never lacked for what she needed. I spoke to her only in kindness and love. 

Do you see the difference. Imagine if we treated everyone like the children we love. Because inside, aren't we all still children, so young in the grande scheme of life, always learning, always wanting. Our society is so quick to age us. It is always making us look too far ahead instead of letting us live in the moment. Which makes us inpatient. Which leads to anger. We so easily tell each other how terrible life is, how slow the traffic was, how long the lines were, how crappy the service was. We spread negative thoughts like crazy. 

What if instead, we told each other how much they meant to us. We complimented things we genuinely liked, instead of staying silent. If we were kind to the world, would we see it reciprocated back to us. The answer is YES. I find myself talking to so many people these days. I try to make sure I am telling them in return, how much their love means to me. In so many ways. In thank you's. In photo's of memories. In stories we share and smile about.

I am trying to be a kinder person. You can too. It doesn't take much, but it means everything. 

Because its true, you don't know which moment will be someone's last. Wouldn't you want to remember it in love. If it was your last moment, wouldn't you want to be remembered in kindness. If I had died that day, would I have that. I want to make sure its true. 

with love, lissa

Never say never

There has been a lot of sayings I used to like, and currently hate. Don't ever utter the words "everything happens for a reason" to me ever again. I've already heard it, and its like a sledge hammer to my heart. Never say never, however is as true as ever.

When you become parents its easy to slip into this ideal future you are preparing for. You make assumptions about this life you know nothing about. My kids are NEVER going to do that. I am NEVER going to be that parent. It doesn't matter what it is, we think we know best and we say the word never, thinking that will help us stick to these terms. Everything is an ultimatum. 

Until you're in it. And you're world shifts. You realize what is important and what isn't. Sometimes you can manage to be the perfect parents you wanted to be. Other times you look around at your house that is destroyed by the tiny humans you created willingly, and it isn't worth the battle. You guys want to live in this mess, only wearing underwear, and watching youtube for hours today? Sure, maybe I'll throw some food at you and hope it lands inside your mouth, if not, o well. Remember how you all used to call me the pinterest mom? Well this is my parenting style these days. Never say never. Parenting is one giant, "I'll never do that," followed by realizing you are doing that. Sometimes it takes years, sometimes it takes days. But compromise is your friend. Pick your battles. There is such a war going on in my life, that Im not even engaging in battles anymore.

I remember saying I could NEVER be the mom who's kid had to go through surgery. Took 4 months into motherhood to cross that never off the list. I could never handle boys, I have two children and both are boys. I was never going to let them have an ipad, does the kindle fire make that true? Nah because we all need that break sometimes. I was never going to move away from Calgary, I moved away to another country. Are you seeing the theme here? I felt like I was NEVER going to get to be a mother to a daughter. This one is crushing, I thought it was the NEVER you are so happy to take out of your vocabulary, instead of the ones you thought you would stick to.  Now the never of a girl comes creeping back in. I was the mom who thought, "I could never handle losing a child." Never say never. 

Today I crossed another NEVER off my list. I will never get a tattoo. I felt so stronly about it, until suddenly I needed a permanent reminder of someone I can't physically see anymore. Brandon's cousin is a talented artist that I have been admiring for awhile. And she happened to be driving through Las vegas today. I only gave her 1 week notice, and it happened to line up this way. I already knew what I wanted. Its sentimental in ever way. And when I told her, and she sent the preview I felt so good about it. Remember I can't make any decisions lately? Well this, I was finally sure of. 

I was afraid. Of the pain, the needles, especially after having SO many in my life 4 weeks ago. Ones I didn't have a choice about. Today was taking back those feelings. This was my choice. Brooke brought and set up an entire tattoo parlor, from another state, to my nursery. I spent the morning finally moving the baby shower gifts. Tidying up, and making space for this. I find being in her nursery healing. So it was the obvious room to take this big step. She said needle perspective makes a difference, but I was surprised how much it didn't hurt. How therapeutic it felt to see each stroke become a part of me forever. I watched the pink floral tree dance outside her window during the 20 min experience. The light hitting the nursery just how I had loved these last 8 months. I am so happy with every little detail of today's choice. 

A tiny pink peony. My favorite flower. Its only in season in May. Its the most beautiful delicate flower. It is the most fleeting flower, only here for such a short time, but adored by the world in its short existence. It describes Anna is every way. Budding but not fully able to bloom. Her name in soft script, like a whisper you can still visually see. It's on my ankle. So I can see and touch it on hard days, but it's not something I will catch out of the corner of my eye, on my wrist, and bring me to unexpected tears. It's somewhere that I will have with every step forward. I must move my feet, and this tattoo, this reminder of why, who, and what I am struggling with as I take every small step. I love it. I love her. 

Never say never. 

with love, lissa

 

The world

I have always loved this quote.

But never more than when you feel so alone, that it feels like you are the only one. The world is moving and you are stuck in sharp detail, as life rushes by you in a blur. 

And suddenly someone else is there beside you. 

The blur is getting further away because there is SO many people beside me.

I see it in the cards that arrive daily. They are postmarked from around the world. Candy just arrived from Germany. My favorite chips came from Canada. A quilt was hand delivered from a friend I have never met, through her friend, because she found a way to reach me from Florida. Each card, each gift, knowing it doesn't help, but trying anyways.  

I see it in the meals that were scheduled out for an entire month. We even had to turn some down and spread them out more, because too many people wanted to do anything to help. Food always seems like you're doing more than a doorbell dash, when you want to give them the world instead. Its called comfort food for a reason. I don't know how I'm going to go back to cooking meals for my family ever again. And I KNOW as I typed that, someone out there thought about making sure I don't have to for awhile longer. 

I see it in every message, comment and like. When people have voiced that they hate hitting that little heart on instagram. Because they don't love what I am currently posting about. I am the never ending story of sadness. But you hit it anyways because too often, there is nothing you can say in return. Its a show of support, hitting "LIKE" when you mean "I HATE that you are going through this."

I see it in the other mom's & dad's who were there before me, and continue to be new recruits to the worlds worst club. Hearing "I understand, us too," is both opening the wound again, and healing at the same time. The only ones who truly understand are the ones who have experienced this. And we band together, instant friends and support. Huddled together on the internet because we settled across the globe, but it feels like we are talking face to face. We didn't know each other days ago. Now we are each others closest confidants. 

I see it all. I see you. And you see me. 

The world can make you feel so small. So insignificant. 1 in 6 million. a speck of dust in the universe.

But I feel like the world is suddenly so small instead.  

Love makes us all connected like you are sitting in this bed crying with me. Thanks for being my world. 

with love, lissa

a good day

They tell you, "You'll have good days, & bad." 

I nod, because I know. I know what the aftermath of Kimmy's loss did to me. It changed me. I am changing again. I barely got to know that other version, that in between version of Alissa. That was only around for 14 months. That felt loss in an unimaginable way, was barely learning how to live with grief, but feeling a little more confident each day.

I know that there is bad days. The ones where you stay in bed because dreams are the only way you see someone again. The ones where you know driving in the car means a song will come on and bring you to tears. The ones where you can't look at the date on the calendar because its a reminder of someone not there with you. The personal hell days that you survive just to live another version of it the next day. 

I know that there is good days. Where somehow your brain lets you forget for just a single moment. Where a husband can make you laugh, and it makes him sad at the same time, because he hasn't seen that version of you in a long time. The ones where mother nature feels like its giving you a hug, as you breath in deeper than you thought possible. The ones where you notice the happy stories on fb instead of the devastation that is daily life. The ones where you can find the courage to be joyful, not just in the face of loss, but feel truly joyful because you have experienced the opposite in pain. 

I know these things. 

It doesn't change it. 

It doesn't make it better knowing some days will be the hell on earth that you would expect child loss to be. And that some days will be simple relief from that hell. Every morning an uncertainty to which one it will be. And sometimes you get to flip back and forth all day. Its just another thing in this new life that is an unending question. Which will it be next. 

In an effort to try and make a milestone less of a slap in the face. I asked a friend if we could plan something in advance. Its the first time Ive made plans of any sort. Motivation Monday started with me saying, "you are not going to cancel these plans," for the entire 45 min drive she took to pick me up. I'm not allowed to drive these days. Another side effect, to the side effects of drugs, which is the side effects to child loss. Right until the moment she got to my door, I was telling myself, I can still cancel. But off we went for pedicures. Something we had become accustomed to during my pregnancy as a once a month treat. I realized that morning that I would have been getting this same pink pedicure this week, anticipating Anna's arrival next week. Now I choose pink as a reminder of her, not waiting for her. 

I spent the whole time pouring out my thoughts to my friend who willingly listened. I find, much like and because it is trauma, you want to talk about it a lot. You want to repeat it out loud even though its painful to relive, because its all you can think about. Talking about it makes it real. And she listened. She let me say Anna's name out loud the same as I would talk about Sawyer & Max. There was no judgement, I was simply talking about my child. Though those poor people who may have overheard would have gone home a little more thankful to not be that sad girl in the pedicure chair today. 

Because I was feeling so courageous for not canceling a pedicure, when another friend asked me to meet her at the playground a few hours later, I said yes. Well I say yes, then no, then maybe, then I'll only bring Sawyer because he's the easiest, then I'll only bring Max because he needs to run off energy, then both, then none, then maybe no all together again. Every decision I make right now is a none decision. I had to text Brandon, who is in the same house as me, and ask him WHAT DO I DO. About an invitation to the playground 5 min from our house. I ended up asking the kids what they wanted to do, I thought I was a genius for that choice making ability. And when they said no, I felt relieved. I walked out the door, one foot in front of the other. One step at a time. And I enjoyed another hour of spilling the same stories and feelings. 

I even ripped the bandaid off something truly hard for a mom who has lost a baby. I held someone else's baby. A baby I saw grow inside a tummy at each book club meeting. And then grow into a chubby 8 month old. All the promised steps of pregnancy and the first year with a baby. All the things I crave deeply right now. I decided, he was a boy, he wasn't a newborn, and I was going to have to do it sooner or later, and sooner is better. So I held him. And I didn't die. It felt that way when I had thought about holding a baby in the days before. And though it was ok, when a dad carrying a 2 month old baby girl in pink ruffles and a bow walked by, I stopped breathing and could no longer look at that half of the park in fear that I would have to see her again. One step forward, two steps back. 

It was a good day today. I stood at the bottom of Everest and said, "I own you now, you are mine alone to journey." But at that bottom of the mountain you are reminded how many people you need to get through this journey. My personal sherpa's teaching me how to breathe this new air. My friends who let me do this at my own pace. My family who has supported me all the way to this point, and won't back down now. It is going to be one hell of a journey, maybe Everest doesn't even describe the magnitude of it. 

And there is going to be good days & bad. 

Today was a good day. 

with love, lissa

Daddys little girl

I have a hard time talking on the phone right now. People are telling me I am a great writer and so able to express these emotions. But only in type. I have retreated to my fingertips. Simply speaking the words is why people who experience this loss are often voiceless. Words that are even whispered feel like screams echoing in my mind. I notice I am sensitive to sound volume and brightness too. Any senses are too extreme in a world that doesn't make sense. 

So I often am holding my phone as I watch it ring, knowing I won't answer it. No matter who is on the phone. Father's day held an exception. Though I believe it was a day late. My sense of timing is scattered as well. 

I answered the phone when "Dad" came up. Sometimes its hard to remember other people are suffering Anna's loss as well. The first Granddaughter after 3 wild and fun Grandson's. I can't even tell you how many times a package of pink clothes would show up, and I would call my mom and she would tell me, "she had to!" I know there is still clothes waiting, haunting her at their house. Just like the ones already washed and folded, waiting in the drawers of our nursery. 

My dad and I have a close relationship. He was a very hand's on dad growing up. My mom often worked weekends, so he had the kids alone. I think we visited every single playground in the city during those years. I often reminisce about the LONG bike rides he made us take, but they ended with ice cream slurpee's, so we only complained a little bit. Those bike rides as kids changed to driving us to endless sleep overs in junior high, and growing up in the country, the houses are far to drive to! Then the driving got longer, as he became the only dad to attend ALL the cheerleading weekend trips. He even made it to the one that was a plane ride away. He found my dream car, a '57 red belair and surprised me at my wedding with it, just to borrow! And then I moved to another country. 

As a parent myself, and having been hospitalized on both sides of that boarder, away from family in a time of need, I know that distance. It is 2,052 KM/1275 miles away. But it might as well be around the world and back. My mom somehow made it to Las Vegas in 9 short hours when everything happened. And it wasn't until my Dad visited 3 weeks later, to help me in recovery, that I found out why he didn't come that day too. He was camping with my nephew, and he was out of cell service. 

He drove into a new area and started receiving all the missed calls. I know what its like to see those missed calls piled up on your phone. The sick feeling calling them back, knowing that you don't want to know whats on the other side. My husband wrote a scene for a horror movie based on the call I received the morning I found out about Kimmy. This was one of those calls, but for your own kid. I am grieving the loss of a child, and my parents are grieving her too, but also seeing their own child hurt, and knowing how close I myself came to dying. As my dad said through his own tears, "too close." 

So I try to answer their calls. Not all of them yet. Sometimes I still don't trust my voice, cracked with emotion, because I know it hurts them too. But I have always enjoyed the long life talks with my dad. We can cover a range of topics, from the kids latest throw up incident, to ted talks. Life keeps moving, so there is always something to talk about. I can't tell you what we talked about because my memory doesn't last right now. There is no room for it when my brain only wants to replay May 20 on a loop. But we talked for awhile. And it seemed normal, in this mess of life. It felt normal for a daughter to talk to her dad on the phone, about nothing, about everything.

After 30 years there is no one who knows you better than your mom and dad. 

I was Daddy's little girl growing up.

I danced with my dad to "My little girl," at my wedding. 

I will always be a daughter. 

I wish brandon got to be a dad to his daughter. 



with love, lissa

The "Are we going to have another baby" post

The question has already been asked. You think people ask you about the next one too fast after having a baby that lives, but they ask even sooner if that baby didn't live. I understand it in a world where we are so open, myself being the most brutally honest open book on social media. It's a valid question and one that lifted the biggest weight off me, when Brandon and I immediately agreed on. When trauma happens, you go into shock and become so emotionally raw that there is NO filter. Thoughts escape your mouth before you have any time to think about them. And holding a child in your arms that you expected to live, and are now told is gone before you got to meet them brings the most crazy and wild thoughts. 

Brandon was holding Anna when he looked at me, reading the pain on my face because I couldn't speak, and knew. He said "This isn't the last baby of ours that you will hold." I had previously posted about the day we found out the gender and thinking the most beautiful thing he would ever say to me was, "You are going to have a daughter." Because I knew, that he knew, it was my biggest dream coming true and he was validating that emotion and love for me in that moment. But speaking the assurance that he as a father, understood my pain as a mother, holding a child who wasn't given the life to live, is LOVE in the purest form.

I will never forget that moment as we sat in that room and tried to take in every second of time with her, knowing it was the last seconds. And still feeling immense love because someone was going through it with me, and he knew the only thing that could comfort me, and though wildly outrageous to speak of if you haven't lived it, he said it courageously to me when I needed it most. 

For me in baby loss, a lot of the people I reach to are other moms that have also lost a baby. Obviously because they are the only ones who understand this pain level. Something that even though my husband also went through, is different for him because men & women are different and he would never be able to fathom the bond that is a mother and child. Literally creating a life inside you. I KNEW her. He knew of her. And that's a sad reality that breaks my heart that he will never get to know her as I did. But it is the foundation of life. Mothers are life's soul. 

These other moms I am relating to are in all stages of life after loss. The first ones to reach out where the ones who had been there, and been there a long time. They are in the stage where they can tell you it is possible for a future because they are living it. Notice I do not say they told me "it gets better" because they know it doesn't. But they have lived beyond the first year and all the punch you in the face milestones that come with it. Many have gone on to have their "rainbow baby," a term used by only the ones who have felt the darkest side of lifes storms, persevered through it and found healing in another life, not to replace the former child lost, but to celebrate the pain you have lived through and conquered together. A literal rainbow in the world of your darkness. I thought the term was very well put before this experience. Constantly looking for a way to explain something unexplainable comes with a lot of metaphors. But understanding that metaphor is a whole other level. I often called Anna my sunshine after the storm. Because I experienced loss, and even in her pregnancy I found a lot of healing, but she wasn't a rainbow baby because I didn't want to diminish the term for those who had experienced the loss of a child instead. Now my rainbow baby will come after I thought the sunshine was peeking through those clouds of grief, but it was false, it was the eye of the storm instead. Something worse. But with deep darkness you can truly appreciate the joys os simple life that many others will never experience.

I look to those rainbow babies of these moms, who have walked before me. I am stepping into their well made footmarks on the rocky road ahead of me. They are too well worn. I wonder how I didnt know about it before when I can see their deep marks now. Its Staggering to know, Each year in the United States about 25,000 babies, or 68 babies every day, are born still. This is about 1 stillbirth in every 115 births. And about 30 babies each day are brought into the world living, and die within the first 24 hours. 98 other mothers on May 20 2018 felt my pain. Are still feeling my pain. I did not know existed until that day. These moms felt it too and have continued to what Im calling the other side. They didn't get over it, they got through it, and continue to carry it even though they have found the tiniest healing in another life created. Never to replace but only to try in vain to find some semblance of returning to normal life. 

I told a friend today that for me it feels like my life story was going along, and even in grief it continued and I learned lessons and was finding joy again, and suddenly the book was closed. And I feel stuck in this chapter of child loss, and for myself, not for everyone, because we all grieve differently, I feel that the only way to reopen this book and unpause my life, is to have another baby. My body needs it as a mother to live the things I felt at my core were about to happen and suddenly are missing. 

Having another baby is the only thing I feel at peace about right now. Its a hope for the future when I have no hope left at all. And we need hope the most when you are this low. Its what brings you forward each day when you are ready to die instead. Having another baby is also the biggest fear I have. Its a double edged sword. I almost died, and thats not just a phrase I am using lightly. I SHOULD have died. People who fell to their death and miraculously lived don't tend to jump out of a plane without a parachute to test fate for a second chance. Yet here I am wanting it the MOST. And now I know that babies do die, all the time, every day, and I am just the lucky one that got to have 2 healthy babies before this. Nothing is promised in life, even though I thought things like healthy pregnancies = a baby. I am so very aware of what could go wrong another time. Yet I am going to walk in willingly because its also what I feel I need to find healing in this life. 

So not in short, yes we are going to have more children. I don't know how many more, even though I was sure Anna was going to be our last. Maybe. Brandon was sure, but I never was. I have wanted to be a mother since I was little. I never wanted to be anything else when I grew up, except a mother. There wasn't another option. Now I have 3 but you can only see 2. What the future holds I don't know. My sweet husband knowing how much I wanted a daughter, and thus losing the only daughter, already made a joke about how one day we will have 15 children. 14 boys and 1 girl at the end. Humor is his way of dealing. Mine is reaching for that future baby. I will have to find physical and mental health to get there, so I must find healing in so many ways, and having another baby will bring all of that together. 

Sawyer and I had a conversation 1 week before we lost Anna. He was so deadset on the idea that we would have 5 children in our family. He had their carseat arrangement all laid out. He was prepared. And 5 weeks after that conversation I daydream about the idea that maybe children, always closer to innocence and purity, can sense things. Not that he knew she would die. But that maybe in some way, he knew she wasn't the last. And she won't be. 

With love, lissa