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

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.   

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 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.