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

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

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. 

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

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