talks with an old soul in a little boy

Tonight against all my silent pleading, my children picked Coco to watch. Every night since May, we all climb into bed together and watch a movie, Max drifts off to sleep, and this is usually when Sawyer talked about Anna with me. So I especially knew it was coming after a movie with this topic. I hadn't ever seen the movie before, so I avoided the first half. I thought it would be too hard to watch a movie about death. I caught a glimpse of a scene with a little girl on the other side, and it crushed me.  

I did however catch just enough at the end to see that the message is about keeping the memory alive after death. Continuing to talk about and love our family beyond their passing. It made me feel just in wanting to talk about Anna, even though the topic of her makes others around me uncomfortable. 

Sawyer asks a lot of questions about death right now. This isn't an uncharted territory with him. He talks to me about Anna a lot. Sometimes he even talks to others about it. Earlier this week, without a cause, he looked at me and somberly said, "Mom, I really miss Anna, I really wanted a baby to take care of." I told him he was the best big brother, and its ok to miss her. Then he asked when we have another baby, can he be called a super big brother. He had decided since Max was being promoted to big brother, he would be promoted to BIG big brother. And he's sad that isn't happening. So next time, he will be a super big brother, and that will keep the baby alive. I often question myself for ways I could have changed the outcome, this statement from him made me wonder if he feels the same way. His tiny heart trying to learn life's biggest lessons well before he should be. 

When Coco ended I expected a similar question. But instead he asked about my Grandpa. I had paused a question he had in Calgary, and he remembered it after the movie. Before Anna's death, I tried to shelter my child from the topic of death. He never knew my Grandpa, and so I didn't know how to bring his story up, specifically to Sawyer. But as we sat across from my Grandma on one of the last days, Sawyer looked at my innocently and asked where my Grandpa was. I wasn't ready for it. I didn't know how to continue telling him about death. Brandon's Grandpa had died while we were there, and Sawyer was putting together the pieces of death and family. So I told him simply that he was gone too. I told him I would tell him about Crazy Grandpa one day soon. 

Today was that day. I told him I loved Crazy Grandpa. That we called him that because he did lots of silly fun things. Just like him and Max like to be crazy. He was crazy amazing. I told him that Max is named after him. Because I loved him so much that I wanted to remember him every day. Sawyer asked if I had pictures, he is my kid after all. So I pulled up the last photo's I have of my Grandpa. A photo of my sister and I with him in the hospital. And then the conversation took another deep spiral.
 

He asked who was beside my grandpa. I said, "you know who that is? Its Auntie Jibby." And without skipping a beat he said, "O I didn't know because her smile is different now." I was speechless. He's 6 and he's picking up things that some adults don't realize. Her smile is different. I see it, but most people don't. He did. He noticed that my Grandma doesn't live with my Grandpa. He notices which songs on the radio remind me distinctly of Anna or kimmy. He notices when I am sad. 

He also noticed in the movie, that its ok to love someone after they are gone. When he said his goodnights tonight. A routine where he says "I love you" to all the special things in his life. He started with "I love you baby Anna." And it didn't make me sad. It made me proud that this little soul is mine. We have raised him in a way that his compassion and understanding of life, is at levels some people will never achieve. And he is only six years old. I feel quite unsure of my motherhood these days. But tonight was a reminder that I've done some things right. 

Postpartum Depression

I have never dealt with depression before. I do know grief well. I have had anxiety as long as I have memories. My family is accustomed to mental health in many ways. Histories of addiction, bipolar, schizophrenia, and more. Though two experiences are as unique as each brain. Which is controlling all of these intense conditions. I can list these by name but I can never understand it for another. Just as I could not understand postpartum depression without experience. And my experience of it lacks what comes with postpartum.

A baby. 

I naively believed a baby was the vital part to this specific diagnosis. 

The first time I heard the doctor say it to me, he went on to talk and prescribe treatment. I heard his voice get hollow and far away as I focused on that one word. How can I be postpartum? That word describes the transition from pregnancy to birth. The definition being "the emergence of a baby from the body of its mother; the start of life as a physically separate being." 

The start of life.

Our postpartum was the start of death.

It is a usually brought on by adjusting to motherhood. The fatigue and stress causing a phycological reaction. Mine is magnified, accompanied by loss and all its ever growing grief. Like my Csection recovery, I am told it will be harder because I lack the moments of joy a baby brings, between the lows of depression. 

I am suffering all the sacrifices mothers make in the act of creating life. But only death remains around me. The journey of child loss is a war I fight in my brain and heart. They fight each other. They fight me.

I have spent 7 weeks writing of this world. It began with bleeding out, and I continue to bleed out words. And yet I have barely begun to tap the surface of it all. Postpartum depression seems to be yet another topic the world would rather hide. We praise mothers for their humerus honesty, but shy away from brutal truth. 3 million women are diagnosed with this disease each year. It finds ways to manifest itself whether you acknowledge it or not. It is another layer to discover and work through. 

This post was meant to go on longer but I feel in a fog of confusion trying to pull together the theories of living with this. Although it has been 7 weeks, it still feels like yesterday. And alas my xanax is kicking in, slowly allowing my brain to turn off. A necessity in treatment for my depression. With sleep comes relief. It means another day is both behind and ahead of us. It is also a reminder that I have survived all of these days, 53 days of being postpartum, of grieving, of depression, of anxiety, 

53 days I have conquered and survived it all. This is life after loss. This is postpartum depression, without a baby. This is stillbirth.  

with love, lissa

Humanity

Humanity by definition is "Human Kind."

How odd then that so many humans lack kindness. Through this struggle I call life right now, people have been taken aback when I respond to certain things with kindness. Assuming because I am so broken and empty that I have nothing left to give. However in this new community of bereaved parents, I have discovered that the kindest people are the ones who life has treated unkindly. We know the experience so well, that we strive to put into the world what was taken from us. 

It is why I felt so strongly about our blood drive. It is why most of us have hashtags in our children's honor, that mark the goodness that has come in spite of tragedy. We work hard on trying to adjust the balance that we ourselves cannot find. I see so many passion projects spring out of child loss: comfort boxes, free stillbirth photography, donated park benches, tree's publicly planted in remembrance. Free libraries filled with books dedicated to lost children, somewhere in Minnisota sits a book that starts with "in honor of Anna." 

I had two vastly different days back to back. Someone who saw me yesterday would not think it was possible how I behaved today. It was dependent on how people treated me, but also, and maybe more importantly, how I treated them in return. 

Yesterday I woke up to a message, it does not matter the content, it was just unexpected and started my day in a way I wasn't prepared for. From there we were late leaving the house and it reminded me that, - I knew I was going to be late a lot this summer, I was supposed to be adjusting to life with three kids, one being a newborn. - The thought hit me hard because I am notoriously early, and I had thought about it continually through the pregnancy that it was going to irritate me that life would change without my control. Now here we are, I am still late everywhere we go, but it is because there is no newborn in our lives. 

There is construction in our neighborhood, and it causes traffic. It has been that way for weeks, and I keep forgetting. So it made us even later. While sitting there I wrote the kids camp and explained we would be very late today. Someone behind me laid on the horn because I hadn't continued to inch forward. It was not even a car length difference, we continued to sit in that lane another 8 min unmoving. The noise startled me, I threw up my hand meaning, "sorry" I felt guilty for having been texting, not paying attention. (Even though we weren't moving?) He must have thought I was angry at his honking so in response to my sorry wave, he wildly threw his hands around the car, and I could tell he was yelling at me. The straw fell, and I broke down crying. 

I cried the rest of the way to camp. I actually followed him most of the way and I laughed (while crying, its an art I posses,) when he pulled in front starring me down as he passed me, his license plate referred to God, and I thought, I am literally your neighbor.....did you miss the "Love thy neighbor" passage? I cried the whole way home with an empty car. Climbed into bed and cried myself to sleep. I made sure I set an alarm, otherwise I would have slept the entire day away. I picked up the kids and was invited inside because I looked like A WRECK. I was a wreck! 

It was an out of body experience, in that I knew I wanted to talk with this friend, find comfort she was trying to give me. But I could not make my mouth speak. Even though I was screaming in my head to do just that. I just stood there, continuing to cry. I cried ALL day. It was one of the worst days in the past 7 weeks since we lost Anna. 

Today I woke up to a message from the same interaction as the previous day. Which had stemmed the whole spiral of emotions. They continued the same tone, but I responded instead with more strength and ultimately ending with kindness. Thanking them and telling them something positive in a negative experience. I am not even sure it was read in that way, or taken in hostility. It doesn't matter. I owned my own feelings and followed through on them. 

I drove and let every single car into my backed up traffic lane, that had been ignored while waiting to get in. No honking today, waves of gratitude instead. We made it to drop off only 5 minutes late this time. Having not grocery shopped this week, I had run out of our standard lunchables, and had to run to target to get them for their camp day. While there, I ran into a woman wearing scrubs, and more particularly, they were marked with the logo of my OBGYN's practice. I had read an article a day before about how people say they couldn't be nurses because they don't like needles, blood and vomit. It went on to say those things are the easy part of their job. Its when they have to deliver a child silently that has turned blue already, when they have to tell a pregnant patient there is no heartbeat, THOSE are the hard part about being a nurse. 

I cannot thank my nurses because I don't remember who was there that day. I will never know. But here was one, and from the same practice. I stepped way outside my comfort zone and stopped her, I said "I would really like to give you a hug and thank you for being a nurse." I was crying and she asked if I was ok. "No" I simply responded, "Something happened 7 weeks ago, and you were all so kind to me, I just wanted you to know that as a patient, I appreciate you, even more when you cannot change the outcome. I know those days hurt you guys too." She hugged me again, thanked me and we both smiled as I walked away. 

I chatted with a stranger I met through baby loss for the next hour. I paced a book store in search of a book she recommended as we chatted. Her situation differs from mine. And while I know a whole new world of stillbirth, I didn't know her journey. And it was wonderfully eye opening to talk to someone on that level of learning to understand each other. We are both sorry for each other, even though we are deeply wounded ourselves. I enjoyed our conversation, and there is not much I genuinely enjoy anymore. 

I returned to pick up, and was once again invited inside. This time I could not turn off my mouth. 5 minutes turned into 3 hours. We covered every topic I had been letting weigh my heart down. I told her about both days and how differently I had been affected by them. We laughed, we cried, I told her things I haven't told anyone else. Friends seem to be better therapists than professionals these days. 

Once I got home, my neighbor texted me and invited me over to dinner. Normally I would quietly decline, my picky eaters are often embarrassing to bring to other homes that actually eat food. We have become close after I made a random post last summer and she responded, you guessed it, with kindness. To my surprise my kids tried NEW food and LOVED it, ate their entire meals. They had a great time playing with her kids, and we had a great time empathizing with each other. Love thy neighbor as thyself, maybe she needs to trade license plates with my other neighbor? 

We walked home with the sunsetting, the kids played in the backyard for awhile. And as I sat on the swing watching them and decompressing from my day, I noticed I was smiling. Naturally. Those come so few and far between these days. 

The main difference between these two days was how I chose to handle situations. I chose kindness, even at the cost of myself in some situations. And because of that choice, it was returned unto me.  Even though others may not treat you with kindness, it is always in our power to return it to them. And Maybe if we all started to do this more often, we could change the world, one kindness at a time. We could raise Human Kind back to a humanity to be proud of. 

with love, lissa

my many masks

Grief.

I found many ways to mask mine once before. I wore my many masks with pride. Some even envied what I wore. I spun pain into gold like rumpelstiltskin. A shining beauty in an ugly world. Like a fairy tale hero, you would think I had stood at the gates of hell, dressed wildly in armor & mask, yelling loudly, "I dare you." You would think I won my battle with only a single scar to show. Grief is so simple to those who do not know.

I looked like I was healing. But these were just my masks. That I put on each morning. Dragging myself out of bed to face another day. Choosing carefully which to wear. A new and ever changing mask, for my ever changing grief. A mask for being strong. A mask for happiness. A mask for comfort. A mask for hope. 

Now I feel that the 8 months of pregnancy was just another mask. This time fooling me. I believed it, as others had believed mine. I didn't see it coming when life slipped off the mask. Hell was still waiting for me. My battle had been won, but the war was just beginning. 

I do not wear my masks anymore. I refuse to hide this time. I thought others would be afraid of this deep and dark emotion that has taken over my life. But more & more I'm finding that other people have masks too. And if you take yours off first, and are brave enough to show yourself in every ugly way, they return the same in grace. 

The only thing I wear now is honesty. It's not always easy or pretty. Sometimes I make people uncomfortable, that poor starbucks employee who asked how my weekend was going, and didn't get the masked response. But for each of those moments, there is an opposite reaction. When I don't hold back the tears on the phone, and a stranger sends a comforting hug over air waves in the form of, "O honey, I lost a child too." The world is a more beautiful place when we all share our damaged souls.

*sidenote. Isn't it the most marvelous but mysterious thing, when you write from your heart, then look for a quote to add imagery to a blog post. And find something that is unbelievably what you were trying to say. I wrote this whole thing and then found the quote, I've never seen it, and it took awhile to find it, {shockingly not a lot of masked quotes on pinterest.} And there it was summed up in one sentence. Hello universe, you DO see me. Life is so wonderfully weird sometimes. 

with love, lissa

Mirrored

On March 5th 2017 I received a phone call from my mother. I had already missed 7 calls between 3am-4am. Waking up in the twilight hours to my husband shaking me awake. He too had missed called from my mom. I hit redial, and the vibrations on the ringtone were dim in comparison to the voice that answered. It was so broken, there was no words. Just raw human emotion expressing disbelief and horror. I tried to speak for her. What happened? Who is hurt? Is it Dad? I jumped to him first. I worried about his health as stress had already caused my mom to develop epilepsy in her 50's. And he wasn't on the phone making this call. It must be Dad. She still wasn't speaking, just screaming tears. 

Then one word. Kimmy. 

And suddenly my strong demeanor on the phone stared to break and mirror my mothers. I paced the room in the dark. Brandon sitting on the bed to rub my back when I would sit for a second. Leaving the next to move because my world had stopped. 

I spent the next hours on the phone trying to book flights to get home. This is when you feel the distance of immigration. When a boarder separates you from loved ones. When you come up with crazy notions like, "If I start driving right this second I can be there in 19 hours." Crying to strangers on the phone booking flights when you realize your child's passport is expired. You thought there would be time. If this is a funeral you are coming home for, you cannot bring your children. 

I couldn't get a flight until 7pm. 15 hours I would have to wait. I spent them on the phone trying to get updates. The hours spun by fast even though my world stood still. Friends dropped by to bring me things to ease the plane ride, knowing my anxiety would be at its worst. Someone gave me a xanax, I thought, I don't need this I am strong enough. I now have a xanax prescription because this was the beginning of the end of being strong. 

I got off that plane at close to midnight. The hospital was dark and quiet. I asked my dad about visiting hours, his reply, "the ICU doesn't have visiting hours." I waited at security doors, a nurse buzzing us in. I walked and heard my footsteps echo in the empty hallway. Until we got to a door. And I walked in and my life changed forever. 

On May 20th 2018 My mom received a call. She believed because it was my husband making the call, that it was the happy news that should have followed my call, telling her I was on the way to the hospital. Full term, and feeling pain I thought was contractions. Instead the only words he told her was, "We lost the baby." I do not know what happened on her end of that call. I know it was probably similar to mine. Packing a suitcase without knowing what was being put inside. Booking a flight that you do not want to take, and yet cannot come soon enough. 

I know I felt it was surreal that somehow she was arriving from another country 9 hours after picking up the phone. I know she arrived to a dark hospital, closed to visiting hours, except for these situations. I know she got there just in time to say goodbye. Before she ever got the chance to say hello. 

She lost a child at 28. I lost a child at birth. We both know the pain of child loss, something a mother shouldn't know. Something a mother and daughter should not share in common. 

We had struggled after Kimmy's loss. I was a child wanting my mother, but she had nothing to give. I know this because I struggle to give my own children their desires right now. She knows this because it's watching your child live your own pain. Experience of child loss is the only way to understand it. Though our circumstances are different, it is only another mother that can cry and say I know. 

And now we know each others grief. I often wondered if our relationship would ever repair itself to the one I used to love. Our family had remained so close over the years of being shattered. I wished it back over and over again. But now we stand, mirroring each other once more. In pain, in triumph, in understanding. My mothers pain is my Pain now. It's something we should not share. I wish neither of us had to know. But here we are. I know her grief. She knows mine. 

We are still struggling.
But it is together in grief, instead of apart because of grief.

with love, lissa

 

I am so much more than a word

I do not have a name. Did you know that? There is a term for spouses that have lost one another, widow, widower. There is a name for a child who has lost a parent, orphan. But there is no name for me. A parent who has lost a child. 

They didn't have a name for me when I lost a sibling too. Instead I always feel like the sad story a friend of a friend tells you. And you think to yourself, gosh that poor girl, again? How does she do it. I do it because I did not get a choice. No one ever does when life comes to your door.

You tell me I am strong because you have seen me conquer my past. You see my feed with happy memories in the face of grief. The biggest smile on my face as I held a child attached to a million machines. Smiles mirroring the little boy who is not my own but lived on and off with me. Smiles as I held my still baby in my arms, because there will never be another photo of us together. Smiles in the face of grief.

 You think you couldn't do it yourself. I thought I couldn't either. In fact, while grieving my sister, one year ago, I wrote the words, "I don't think I could do this with a child." Thinking my mother the strongest person I knew. 

Now here we are. I know her grief. I know the loss of the future. I know nothing and everything about grief. I am angry that the ways I processed Kimmy's grief are not working this time. I found comfort in food and socializing then, now I cannot eat, and I don't want to see anyone. I had 3 children in my home, as my nephew came to stay with us. I lived for making his days happy, and in return his joy brought me smiles. I was living through grief with what looked like dignity. But it was dingy in the corners. I was crying when no one was looking. But I was slowly healing. I was once again going to have 3 children in my house, this time all my own. 

14 months I was working and healing. 14 months of hard days were becoming worth it. I was incredibly sad that Kimmy wasn't sharing in this healing of the arrival of her first niece. Something we had talked about for our whole lives, a little girl. Somehow there hadn't been a boy in our family for 27 years. Then the two of us brought in 3 in a row. And now after waiting patiently, here she was. But I couldn't share it with someone I desperately wanted to. I cried the morning of the baby shower, because my sister wouldn't be there. I was so sad to not have her with me on the happiest days. 

I am even more sad to not have her with me on the hard days. I miss the texts and phone calls she would have made, to bring me out of this darkness. She was always the brightest sunshine in the room. But stars shine too bright and burn out before their time. So here I sit missing two of the most special relationships in my life. A sister, and a daughter. It took me 14 months to start feeling healing with Kimmy's grief. It came with great tolls. It's only been 7 weeks with Anna. I guess we'll start again. 

I do not know who I am anymore. I have no name to define me. I am just the sad story girl. But I am also the girl who has survived everything else in my path. I am still the sad story you tell your friends about. But I am also the survivor you tell your friends about. I am the strength that other's draw from on hard days. In return, they hold me up on my dark ones too. I am a grieving mother, and I am still a mother. I am so much more than this one word that doesn't exist.

I do not have a name, I do not need one. I will be a story now and forever. Of healing and life after loss, life after stillbirth. My name is not important. Only a reminder that someone else has survived the unthinkable. That someone else can too. 

with love, lissa.   

Explain it

What if I told you everything you know in life is wrong?

That logic doesn't exist anymore. 
That the world is no longer round. 
That  1 + 1 = 0

What if I erased everything you did in the last 8 months? 

Everything you created.
Everything you worked hard on.
Every emotion you felt.

What if I said you don't get a choice?

You have to live this. 
You have to be strong.
You have to.

 A friend asked me today, "Do you ever fantasize about what your life would be like right now?"

Every minute of every day.
My mind is a battleground and I am losing the war on my heart. 


What if I told you this is what its like every day?

Would you tell me it gets better.
Would you tell me to be happy.
Would you try to tell me lies.

What if it was you?

without logic.

Without your baby.

Without your life you thought you had. 

Big Little Lies

It's easier for you to read my posts when they have a spin of positivity to them. It makes you feel good to think I am healing. So I do it. 

I create these lies around me. You call it strong. I call it surviving. There is a distinct difference. I did it so well with Kimmy's grief that people close to me have looked back and said, I didn't know you were still hurting so much over her. I am good at it. You didn't know I was crying in the car every day, right up until the week of the baby shower. That I did shed a tear the night before, because my sister wasn't a part of my baby shower at all. 

You only saw my 'here and there' post's when it overflowed. But in between, in large stretches, you saw laughter and confused it with joy. You saw smiles, and confused it with moving on. But they were lies.

Lies I told people around me. As I sat in my car just long enough to dry my eyes. Lies when I cancelled plans because I couldn't be around other sisters having fun. Lies about why my nephew always seemed to spend a few months of the year with us. Lies about why Christmas Day hasn't been easy for years.

Lies about life. My life. And I got so good at telling them, that I believed them. The lies are what gave me strength. I loved my little feed of happy little lies.

I would have told you I finally felt like I conquered it, and smiled and real genuine smile that last day. I texted numerous friends about how amazing it felt to feel happy. Not fake it. I felt my happiest in 14 months. 

And then I felt my lowest I've felt in my life. It was that sudden of a drop. 

So I started telling myself lies again. Its what the world wants to hear. That things get better. Because who wants to live if it doesn't get better than this. People like those posts. They think I am healing, so they feel better too.   

Look over here, at this lie about how happy I am to still be a family of 4, after giving birth to a third child. Look at this pretty present that someone sent me in remembrance, instead of arrival. Over here is a quote about something hopeful, even though I have nothing left. Happy smiles on my kids faces, when my 6 year old talks about death and knows his mom cries all the time. 

It's just a big collection of little lies.
For you, and even more for me.

with love, lissa
 

Friends are the family you choose.

6 years ago Sawyer had the craziest intense surgery. We had been living in Las Vegas for 4 years. He was in the PICU for 6 days. We had a total of 5 visitors. Brandon, my mom, his sister, and 3 mom's I had play dates with. At that point in my life I felt terribly isolated. I had immigrated to a country where I had no friends and family. I was straight up asking strangers for playdates at the playground. Which is SO far out of my comfort zone, but that's how desperate I was. 

{ps, that never worked. I got a lot of phone numbers and a whole lot of no answers}

In May, Brandon had to enforce a rule of having no visitors. He had people non stop trying to come see us. We had to cancel meals because too many people had signed up for our meal train. The mailbox has skipped a day without a package of well wishes. I went from feeling like I had no one, to feeling overwhelmed with friends. It was almost shocking. It's one of the strongest emotions I have tied to the first days of this journey. I just kept saying to Brandon, that I genuinely didn't know I was so deeply loved by so many people. 

I think people felt more free to tell me, or show me love. Because they realize it could have been a forever regret of having not said it. I think a lot of people were invested in my healing and joy of Anna after Kimmy's grief. They are feeling a sense of loss as well. 

I felt loved on the day before, Anna's shower. But this is just different. It makes me stop through out a lot of days because a message will pop up and it always seem's to come at the right time, with the right words. I can't even remember them all to share how amazing this feeling is. 

I have friends of all kinds now. I have the one I knew from the first house I remember. Who knew me when I was the littlest girl. Who's friendship has traveled so many distances. And survived long before technology made it easy. We sent old fashion pen and paper until the world kept up with our love. Now she sends me playlists in hard times from china, a weighted pillow from etsy slash Malasia, and quotes from around Asia as she travels, but never forgets me. 

I have a friend I met over a community post, who I invited into my house to try nails for the first time. Instant friends. When she moved away I was so sad to lose that. Only I didn't. She was one of the biggest parts of the blood drive. She was part of the baby shower. She was part of the good and bad, the joy and sorrow. Packages arrive from Germany almost at a weekly routine. 

I have a friend who has told me she hates to spend time in cars, but she's willing to do the 22 hour road trip with me. I have multiple friends who have said they do like driving and want to take her place. I had to tell friends not to get on planes around the world, just to be HERE. I have friends who text me encouraging words randomly, not when I need it, but just to remind me. I have friends who I've never met before that feel like family over the internet. I have friends I haven't spoken to in years, times flown by, that tell me they think about me all the time now. I have friends I was on cheer teams with for a short period of my life, now scattered across the globe, donating in Anna's name. I so many friends who sent thoughtful gifts and cards that I have an album of 293 images so I don't forget these acts of kindness. 

And now I have friends who I would have never known had May 20 been a regular day. Some knew this pain before me and were able to hold my hand those first days. And I wondered how they could possibly feel healed enough from this loss, to help someone else through the same. I have some who also call May their time stamp. I have some who said my voice is heard after they have been silenced in their loss for years. I have more that join me every day. These are friendships that are born in tragedy and carried in each other. They are so strong already, I feel like facing my fears of flying and hoping on a plane so I can just hug them in real life instead of over instagram. We have lost family members, so we have become each others families. 

There is so many more I wish I could describe, but I could simply talk about it endlessly. I remember the days I couldn't do that. And that life brought me here to this place when I needed it most. Don't ever think you are insignificant in my life. Every single message sent has been a stitch in my shattered heart. It is in a million pieces, but I can feel a million people behind me. Each picking up a piece to try and mend it.

If you have been a friend to me in the last 6 weeks. If you even read my posts silently and think to yourself how amazing life is, because you know "this girl on instagram living through hell." If you are part of my pod, my tribe, my mom friends, my neighbors, my friends, my family, and especially my NEW friends, {I need a word for our loss club,} Thank you for loving me. through May 20 and beyond. My world is better because you are here with me. 

with love, lissa

Together

10 years ago, a boy that lived in another country, threw rocks at my childhood bedroom window.

It was July 4th. And I was sulking that Brandon wasn't visiting on a long weekend. I refused to shower and get ready no matter how many times my mom subtly tried to change that. I only cared what one persons opinion on me appearance was, and he was supposed to be 1000 miles away. 

We had done long distance for the last 11 months. Our whole relationship was spent talking between countries. Calgary to Toronto. Toronto to London. Las Vegas to Calgary. A full circle around the globe. And it all led to the question...

Will you marry me?

I cried. That first moment of us together for the rest of our lives, and I cried. Tears of pure joy. It was the happiest I had ever felt. He had listened to a conversation we had had months ago, that I had always wished for the CW tv show moment, when a boy throws rocks at your window, and you sneak out for the best night of your life. I complained that this wasn't possible when you grew up in the country back roads where your parents would see the headlights coming for too long. Real life wasn't as pretty as scripted moments, and it wasn't fair.

And from that first moment, he went above and beyond to give me the world. He wasn't even supposed to be in Canada, much less outside my window throwing rocks, with a ring in his pocket. But there he was defying logic. And there he has been every day since. 

We have traveled the world together. We have driven a million miles around this continent in a car together. We have done so much together, but most days we are happier just to stay home together. In this house we built into a home. Filled with children. Covered in blankets watching movies into the early morning hours. Dancing in the isles of the grocery store at 3am, because stores being open 24/7 is more fun than novelty. Taking a million pictures in mirrors together. We've been to the happiest place on earth so many times together, we spent our one year anniversary there. But I have the happiest place on earth right here. In a person. I couldn't be luckier. 

If I could travel back in time and tell that young naive girl of everything that was going to break her heart, I would tell her to do it anyways. Because saying yes to him, means all of this is going to happen. But saying yes to him is also going to be worth all the heartbreak, because it's going to show you a love that you never knew existed. It's going to make those "CW tv show cliche rock throwing moments" seem completely vapid. The world should write stories about this kind of love instead. But they can't because most people will never know this level of love. You are going to be the most lucky unlucky person in the world. 

I dropped Brandon off at the airport today. I had once heard this quote. "Airports see more sincere kisses than wedding halls, - and the walls of hospitals have heard more prayers than churches." { I didn't remember the second half of the quote until I just looked it up. But it might be even more profound than the first sentence.} Over ten years, there has been many moments of those sincere hello & goodbye's at airports. It's the price of long distance. Of immigration. Of love.

Today was no different. Life continues to move forward, relentlessly 24 hours at a time. And off he goes to live his dream. Mine shattered, his world torn in two. This summer we were both going to get something we had lived our whole lives wanting. Now only one of us gets to live that out. So we are going to live it. Together.

We stood there crying and holding each other. No one knowing why those tears were so unrestrained. And then in a way only Brandon can do, he made a stupid joke in the middle of it. And gave me one last smile to hold onto as he walked away.

For every time in these 10 years that I have collapsed into his arms crying in sorrow, there is a million times he has made me laugh till I cry with joy. Life has thrown us everything its got. And I constantly wonder what we will face next. Surviving the hardest things in the past, has always led to more hard things to survive. But we've done it all together. We will continue to do it together.

Together is the only reason it all happened.
Together is the only way its survivable.
Ten years ago I made the best decision of my life. 
I said yes. 

with love, lissa

Be Brave

Be Brave. That's what I told myself all day. The kids were at camp and Brandon was working. I had nothing to keep my mind busy. Someone told me to find a hobby to take my idle hands. The idea of crocheting again made me remember that I hadn't started her blanket yet. I thought I had time. The idea of scrapbooking made me want to throw up because it involved pictures I will never have, to fill her empty waiting book. Everything seemed to come with a secondary thought of a painful reminder. 

I was scrolling through instagram and came across this lettering course. On a whim I ordered the book and some markers. It was something I had tried a couple times but never had the time to dedicate to learning it. Yesterday before my dreaded appointment, I spent hours sitting and learning. Determined to have something that took my mind off Anna with a beautiful result. Wanting to get so good at it that I could provide printables on the blog, so other moms can have beautiful reminders to get going in the face of this. As I type this, My first reminder hangs from my clipboard across from my bed. Never Give Up.

I had told myself the worst part was going to be the waiting room. Full of waiting to be born babies. And I had build myself up about that so much, that when the waiting room was empty, the relief I felt brought my guarded walls down. The ultrasound technician came out. I know she recognized me, because we had had so many ultrasounds. I often said she was already the most photographed baby in the world. I didn't appreciate all those extra times I got to see Anna. There is piles and piles of ultrasound pictures of her in our house. She started the appointment with hugging me, in one of those deep knowing hugs. I don't even know her name, but she knew our story. And she was hurting for us too. 

I thought having an ultrasound was going to feel awful. Usually the screen is connected to a giant TV for parents to watch too. The room remained dark. And instead of doing a regular ultrasound on my flattening belly, she asked me to change for an internal exam. They needed to check that my bleeding condition didn't leave behind any blood clots. Nothing was there. An emptiness. I used to believe you couldn't feel something that isn't there. But Emptiness is a physical thing you can feel. 

Brandon came to be my support for the appointment. He sat at my head, like he had just done 6 weeks ago, as I lay flat on a table knowing results I didn't want. I kept my eyes squeezed shut, even though there was nothing to see. The child in us all, if I had had covers to crawl under, I would have. Though Ive never shut my eyes with such force before, the tears came pouring out anyways. It was painful, and it was a reminder, and it was empty. Brandon held my hand feeling helpless, kissing my fingers so gently. Trying to make the worst moments bearable.

Then they led us to take my vitals. The nurse was young and must not have even bothered to look at my chart. I dont resemble a pregnant woman at all. The weight slipped off faster than my two previous pregnancies. I stepped on the scale and the tears were still slipping off my cheeks uncontrollably. She asked "And why are we seeing you today."

Silence. I couldn't speak. And silence was why we were here. 

Then we sat in a room, and my doctor went over the results. Everything looks normal. There is no reason that should have caused a healthy mom, and full term baby to end this way. It doesn't make sense. It never will. He brought us back to make sure I am healthy. Physically and mentally. I told myself I was going to prove to him I was doing well in the face of this. Instead I was crying long before he came into the room. Brandon telling him Im not actually like this all the time. The pockets of peace at 7 weeks are getting longer. I can talk about stillbirth without shedding a tear. I am doing the hardest thing in my life, and still breathing. 

He gave me more xanax anyways. 

He asked if we want to try again. I have never said yes faster in my life. He says there is no reason we couldn't. I hear hope in that answer. I hear fear in it. I hear future heartbreak. I hear possibilities on two scales. It's one sentence, but to my mind I hear a million things. My mind races to the future. I just don't want to be HERE anymore. I keep telling myself that it will be better when I am holding a baby in my arms again. I just need to get THERE. 

But I am also heavily aware that pregnancy doesn't mean babies anymore. The logic I knew doesn't exist. It would be like discovering the world is flat after knowing it wasn't your whole life. So the one thing I want most in life, could bring this heartache again. And I don't know how you would survive it. And I know there is mom's that like me, didn't get a choice in that. And they have multiple places in there hearts that will never heal. 

I cried the whole way home. Not for any particular reason. Just because this is my reality. And it touches every inch of my soul and day. There is never a time where a thought doesn't end with, "but she would be here." Silently inside my head. 

I crawled into bed and watched a whole season of a series in one day. I accepted help I feel ashamed to ask for. I ate a meal, I can usually only eat one a day. The food is hard to choke down every time. I don't feel taste anymore. I eat things I have always hated. I am not eating for any reason other than survival. And I have discovered you don't actually need a lot of calories to survive. It is the opposite of my grief with Kimmy. Food was comforting there. Now it is just and end to a means. 

And then a friend came by. She asked to sit on the porch swing outside. And somehow softly drifting back and forth in the twilight, 4 hours slipped by. She listened and never made me uncomfortable, as my mood swung between peace and sorrow. Sobbing at a moment and laughing at the next. I try to explain my thoughts and feelings but it never truly gets there. No one will ever understand it. Experience is the only understanding. And I don't want anyone to understand it in that way. 

She told me she imagines it is like explaining the color blue, to someone who is blind. 

And in that moment it all made sense to me. The frustration, the constantly trying to tell people, the beauty and the pain in it. It is one of the only things that has been said to me in these last 6 weeks, that gave me a sense of someone understanding it. Because of that quiet 4 hours of endless talking, I fell asleep last night for the first time without my brows pushed together in pleading my mind to sleep. Time is working. It is softening it. Which is both a blessing and a curse. 

It was another day, in the pile of horrific days I have collected. It was a another rough one. And I survived it. 


with love, lissa. 
 

The New Normal

This is a phrase you hear a lot after tragedy. You can't go back to your old self. So you should find a new normal. But here is the thing. NOTHING ABOUT THIS IS NORMAL. 

There are pockets of time where I can act normal. But most of those are because I am so numb that my body has discovered you CAN actually run out of tears. Your mind can go into shut down mode and just go through motions without you. 

There are also pockets of true peace. My heart can do the same shut down mode as my mind, and pause its brokenness. Letting me breathe for an hour. I can laugh at something stupid Brandon says. He tries SO hard sometimes to bring me to those pockets. Laughter is his medicine, always has been, and sometimes it is the only thing that works.

 I can enjoy sitting with my book club discussing a random read, and feel like I remember that this simple way of spending a night, used to be my normal. I relish it, and I wish it was still true. Because right now they are just small pockets. 

Most of the time it's a different constant. It's not normal. I can find something to fall under the category of all the things that describe normal. It's average, typical, expected, and usual to feel how I am feeling. A therapist says, well that's a normal reaction to grief. But this life is anything but normal. 

It's not normal to sign a child's death certificate. It's not normal to cry all the time. It's not normal to survive on a few calories a day. It's not normal to avoid the people you love. It's not normal to be so tired and not be able to sleep. It's not normal to exist after losing a child.  

Texting my friend that I've only met in person once, a picture of my blood clot, accompanied with "Am I dying, is this normal?" Is it normal for this size of blood clot, because they told me I'm not out of the woods and to watch for this. And is it normal to send photos of this graphic nature to someone I didn't know a year ago. 

Is this feeling I have of a blood rush in my arms normal? Its like having a shiver, but opposite. Its a rush of warmth and minuscule pin pricking running over me. But my arms are cold to the touch, because Im still trying to recover from that much blood loss. Am I dying, is this bad, is this normal?

Being both genuinely happy for someone announcing their new pregnancy, and devastated at the same time. What would have been the absolute best timing of having babies at the same time, now becomes the worst timing possible. So you feel love and hate in the same moment. It's something your brain isn't supposed to be able to do at the same time. Is it normal I can cry while laughing? Smile while breaking. Live while dying. 

All of it is normal. And none of it is normal. And there is no normal to go back to. And there is no normal ahead of us. 

The word normal doesn't exist in my life dictionary anymore.
We've replaced it.
Its just different now. 
A new different.

with love, lissa.

Phantom pain

The best way I've explained the grief of a child is the analogy that compares it to the loss of a limb. When I lost Kimmy, there was many moments of deep unnerving emotional pain. But there was a lot more breaks from it too. Because there was distance.

Physically, because we lived in different countries. 1000 miles between us. Also because the relationship of a sister allows the distance in your life in a daily way. Though I miss being able to call her up any time of the day to talk. Celebrate holidays together in a way only she knew me. Share memories and make new ones together. She didn't live in this house with me. 

It's not only my house, its my heart too. I carried Anna in a way only I can do. The mother child bond happens instantly and it grows faster than anything else on earth. In those short 8 months, I knew her. When I saw her for the first time, I already knew that face. 

She would not only be with me on the special days, Canada Day first, 4th of July immediately after. Holidays that are meant to be happy, now carrying a 'what if she was here right now.' Each one thought about far in advance. Prepared for with commemorative outfits waiting to be worn. Now hauntingly a mirror of emptiness, my heart as empty at the tiny romper laying flat on the top of her nursery dresser. 

The big days you can see coming, but that doesn't make them any easier. There is still pain in those days. But sometimes the little moments are worse. * When you are awake at 2 am, Thinking about how you would have been awake with a crying baby, but it is silent. * When you are putting kids in the car and know there is a third carseat missing. * When all the tiny laundry you have folded in drawers, is more frustrating than the piles of laundry waiting to be done. * When you recover faster than previous Csections, because you have the option to lay in bed all day instead of caring for another. * When you don't need the stroller on walks. * When there is no bottles on the counter. * When things are NOT happening that you KNOW happen after the birth of a baby.

It is 24 hours of the day. This kind of missing someone is unique. Because a baby is one of the only humans in your life that is with you every single hour. So it is much like a limb, something that you have grown dependent on in life. That you feel you cannot live without. That when tragedy strikes, you realize the human reality is that you CAN in fact live without it. You can work extremely hard every day and recover from the initial incident. But you will never be the same. 

Losing a leg would mean learning to walk with one leg. Losing an arm turns into learning how to eat and write without it. You would develop ways to work around the loss. I am working on ways to move around my grief and loss. Forever changed and forever remembering that loss. I feel the daily urge of something missing in my life.

People that lose a body part that is that significant, often talk about phantom pain. Continuing to feel a sensation of their body that is physically gone. The mind is hard to rewire that way. Rather believing imaginary things over fact. It also describes the intense lack of a baby physically in your life, after you give birth to a baby. Its a 100% part of your life, that is instantly 0%. So my brain continues to believe there is a baby, I feel that yearning to care for it, but I cannot. The phantom pain of absence. 

Unlike a limb, no one can see my pain. My stomach has shrunk back to its previous appearance. I do not get a parking spot tag because I am struggling to move forward. Strangers cannot see that it's a miracle I am grocery shopping. That I continue to live an everyday life, despite the loss.

Mine is a silent unseen struggle, stillbirth brings so much silence to your life. I never realized that a baby crying could be the most beautiful sound on earth. But I know its absence is shattering. I am giving a voice to a silent tragedy in our society. So many people are reaching out to say my words are validating their feelings that they could never express. It isn't easy, I would rather have lost my legs, than losing Anna. But I didn't get a choice. No one gets a choice when tragedy is involved. So we just continue to try and live with our pain. Physical & phantom.  

I am having phantom pain
That missing piece of my body, is a piece of my heart. 
It is a baby that was born, and never breathed.
I am missing her. 

with love, lissa

i'm sorry, I know

There are some situations in life that people use "There are no words," to describe how awful it is. Instead they say, "I'm sorry," over and over again. And they really are. Its a genuine feeling of sorry. And yet you only say it when you haven't lived it. When you live something like this it changes from I'm sorry, to "I know."

I'm sorry is sympathy. I know is empathy. 

- "It’s not that sympathy is bad, not at all. It’s just that empathy invites a connection sympathy simply can’t. Sympathy says, “I feel sorry for you,” while empathy declares, “I am you.” Sympathy requires you to find compassion, from a distance, for another’s misfortune. Empathy demands that you revisit your own pain in order to relate to someone else’s." - I love this description of the difference between the two. You can read the full article here.

When people say that I have a way with words right now, its because I have so many flowing through my mind. I would rather try to express them in hopes that someone out there that has been told "there is no words," finds mine. Finds that they are not alone. That there is definitely a lot of words that can be strung together to describe grief. And although there is no grief that is ever the same, its the most unique experience in life. There are people who are feeling the same feelings. And sometimes just being told, "I know," is enough. 

There is one video on youtube that I share more than any other. A good friend showed it to me the first time I saw her after Kimmy's accident. {I never know what to actually call this event in my life, nothing sums it up quite what it is. Accident that wasn't accidental, loss even though she is still living. Its so complicated. And right now it also compounds my grief.} I find so much comfort in Brene Browns words and voice. I watched this video that was able to voice what I wanted to tell everyone around me. I love advocating the difference of sympathy and empathy, because it makes a difference to people that are deep in the experience that needs empathy.

She says "Rarely can a response ever make something better, what makes something better is connection." Nothing is truer than this statement. Here is the full video that I beg you to watch. Its 2 minutes and 34 seconds that felt life changing to me the first time I watched it. 

While writing today, I opened fb and saw a message from a friend that I have never met in person. But we have been through some shit together. We met over the internet because she had a little boy and had just gotten the craniosynostosis diagnosis. And I was the person in her life that could say, I know. 

The messages between us started on deep empathy. And we have followed each others lives through happiness and further heartbreak. Because life is never all one direction. It's full of ups and downs, and it seems the best people I know, know those really dark deep downs. We are each others supporters, because we remember when we were the ones needing that same support. There are many of my friends who fall into this category. And there will be so many that years from now message me and say, I'm sorry, I know. 

And I will be there to walk them through that passage, like people are doing with me now. 

I know. 

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. 

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

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

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