national pregnancy and infant loss day

october 15, 2017

it's been almost a year since i woke up thinking i'd get another day to grow you only to find that your heart had stopped beating and you were already leaving my body. it really doesn't get any easier as the days and months pass. it hurts and i miss you. and today is a day that brings up so many emotions and that welling feeling in me that i have to wait a very long forever to hold you in my arms. today is national pregnancy and infant loss awareness day. i will scroll through my instagram and facebook at random moments today and see many posts about a baby they only ever carried in their hearts and not their arms. or a child they once kissed on their forehead but now only through the glass of a picture frame that holds an image of who they'll never watch grow to be. today will no doubt be tough.

but today is also exciting because i have collab'd with an awesome mama in creating a tee specifically for you, for all of those other sweet angel babies out there and for all of the mothers out there who have been stifled by the stigma of society to minimize their loss and aren't quite in a place where they can call themselves a mother because of that. whether you lived and breathed or your heart only ever beat under mine, i am still a mother to you hazel mae. and we're releasing this still a mother tee today.

i'm pretty proud of this little tee for a lot of reasons. number one because it honors you, and also honors all of those angel babies and their mothers, but also because a portion of the proceeds will go to a non-profit organization that assists loss mothers/families. which is so important because we, as a society, need to be able to spread awareness of pregnancy and infant loss and provide counseling and resources to parents and families who have suffered through the journey of loss; i hope this tee can contribute to that. your short time growing in my womb means so much more than just today.

____

if you have been touched by loss and would like to order a shirt, you can head to the wild ones shop to order. jamie and i are also hosting a giveaway for a still a mother tee, which you can enter on my instagram. you can also give jamie's shop a follow on instagram if you'd like, because she has other amazing tees that make a stand for empowering women through their journey of motherhood.

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bereaved parents month

this month is bereaved parents month.

we honor our loss, hazel mae, this month, as well as all of those precious babies and children gone much too soon. there is an emptiness inside that only we can understand and i hope you know, you are not alone.

and please remember... even if you never got to carry your baby in your arms and only in your hearts, you are still a mother and father.

(feel free to save this image by right clicking on it and selecting 'save image')

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on the day you were (to be) born

july 6, 2018

today i would have been holding you.

we would have gotten up extra early to gather our hospital bags and make sure we had everything we needed. your big brothers would be sleeping softly at nana's house, waking up to a text and photo from us of your sweet little face, and they'd jump for joy and shout your name. we would have been driving to the hospital, anxious and nervous, but mostly ecstatic to meet you. once there, we would check in and i would get put in a bed and set up with a iv and they'd start to monitor you. we'd probably wait for what would seem like forever (because they always have you come to the hospital at an ungodly hour and make you wait an ungodly amount of time for what seems like absolutely no reason whatsoever before they're actually ready for you to go). they'd get the page that dr. kromhout was there, they'd wheel me into the operating room, give me the good ol' spinal, prep me for surgery, and in the doctor would walk. he'd no doubt joke about whether or not i'd have another red-haired baby or if i'd be thankful for not having to labor in this gross heat wave we have going on today. maybe he'd offer that tummy tuck i'd been asking for with your big brothers this whole time? and then i would feel your entire energy leave the womb and you'd take your first breath while we were still tethered together by the tree of life. your daddy would be crying right now, if not this whole time, and i would be taking this moment to absorb you all in-your smell, your touch, your hair, your eyes, you breath-as they place you on my chest, our hearts beating together as you wail in my ear (or maybe you'd have come out quiet, observing this new world you just entered, serene and perfect, just like your big brother oliver). they'd close me up while they check you out, then together-skin to skin-we'd be wheeled into the recovery room where you'd taste your first drop of milk and finally wrap your precious hand around my finger as you suckle. right now, at this moment, we'd be napping together as my compression socks lulled me in and out of sleep, hazily admiring you and the sweet smile you just gave because you farted. daddy would take you and keep you for a bit, relishing (his favorite word) in the wonders of us creating you, and wondering how we ever got so lucky. big brothers oliver and joseph would come with nana so they can fall in love and call you theirs. joseph would probably not stop saying "baby" and oliver would be on binky duty and then they'd probably ask if you could share their jello. did you know that jello is my all time favorite thing to eat at the hospital? i can't quit that orangey goodness. and then as the day wound down and we settle in to sleep, daddy and i would just gaze at you until we just couldn't keep our eyes open anymore.

that's how i envision today would have unfolded.

but i ache for you instead. your entire physical existence left me months ago and i get to have none of this. the only thing that remains is our love for you. which is enough. we will be planting a plum tree in our front yard in honor of you so we can watch it grow and your big brothers are lighting a candle on a cupcake to celebrate you, which we will do every year on today's date. your big sissy will be thinking of you, shedding tears over you, as she drives home from work tonight. we're holding onto those little things, hazel mae. because even though you were just with us for a short amount of time, you will still be with us forever and we will carry you in our hearts everywhere we go.

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this week is going to be particularly hard for us.

this week we would have been finishing up a nursery. i would have been sitting in there folding and refolding baby clothes. i would have been making padscicles and making sure my hospital bag was packed. we would have been going over our birth plan with the doctor and making sure he knew what we needed. we would have been prepping freezer meals and finalizing plans of where the boys would stay over the weekend. i would be taking a 39 week baby bump photo and adding it to my bump profile.

instead, we are digging a hole for where the plum tree will be planted, prepping the earth for growth in remembrance instead of prepping our home and my body for growth of human life. we are deciding on a cupcake flavor and which color candle to light to honor our loss instead of one to light in praise of birth. sweet messages will be written on paper that will have tears of sadness and heartache dripped all over it instead of tears of joy. and while i’m happy and my heart is full that we will have this tree to watch grow and bear fruit that we can enjoy, and we have found a way to softly and lovingly celebrate our what-could-have-been each year, and that we have a miracle baby growing inside of me right now, i can’t help but feel an ache and overwhelming sadness that on friday, i will not be driving to the hospital to bring our sweet baby hazel earth side and kiss her sweet head and feel her tiny fingers wrap around mine and watch my husband and boys fall in love all over again while i fall in love with them even more.

the pain of losing a baby will never go away, no matter how many things you try fill in their place. missing you still and always, hazel mae.

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your pink hair

january 23, 2018

it's been over two months. i still miss you. some days i don't even (consciously) think about you and then when i realize i haven't, i start to feel guilty. it's kind of silly, really, to feel that way, but i do. some days i don't think about your sister or brother oliver when they're with their dad and that's okay. but i think i feel guilty with you because you're no longer with us and i should be thinking about you all the time. right?

yesterday out of the blue oliver said, 'hazel mae is so beautiful.' it caught me off guard. i replied, 'she would have been so beautiful. what made you think of that, baby?' and he said, 'it was deep down in my throat and i just had to say it.' then we talked a little bit about you and what color your eyes would have been (hazel, of course) and if you'd have blonde hair like your sister or red hair like your brothers. oliver seems to think you'd have pink hair, which i am totally okay with thinking that as well. i told him i used to have pink in my hair and he thought that was pretty cool. so now i've decided i am going to dye my hair pink again, for you, since your brother thinks you would have had pink hair. he got a little choked up talking about you and i think out of everyone besides me, he is the most affected by losing you. it's really sweet, but it hurts my heart. it hurts because he knows loss in such an intimate way at such a young age. it hurts because you matter. it mattered. losing you mattered.

i want you to know that i do miss you all the time. every day. even when i'm not thinking about you, i'm thinking about you. i'll try to not feel so guilty when the moments that i forget you're not growing in my belly anymore pass. i'll instead give myself some grace and understanding. and maybe, perhaps, when the tips of my hair are pink again, you'll be on my mind for always.

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my inspiration

january 9 2018

i've been drafting up a post that i hope women will find helpful. it will be titled something along the lines of 'what to expect when you miscarry'. there's already dozens of things i've experienced in losing you that are so notable to write down and share, but i wanted to reach out to more women to get their experiences as well. it was overwhelming the response that i got. which just reassured me that a post like what i'm working on is so very necessary. it also is another reminder of how alone mother's feel in this when they shouldn't. 

because i've spoken about losing you-because i've shared my story-i haven't felt alone. i am so very thankful for that, but so sad at the same time. it shocks me every day, the amount of women who have lost their baby and have talked about it. but it's nothing compared to the women who have lost their baby and haven't talked about it. and that's okay, not every one needs to or has to. but so many mother's feel they can't or shouldn't and i am hoping that my letters to you can lessen the burden they carry; a burden that, no doubt, fell into place the moment they stopped carrying their baby. 

i've been told that i am an inspiration for being so open and honest about this; i guess you could say that is (one of) my goals in sharing my journey. but really i find so much inspiration in you, hazel. you have given me an opportunity to change the face of pregnancy loss. you have given me the opportunity to be an inspiration to others. you have given me a new meaning of life and the things we take for granted daily. you've inspired me. your inspiration, of course, does not come without extreme heartache. but sometimes the most inspirational and beautiful things come from the darkest and messiest of places. 

i really have to humble myself though because these women who have shared their deepest sadness with me have also inspired me aside from you. they have become a glimmer of hope in a dark time. their strength to press on and their ability to not drown in their sorrow (even though it feels like we're drowning daily in the absence of our angel babies) have really shown me that i will be okay. that i am okay. because it is okay. and they help me see the simple things.

like that the stars can't shine without darkness. and that i simply just love you. 

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one month without you

december 16, 2017

it has been one month since you have left us. you would have been 10 weeks and the size of a strawberry. your vital organs would be developed fully and your fingernails and hair coming in too. i wonder what color hair you would have had. red like your brothers? blonde like your big sissy? you would weigh about 14 ounces; the same weight as the ring sling i would have carried you in. i might have even been able to feel you moving your arms and legs inside of me.

today was a typical saturday; get up, get ready for church, go to church, come home and hang out with your brothers until dad got home from work. we also had the annual family kris kringle party at melanie's house. but even with as typical as today was, it was impossibly hard.

we were supposed to be announcing our pregnancy to the family tonight at kris kringle. we were going to hand out the pregnancy announcement in envelopes to everyone during present time and watch each one of our family members open the envelopes in excitement and curiosity and wait for their reaction. no doubt a round squeals and hugs and maybe even tears of joy (i know i would have been crying). questions of how far along i would be, if we knew the gender yet, when the due date is, and as many other questions, i'm sure. instead we spent part of the night talking about our loss. but there was something wonderful about that. we got to tell our family about you, hazel. we shared our experience, our connection with you. how we were six weeks along, but already knew you and loved you and how you're still very much a part of our family and life-as much as one can be when you're no longer here. it was somewhat therapeutic sharing you with our family, the only way we can share you for now.

in addition to the difficult time not being able to announce our pregnancy, but share our loss, i also started a new cycle. it feels too soon. it feels like the last physical pieces of you just left my body. maybe there was still a piece of you left for me to hold on to. maybe this is your goodbye. it still hurts. its just a reminder that i am no longer pregnant and not pregnant yet, too. this is my body saying, 'you can't. not yet.'. it hurts.

these days have been hard. beautiful and hard. i'm trying to grieve, mourn... let go. not let go of you but let go of what happened and move forward. i don't want to dwell in the sadness of losing you. but baby, it's so hard when this is so new. when my thoughts of the future still have lingering pieces of you and what you could have been and all the places you'd go. those lingering pieces are getting more and more blurry, blending with the reality of what our future holds; a future without you (physically) in it. somehow stuck in the space of no longer and not yet.

it's been easier to talk about my pregnancy loss, though. through the deep sadness of what has come with losing you has also come light and empowerment and inspiration. and while i would never wish this on anyone, i hope to be a place where women feel they can share and talk and mourn-in any way they want and can. which is why i started this blog separate from where i was already writing. i want to share my letters to you in hopes that women can relate and know they're not alone. i want to share this experience and offer advice through what i know so women can feel uplifted and aware. i want all of this because there just isn't enough of it out there and it would have been nice for me to find a place where i am not alone in this. i want to share you.

but above all, i simply and impossibly miss you. and i love you so very much.

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my miscarriage-an open letter to my unborn baby hazel mae

november 23, 2017

i woke up this morning with a hole in me.

it has been one week since you stopped growing and i feel as though this hole is getting bigger, deeper. right now you would be developing hundreds of brain cells a minute and your heart would be getting stronger and stronger as well. your nervous system and digestive system, all on it's way to being fully developed. you'd be about the size of a blueberry; i love blueberries. but this hole that is in me, the one i woke up with this morning, is a place where you should be, and you're not anymore.

the morning we lost you is a day i will never forget. i woke up feeling out of sorts; somewhat anxious, a bit crampy, extremely exhausted and emotionally off-balance. i attributed it to pregnancy and morning sickness, got dressed, threw on my glasses (vertigo, i thought) and headed into work. the night before, i had driven to ross to get some more chai caramel tea latte, thinking to myself, 'i can't wait to get back home and tell joe (your daddy) that as i was driving to ross everything just felt so perfect. like everything has fallen into place.' i'm glad i forgot to tell him. the first half hour of work i was sluggish; my head felt cloudy and i couldn't concentrate. i needed to pee, so i headed to the bathroom. when i wiped there was bright red blood. immediately i knew this was it, you were leaving my body, but i called a couple friends of mine anyway. one was my best friend (you would have liked her very much) who had experienced a miscarriage, and one was our pastor's wife who was a nurse (she would have snuggled you after you were born; she's great with babies). both of them told me to take it easy and not to worry, that many women spot during early pregnancy, and to take the day off, go home and rest. not really sure what to think, i stayed at work and about ten minutes later i had to pee again. more blood and more cramping. worried, i paced back and forth in the office until i had to pee again about ten minutes later and there was even more blood and cramping. the first part of you was gone. i told your daddy we needed to go to the hospital and we headed there right away. i tried to stay calm and patient, not giving myself hope, but keeping myself in check, even though i knew i'd never get to nourish you past 6 weeks in the womb. we did some blood work, had an ultrasound (in which they found nothing), i got my rhogam, got the blood work results (hCG levels were 84 when they should have been in the thousands), signed some papers, and headed home; empty and sad, already missing who you could have been.

two weeks earlier we had found out we were expecting you. we had been 'not preventing' for ten months and were elated we were pregnant. you were our last. well, supposed to be. i already started buying things for you and even announced the good news to some of my closest friends and our immediate family. i also announced the pregnancy to an amazing group of ladies on facebook who were equally excited for us. your dad and i had already started planning and picturing what our lives would be like come july. we went and looked at a house, talked about how we were going to fit three car seats in the truck, what space we would make for you, what double stroller would work best for you and big brother, if i would be able to try for a vbac again or just schedule a cesarean. i had even called a couple places to see about establishing care, since i was only a couple weeks away from needing my first prenatal appointment. we'd even ordered pregnancy announcements for family and i'd photographed an announcement for social media. we dreamed about what you'd look like and revisited our list of baby names we had already made before your big brother joseph was even a thought. for those two weeks, our hearts had already found a place for you and our dreams had you in them.

we got back from the hospital with tears in our eyes, hearts heavy, my belly aching from all the space that was there now where you once were; even a space the size of an apple seed felt like a black hole of eternity. we parked the car, squeezed each others hands, unlocked the front door; all normal things we do every day, but somehow felt tedious and insurmountable. i went to check the mail, forgetting about all of the things i had already purchased for you. six packages. full of your things. onesies and pants and a sleep sack that said 'in jesus name AMEN', a pacifier that i was determined to make you attached to, that i couldn't justify paying for when we were pregnant with joseph (that would've been a waste anyway because none of my babies were binky babies, and you will never be too). how ironic; the day we lose you we come home to six packages for you. i've unpacked them and snuggled with them, kissed them and folded them. cried over them. but your things are tucked away neatly in a bag in hopes that we can use them for your future brother or sister. they sit at the foot of my bed, too numb right now to pack them away for good.

i felt silly having told so many people 'so soon'. just the day before i had shared you with all of the moms in my local mom group. all of them so very happy for us and excited to have a new baby join the bunch in the following year. for a moment i thought about all of the people i needed to now tell of this news, and felt bad for even having to put them through it in the first place. but then i realized that if our joys were shared just between daddy and i there wouldn't be anyone to walk this journey with us and lift us up in the tragedy too. i have also come to find that so many mama's share this same path as well and i feel so fortunate to be connected with them, even during this time. you see, not too many mamas feel as though they can share their pregnancy loss and oftentimes feel so alone. but if there's anyone who can understand and empathize with mamas who have lost a child, it's that 1 in 4 who are right there beside us. i know for me, it helps me heal sharing you with the world.

your daddy and i sat down the other night and wept over you. we made plans and named you. and even though those plans do not include being able to kiss your sweet forehead or hold your tiny body, or maybe even cup your small and wiggly little club feet (your big brother joseph was born with right clubfoot, so we just imagined you having club feet too) or watch you sleep and dream, we have new plans. we plan to remember you and think about you and love you every day. we plan to plant a tree for you in our front yard on the day you were to be born (july 6, 2018) so we can watch it grow and take root, envisioning it being you. i plan to get a tattoo for you like i did with your big sister and brothers-an american traditional style tattoo with your name. speaking of names, we have named you hazel mae. the only name i ever wanted for you, even if that want was only two weeks long. i knew from the moment i realized you were there that you were a girl; i felt it in my bones. we have hopes, too. we hope you know we love you so very much. big sister and your big brothers do too. and the rest of your family. there's even a whole community of mamas out there who love you along with us. we hope you could feel our love as you left us, and that you'll carry that love with you wherever you are. and we hope some day that you'll be able to feel our arms wrap around you and hear us tell you we love you so very much. in whatever form that is, however far away that will be.

i know that this will hurt for a very long time, maybe even forever. but i also know that the hurt will lessen, be easier, possibly just be used to it. and i know that there will be months that will go by where my heart won't be heavy and then one day i'll be walking down the street and the sky will turn another shade of something or a song will come on or the air will smell sweet and i will crumble. but baby i don't want you to worry about us. we will be okay. we will get through this. i know this because i've known you.

you are a blessing, hazel mae. i love you.

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