Month: May 2018

As Mother’s Day approaches, I am both happy and sad. I am happy that this year I have Oliver, my son, in my life. He is healthy, happy, adorable, he is the light of my life. I am sad because as joyous as my life is right now there are still two very large, vacant holes in my heart. Stella and Joy were my first born. They gave me the title of mother. They are the reason I became a mother. But they are so often forgotten.

Without meaning to, people have already forgotten about them. People have talked about Oliver being the first. The first child. The first grandchild. The first great grandchild. I’ve been called a first time mom by people who mean well, but it still hurts. I may be a new mom, but I am not a first time mom.

My introduction into motherhood may not have been traditional, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t count. I still gave birth. I still cared for my daughters. I still held and cuddled my daughters. I still tried to protect my daughters. My daughters will forever be apart of my story, my life, my family. I will forever love my daughters and I will forever be their mother.

Yesterday was Bereaved Mother’s Day. Once again, a holiday I never wanted to celebrate of even know about it, but I do. It may seem counterintuitive to want my motherhood to be recognized, but also acknowledge a holiday specific for mothers like me, but there is something about this community, the community of bereaved mothers. No one can understand unless they are a part of it. Until you have given birth to a child and then had to give them back, you just can’t possibly understand what that is like.

This coming Sunday, is the real Mother’s Day. For the first time, I will have a child in my arms on this holiday. Zach, Oliver, and I are going to go out for brunch. It will be our first time taking Oliver to a restaurant. Well meaning people will see me with an infant and no other children and assume this is my first Mother’s Day. I don’t know if I will correct them. I am often torn between making sure I acknowledge my daughters and trying not to make anyone uncomfortable or sad, including myself. Either way, I am uncomfortable and sad.

Those of you reading this know me, or at least know my story. You know of Stella and Joy. You may have even met and/or held them. Please, don’t wish me a happy first Mother’s Day. You will not make me sad if you talk about or mention Stella and Joy. In fact, it will make me happy to know you remember them. You will not upset me if you speak their names. Your aren’t reminding me of something bad or sad, because I will never forget. You are honoring them by saying their names, by remembering them.

I am so happy and excited to celebrate this Mother’s Day with Oliver. To hold a baby in my arms and have my motherhood be visible to all. To be able to show everyone just how good of a mother I am. But please remember, this is my second first Mother’s Day.

Pregnancy after loss is one big crazy emotional roller coaster. A roller coaster that you think will pull into the station when you deliver the baby. Instead, it jumps the track once you leave the hospital and goes rogue. There is no manual. No instructions. No guide. The fears and anxiety and trepidation only grow once you get home. What’s that sound? Is his breathing normal? Why is he making that face? Is he sleeping too much? Is he eating enough? The racing thoughts just keep going. It’s hard, it’s scary, it’s intense.

It’s normal.

That was one of the hardest things to learn. Everything I was feeling, thinking, and worrying about was normal for all parents. Was it magnified? Absolutely! But knowing I wasn’t completely crazy did help.

About 3 weeks after Ollie was born it all hit me, and boy did it hit hard. I had survived an anxiety filled pregnancy, a traumatic delivery, a week in the NICU, and a week at home. Then Zach went back to work and I felt like the world was closing in around me. All of a sudden, I was on my own. Now, I wasn’t really on my own. My parents came over every day. Zach came home each night that week. But it was still hard. Harder than I thought I would be.

One night, I lost it. Zach got home from work around 10. I was sleep deprived, covered in breastmilk, and Ollie was crying (which he doesn’t do very often, we are very lucky). Zach could tell something was wrong and tried to get it out of me. I felt paralyzed. I couldn’t form the words. I knew once I said them out loud, I couldn’t take them back. Finally I said it. You know how people say, “god only gives you what you can handle?” What if Stella and Joy died because I couldn’t handle it? I do not consider myself a religious person and I have never believed in the whole only getting what you can handle thing, but in that moment, I really questioned myself.

This is the part where I brag. I brag about my amazing, supportive, loving husband. He held my hand, put his arm around me, and with glassy eyes told me that he had thought the same thing. He held me and told me how good of a mom I was, to both our daughters and our son. He told me to go bed and did the late night feedings so I could get some sleep. He washed bottles and straightened up the house. He was the best partner I could ever ask for. He IS the best partner I could ask for.

They say it takes a village to raise a child. I say it takes multiple villages. For me, I have multiple villages of moms. I have a village of moms that are my parents age or older. Ones who’s children are now adults and having children of their own. I have a village of moms that are parents of school of age kids. Ones who are just starting to let go of the reigns a bit. I have a village of moms who have also lost a child/children. Ones I may not have met in person, but who’s advice and opinions I value beyond measure. I have a village of brand new moms. Ones who have just had a baby within in the last year and are going through what I am at the same time.

My villages are full of fierce women. Women from all walks of life. Warriors who have lost babies, young children, even adult children. Warriors who adopted their children. Warriors who needed fertility treatment. Warriors whose children had tumors and illnesses and beat the odds. I am proud to be among the ranks of those warriors.

What I’ve learned most, is that talking to my fellow warriors is the best medicine. When I was struggling with baby blues, I found out I wasn’t alone. When I was struggling with pumping and nursing, I found out I wasn’t alone. When I was struggling with the decision to supplement with formula, I found out I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t alone. Being on maternity leave, home with a sleeping baby and my thoughts, started feeling like I was alone. It was such a relief to know I wasn’t.

Once I realized that, my perspective changed. Things aren’t easier. I am still caring for a newborn, some nights by myself, and that in itself is challenging. But my mindset changed. I’ve stopped pumping and started formula feeding and I’m not beating myself up over it. I’m still feeding my baby. I stopped worrying about taking Oliver out of the house. I still don’t like when most people hold or even touch him, but I’m still taking him out. I stopped waking my baby up every two hours to feed him and let him decide when he was hungry. He’s still growing. I refuse to beat myself up for doing what I think is best for my child.

Being a parent is hard. It’s hard, it’s messy, it’s tiring. But there is no greater feeling than holding your child in your arms, feeling him breathe, and watching him sleep. Being a parent after losing children is even harder. When I look at him sleeping he looks just like his sisters did, only they never woke up. I stare at him peacefully for a moment, and then snap into a panic, wondering if he is alive.

I don’t expect it to get easier. But I’m okay with that. I have my villages and warriors to get me through it.