Hope: A Necessary Evil?

This week I got jealous of a whale. Not just jealous: angry. I got angry and pissed at a whale. If you aren’t in pregnancy/infant loss world, you may not know about Tahlequah, the orca whale. Tahlequah has a heartbreakingly beautiful story. In the summer of 2018, Tahlequah’s newborn calf died. Rather than allow the body to sink or be carried away from her by her ocean home, Tahlequah spent 17 days carrying her sweet baby around the ocean. Her pod swam with her, providing an amazing level of support. Like many loss Moms, I felt Tahlequah’s pain. I felt validated in my own pain. That whale got support so I certainly could expect some too. She was loved and her pain honored so mine must matter too. Now, two years later, Tahlequah is pregnant again. The loss pages I follow shared the news excitedly. Tahlequah is having a rainbow baby! What wonderful news for her! (https://www.bbc.com/news/world-us-canada-53565996)

The loss world celebrates rainbow babies like nothing else. They talk of rainbows and the joy after the storm often. Keep the faith. Have hope. The happy ending will come. The story of the whale seemed to reinforce this. I admit when I saw the story, I didn’t immediately feel happy for the whale, I was jealous. I was frustrated when I noticed that feeling. I honestly haven’t struggled with jealousy often since Mira died, but infertility treatments seem to be bringing it out. It is usually a short-lived flash, but it is there. With Tahlequah the whale though, it was a deep painful rage of jealousy. Maybe because it Tahlequah isn’t a person, and not someone I know personally, my heart felt a little safer feeling angry and jealous. My first, shameful, though was, “Seriously, the f’ing WHALE gets another chance at a baby before me?!”

The loss community loves rainbow stories, human and whale, because they give them hope. This blind hope has never been my thing. It honestly doesn’t give me hope to hear stories about other people getting their happy ending. I mean, so many of them start with “After 7 years of infertility and 6 pregnancy losses...” but then they get the healthy baby and it is supposed to give me hope. Really, what the hell? Years of pain and suffering until, finally, finally, they get to love a baby on Earth. That doesn’t give me hope. That scares the crap out of me. And even the really good stories, like, “She got pregnant on her first IUI even though there is only a 15% chance of it!” That honestly doesn’t give me hope. The chance for me is still 15%. Other people (or whales) getting babies doesn’t make me any more or less likely to get a baby. Hearing other people’s stories about how they got through the hard times, stories I can take something from to learn how to get by, that inspires me, that teaches, that give some hope. But just knowing everything works out for some, knowing that a beautiful whale is getting another chance to mother a calf, that doesn’t change my hope.

The dirty secret of the loss community, the unwelcome, brutally honest truth is that not everyone gets a healthy baby in the end. Not every loss Mom gets a living baby. Tons of storms do not end with rainbows. “After every storm there is a rainbow.” It’s factually inaccurate. Have you seen a rainbow after every single thunderstorm? I certainly haven’t. And there isn’t a rainbow baby after every loss. The hard truth? I could be one of those loss Moms. It is possible Mira is my only child. It is possible I am one of the Mom’s that don’t get another baby.

It is also possible that Mira is only my first child. My perfect, loved beyond measure, oldest child that could have a little brother or sister someday. And then that little word comes back again, hope. I know all the above may have sounded pretty bitter. You’ll have to forgive me, I am truly not a bitter person. But infertility treatments, well, you get a lot of hormones running through you that combine with the stress of it all, and a lot of emotions come with that. Combine that with the ongoing grief that is sewn into the threads of the life of a loss Mom? And well, my emotions can be a little all over.

But I am not a bitter mess. I have hope. I really do. I talk about what theme the next nursery will have. We never got to actually create the woodlands/fox nursery, but that will always be Mira’s, so we talk about what theme we could have next time. I give myself shots, I take my pills and supplements, I dutifully go in several times a month to be probed, stabbed, and tested at the doctor’s, I pay them huge chunks of our pay checks. Let me tell you, you have to have a ton of hope to be willing to do these things to your body. In fact, I have found it absolutely amazing what women (including myself!) do to our bodies and put ourselves through just for a sliver of hope.

Hope can raise you up. It can make you excited for this next cycle- it could be the one! Hope can give you strength. It can make you push the needle through your skin- it will all be worth it! Hope can give you resilience. It can make you push through the pain- maybe you are in the ER with a giant ovary covered in cysts, but you keep going because Moms can do anything. The thing is hope can crush you too. You have to hope to keep doing the treatments, you have to hope this month is the month or you would quit. But when you have hope that this month is the month, and the stick has one damn line again day after day, way past when there should have been two, the hope that got you through the last 28 days, crushes you now. It makes you want to crawl into bed and never get back out. It makes you want to throw out the bulk box of pregnancy tests and burn the folic acid pills. If there had been no hope these past 28 days, it wouldn’t have hurt like this.

Like I said though, hope is resilient, so a few days later, it shows up again as your period starts and you pick up the phone and schedule the next set of tests to do it all over again for the next 28 days.

For me, hope is trickiest in the waiting time. I am sure I am not pregnant. I think this is the month! I’m sure! But then, there is no way this is the month. A cramp means the embryo is implanting! Nah, that was my period coming on. It goes back and forth, back and forth. I know I need the hope to keep going. But, I know I have to stay realistic too. It is such a delicate balance.

My deepest hope comes from knowing, no matter what this cycle holds, or the next, or the next, I can get through this. It might break my heart, but I can keep going. I can try again. And if some day, there is no try in me left, Joe and I can get through that too. That is hope that is also realistic. I know we can do it. On the hardest days, Joe reminds me of this. We can get through this; we have already gotten through worse. I can keep going. I can get a 50th ultrasound. I can get another blood draw, right where the bruise still is from last time. I can do it. I can keep physically and emotionally healthy as we go through all this. I can take care of myself and support my husband. That is the ultimate kind of hope, it is faith even. And the big faith is there of course too, the most important faith. The faith that I know, I KNOW, that God is holding us through all this. I know that He hates seeing our pain. I know He is hurting to see us go through this. I don’t know why we are facing this pain, but I do know God loves me through it. And I know He is holding my daughter while she waits for me.

Hope may end up breaking my heart over and over, but I still need it. I will cling to it and pray one day I can say, “it was all worth it” as I look into the eyes of my healthy baby. I will always have the faith that Joe and I will survive, even if that hope is crushed.

You've Got Me in the Palm of Your Hand

Dear Mira,

My third Easter without you arrived this morning. It was a different kind of Easter than I ever experienced. I have never spent even one Easter anywhere but Dimock with your Grandparents. This year, everyone must stay home to help keep the world safe from the virus, so your father and I prepared for an Easter here in our own home for the first time. We still wanted some of the usual tradition and a little celebration for the holiday, so we planned a meal with some of our favorites from the usual big family meal and I planned an Easter Egg hunt for just Daddy and me. It was different, but it worked, and we know we will have a big family celebration when the quarantine is over.

With all the changes, and not quite feeling like a usual holiday I stayed pretty well put together this morning. I thought of you, of course, I always do, every day (and that is not an exaggeration). I had fun hiding Easter Eggs for Daddy and looking for the ones he hid for me. We had a contest to see who could find theirs first. Mommy won by 9 seconds! It was a welcome, fun,and silly distraction. Of course, I wished I was hiding them for you too. I got dressed a little nicer than usual, it just seemed respectful to honor God today with a nice dress still. That ache of wishing I was picking out a cute little dress for you too was there.

As I started making dinner, I put on some music. I was really missing you now. I wish you are here all the time, but sometimes missing you gets too big. When you were still alive and we went to CHOP for ultrasounds to see you every week, Daddy and I met with an amazing psychologist who helped us get ready to meet you and say goodbye to you all at once. On our last visit with her before your birthday, I told her how scared I was for you to leave us. She told me the grief that was coming was like being in an ocean. This is a common metaphor, but she explained it so well.

She said the grief was like the ocean because you are always in it, and it is always there. Our grief will always be there. But it changes because there are waves too. She told us in the beginning, the first weeks, or months, we would not believe her. We would think she was a liar, because the waves would be so constant there would be no air between them. We would be sure we would not survive and would drown. She was so right, Mira. Even though she warned us, I still told Daddy she must have been lying about the waves, because this drowning feeling would never change. But, she said after time, we would start to breathe again, between the waves. The waves would come often and be over our heads, but there would be glimpse of sky and air to breathe in between. She was right, that part came in time. She told us as years passed, we would learn to predict the waves sometimes, but some would surprise us. We would learn how to swim through them and learn to feel confident we could survive each one. There would be more calm in between the waves as time went on. We would always be in the ocean, but we would learn to swim well.

It really did turn out that she was right about all of it. I can predict many of the waves. I knew there would be a big wave at your birthday and another one at Christmas this past year. I was wrong about how bad the wave would be. I started to question again if I could survive, but I did. I knew there would be a wave today. This morning I thought maybe it would end up being small and manageable, because Easter was different this year, and I was loving you and missing you in a bumpy ocean of grief, but one I could swim in. Then I put some music on. And like I said, I really started to miss you and I stopped and let my feelings out as I cooked. It turns out the wave wasn’t smaller than I expected, I was just avoiding it. Once I stopped trying to out swim it, it crashed into me. I felt the full force of your absence from our home, from the Easter Egg hunt, from our upcoming dinner, from the Easter outfits, all of it. I felt it so strong.

The song, “I Don’t Dance” by Lee Brice came on and I remembered dancing with you in my belly to the song and signing the words two and half year ago as I cooked a regular dinner. My heart filled with an ache only a Mom who buried her child knows. I danced to those words again today. As you know, Momma cannot dance. She does not like to either. But I did for you when I was pregnant, because you seemed to like it as you grew in my belly. So, I started dancing to those words now, just like I did back then, “I don't dance, but here I am, spinning you around and around in circles, It ain't my style, but I don't care, I'd do anything with you anywhere. Yes, you got me in the palm of your hand, girl, ‘cause, I don't dance.” I could feel the whole wave then. I forgot how to breathe for a minute.

I’ve been in that wave ever since, sweetie. It is a over five hours later now, and I know I can breathe, but the wave is still carrying me. It is so hard to be without you.

Momma has always loved Easter. When I was little, I liked that it was close to my birthday, so I got to see family that told me “Happy Birthday” even if it was already past or not quite the right day yet. I liked hunting for and finding the gifts the Easter Bunny brought. I always liked games and figuring things out. Easter had perfect traditions for me. Also, my parents, your Grandma and Grampa host Easter, so I got to stay home and not go somewhere else for that day. Momma has always been pretty anxious, especially in crowds, so I liked that too. I could sneak away to my room or go play in the woods if I needed a break. It was a perfect day.

I still like Easter for a lot of the same reasons. I also loved and appreciated as I got older that both my Mom and my Dad’s side of the family came together for the day. So many people I love all in one place! Easter just got better as I got older.

That is part of why Easter is so tough now. You aren’t here with me and I wanted to share all this love and ‘magic’ with you. And I wanted to teach you about why we celebrate Easter. I wanted to teach you about God and let you learn to love Him the way Daddy and I do. I wanted to teach you the stories of the Bible and what Jesus did for us all. Instead, you ran ahead of me and learned it all for yourself and know more now than I do about Heaven and Jesus.

Easter is still special to me. For all the reasons I already said, but now for a new reason too. Well, not new, I just understand the depth of the reason better now. On Easter, we celebrate Jesus’ resurrection. It is because of this that I KNOW I will see you again. Of course, Momma has been thankful for Jesus and salvation and sure she will go to Heaven since she accepted Jesus as a little girl. But now, with you waiting for me in Heaven, I have a much deeper understanding about what a gift salvation is. This is a day to thank Jesus, a day to celebrate Him, a day to appreciate our salvation, and a day to remember that I am sure to see you again one day.

It is certainly something I am thankful for beyond words. And it is still hard that you aren’t here so I can celebrate in a different way with you.

Momma will keep swimming tomorrow. Today I can only ride the wave and do my best to keep my head above the water. I know I can’t leave the ocean until I am in Heaven with you, but I will keep learning to swim better and better each day.

I love you, Mira. Thank you for making me a Mommy. Thank you for loving me. I feel the love you send. I see the signs you ask God to give me. I will always include you in everything I do here on Earth until I can be with you in Heaven again. I know you see me finding ways to show you my love and mother you here from Earth, the best I can. You are “my angel, my darling, my star, and my love will find you, wherever you are.”

Love Always,
Momma

Don't Read the Last Page

I usually do not allow myself to daydream about what Mira would be like or let myself fantasize about how things would be if she were here still.  Honestly, I NEVER do.  It hurts too much. I certainly have ‘what ifs’ that fill my mind.  I think “Oh, if Mira were here, I would take her to this place” or “I would buy her that for Christmas.”  But these are just fleeting thoughts, I do not allow myself to really lose myself in an imagined world of her here. 

I am actually pretty good about losing myself in other worlds.  When you have insomnia and anxiety it is a pretty effective way to keep your mind from racing at night, so it was my main coping mechanism as a teen and young adult until I got the hang of some healthier ways to cope.  Any avid reader could tell you how real a false reality can seem if you immerse yourself in it. So, to be careful to not let too much pain in, I don’t let myself imagine what my life would be like if Mira had survived.

The last few days have been different though.  I am not quite sure why, I think it is the anxiety and tension all around us combined with all the people getting to be home with their kids right now.  The night before last, my mind went there, and my God, what an amazing life it would have been if it were real.  I could picture Mira, two years old, long brown wavy hair, dark brown eyes, cute button nose and round cheeks asking to sleep with Daddy and I because she could feel the worry we had.  I could feel her between us as Joe slept.  I could hear her sweet voice.  I could feel warmth of her hand on my arm.  I could think about what I would do with her the next day to keep us busy.  We could draw chalk on the sidewalk.  We could swing on the hammock.  We could read books.  We could watch some of the movies from my childhood on Disney+.  We would probably have to watch Frozen II a few times.  It would all have been so beautiful. 

But it was not real. 

She is in Heaven.  Happy. Loved. She doesn’t need to sleep with us because she has no fear.  She is protected from all pain and sickness. And I miss her, I miss her so much.  I miss the infant Mira that I knew.  But I also miss the toddler I never got to meet and learn too.  I miss that life I imagined as soon as the test was positive.  And that will always hurt.

You squeeze my hand three times in the back of the taxi
I can tell that it's going to be a long road

I'll be there if you're the toast of the town babe

Or if you strike out and you're crawling home

Don't read the last page

But I stay when it's hard or it's wrong or you're making mistakes

I want your midnights

But I'll be cleaning up bottles with you on New Year's Day

Hold on to the memories, they will hold on to you

Hold on to the memories, they will hold on to you

Hold on to the memories, they will hold on to you

And I will hold on to you

(Taylor Swift)

I think it is healthy to acknowledge all that.  To acknowledge what Joe and I lost.  What our parents lost.  What her aunts, uncles, and cousins lost in knowing her.  I think it is healthy to recognize all that, even though it hurts, and it is scary to let the pain in.  Pushing it away it just another kind of fantasy, except in that one you pretend the pain is not real and the future was never planned.  Refusing to acknowledge that does not make it any more the truth than imagining my toddler in bed next to me makes that the truth.

After acknowledging the pain, there is another step though: recognizing all the good that is still part of this life.  Yes, I would prefer a life with Mira here and that would have been an amazing life.  There is still so much good here in my real life though.  Joe is just an amazing husband.  He does not get enough credit because he does not brag, and I am not the post all about your husband online type.  But he is an amazing father and husband.  He kisses my forehead, wipes tears from my eyes, and whispers “You are an amazing mother” in my ear everything he sees that look on my face.  He takes care of more around the house than any other husband I know, just so I can focus on my second job that I love and the volunteer work I am passionate about.  He quietly stands by me no matter what.  I can be fully myself around him, and he is totally okay with all my weirdness.  Embraces it even.  He is just the best.

We have three perfect pets.  I mean, Albus is probably the most needy and strange dog on the planet, but he quietly lays his head on my lap and sighs when I say that I miss Mira and I know he is thinking, “me too.”  Lexi has somehow managed to remain the head of the household for eight years despite adding a husband, dog, and another cat.  Through all her toughness, she still sat beside me and purred while I decorated Mira’s area for Easter today.  Iris brought light and life back into our home at the most impossibly dark time.  I’ve never met a cat more ditzy, but sometimes I wonder if she just does it to make us all smile.  She loves a good cuddle more than any other cat ever as well.

I have amazing parents.  My Mom and Dad are always there for Joe and I.  They drop things in a second if they are needed.  They exhibit so much love and strength, and I learn from them all the time still.  My in-laws are so, so good as well.  I know so many people who cannot get along with their spouses parents and I know how lucky I am that being close with mine is just so natural, their love for Joe and I is just so clear.  Because of my parents and his we never have to wonder about how we would survive if we lost our footing in the world, we know all four of them would pick us up.  And it is not just Joe’s parents, his whole family has welcomed me as a part of their life since I met them.  His aunt, uncle, cousins, and siblings are always there when we ask, and even if we don’t.

I have people who I get to meet with at least every other week just to learn about God and pray for each other.  These people have stuck by Joe and I through it all and never stopped showing support and never put a timeline on our grief.  I have friends who continue to find ways to express support and love even when we don’t see each other often.  I have met new people I never would have without Mira.  Amazing people, people that make me understand what it is to ‘find your tribe.’  I have reconnected with others that I had lost touch with.  I have some amazing people in my life.

Joe has a job he loves. After spending several years in positions he had just to have a job, he now goes to a job he really enjoys with supervisors and coworkers who love and appreciate him and his work.  I started a new job six months ago and have found a level of acceptance and appreciation at my organization that I did not know existed.  I am doing something I love surrounded by people just as, and even more, passionate than I am about helping others, and doing it with significantly less stress than in previous jobs. 

And there is so much more.  I have a good life.  I have heartbreak.  So much heartbreak.  It will always be there, the pain of losing Mira.  I know this goodness will always be there too, and it will carry Joe and I through until we are with Mira again someday.

PS- Happy Easter Mira!  I haven't been able to decorate for Easter since you left us, I've only put a few thing in your area, but today I put decorations for Easter through the whole house.  They are a little musty after all this time, but after some work they are doing better, just like your Mommy.  I love you sweet girl, I hope you like your bunny!

Bereaved Motherhood During a Pandemic

It has been quite a while since I posted anything here.  Partly out of simply being busy.  Busy loving my job, busy being a wife, busy teaching, busy with appointments, busy, busy, like everyone! But more so because it’s been a tough time waiting and hoping for another baby to love while continuing to face the lifelong grief of losing Mira.  I have not been in a place to want to share the pain of waiting, even though I still (and always will) love sharing about Mira and believe sharing about grief is so important

But today, I have so many thoughts that I want to write about.

Let me just start by saying COVID-19 sucks.  It sucks for everyone.  And there are so, so, many specific groups it sucks extra for.  And, yes, my mother taught me not to say ‘sucks.’  But this warrants it, right Mom?  It is terrible for the elderly and those with preexisting conditions for obvious reasons.  It is terrible for those with depression whose symptoms worsen with isolation.  It is terrible for those on the Autism Spectrum who find a disruption in routine more than just inconvenient.  It is terrible for those working in healthcare.  It is terrible for small business owners, hourly service workers, and all of us who live paycheck to paycheck. 

It is terrible for beavered parents though too. You may not have thought of that one, and that is okay. ( I am sure there are many groups of people that I do not realize how this could affect them.) But because you may not realize how this impacts us, I wanted to take some time to talk about how COVID-19 feels as a bereaved mother.  I honestly thought it was just me at first, but then I saw the comments and posts pouring out on the online support groups I am a part of, and though each person’s story and specifics are different, I think I can overwhelmingly say, this is extremely tough for beavered mothers. (Though I want to make it clear I am not trying to say we have it worse than other people, but each group that is struggling has a unique point of view and I want to offer ours, or at least mine.)

The first thing that hit me when the threat of COVID-19 became serious in the US, was that this feels so much like when Mira died.  Not the intense pain and grief, obviously, but the ‘emotional’ atmosphere.  The feeling is so similar in so many ways, but I am not just seeing Joe and I react to it and I am seeing EVERYONE.  The feeling is a PTSD trigger for sure (not in a Millennials overuse the word ‘trigger’ way, in a real way).  When Mira died, my world stopped.  Right there. Everything stopped moving.  There was no going to the store.  People stocked my house up with food. Joe and I didn’t go to work for a time.  Our daily routine stopped.  Everything just stopped.  We stood in amazement that the rest of the world kept moving. It was surreal.  Everything for us had stopped.  When your child dies the dishes don’t matter anymore.  You might not get out of your pj’s the whole day, I mean, who cares?  Your child died. 

All the sudden everything is stopping again, but this time for everyone.  Joe’s work has shut down and he is home.  I am working for home, though with much less work than I would have at the office.  We aren’t going out to eat, no one is.  We made sure we have enough food in the house for a week or two to limit grocery runs.  It feels so similar.  But this time we aren’t dazed at how the rest of the world keeps going, because it stopped too.  Though this ‘stopping’ is not as all-encompassing as when Mira died, it is so similar that it wakens those responses in us loss parents, especially those of us with PTSD.

As loss parents, we know people die all too well.  We don’t find statistics comforting.  A 1-3% death rate for this virus means little to us.  We know what it is to be in the minority statistic.  We know each of those people in the 1-3% had loved ones whose world now stopped in a way that is beyond ‘social distancing.’  We know that pain.  We don’t want anyone to feel it.  We don’t want to feel it again.  Statistics hold little to no weight when your infant died, which has a less than one percent chance of happening (America’s infant mortality rate is 5.8 per 1000 live births).

For me, personally, I am not fearful of getting the virus, I am young and healthy.  I take every precaution anyway (as we all should!) to protect our vulnerable, I know the pain of loss, I will not put it on others.  Joe, I know, fears me getting sick.  It is so common for a loss Dad to become over-protective of their spouse, and Joe is for sure.  I tell him I am in no danger even if I get COVID-19 as I have none of the preexisting conditions, the rate of death is less than 1 percent!  But of course, that does not give comfort to someone who lost a child, someone who is already in the less than 1 percent camp.

Us loss parents, we learned that things are not in our control a long time ago.  So, we control what we can.  Our child’s loss was completely out of our control.  We did everything we could to save them.  In the end, it did not matter, we lost them to Heaven.  Things outside of our control are especially tough after that.  It is not in our control if we get the virus, or worse, if our vulnerable loved ones get it.  That is scary.  It is also not currently in our control if we go to work, if we go to the movies, if we go out to eat, or really much of anything else right now.  It is needed.  And I fully support the measures my state has taken to enforce social distancing.  But I think we can all agree it still is not pleasant.  And since last time everything in our world spiraled out our control our baby died, well you might find that us loss parents start holding tight to what we can control as these memories come flooding back.

Last, but certainly not least, to discuss is the jokes about children right now from everyone else in our lives.  The jokes circulating FaceBook about having a ‘baby boom’ in nine months are not funny for us.  As someone who has lost a baby, then waited my due time to be cleared to try to have another, and then got a negative test month, after month, after month, those jokes are little stabs to the heart.  They aren’t meant to be hurtful; I know.  But they are.  Four years ago, Joey and I decided to bring a baby into our home.  There is still no baby here in our house. That sucks.  And 1 out of 8 (infertility stats) of the other couples you know felt a similar stab in their heart when they see those jokes too.  We would LOVE for a couple weeks of forced quality time with our spouse to lead to a baby. 

Beyond the baby boom jokes is all the joking, also sometimes serious, complaints about being home with your children right now.  Parents needing so much wine to get through the time with their children.  They are distracting from work.  They are misbehaving.  The posts are everywhere.  Avoid Facebook?  Doesn’t matter, the jokes are in person too.  At the store.  From friends and family. My coworkers jokingly complain during video meetings that the children are causing chaos.  God, do you know what I would give to have my 2-year-old causing chaos right now?  To have a toddler that I had to balance care for while I worked?  To have the responsibility of caring for my precious little human?  It is okay to complain sometimes, I am sure being a Mom/Dad to living children is especially hard right now.  But don’t forget how lucky and blessed you are to have that child there to annoy you and love you.  Some of us can only dream of that and we are being reminded of that an awful lot right now.

I guess my point is, COVD-19 sucks for everyone.  And there are many specific groups it is pretty terrible for, and one of those groups happens to be beavered parents.  I certainly am not comparing our current struggle to those who are most vulnerable to severe reactions to COVID-19.  I am just hoping we will all remember to think of everyone who this is extra hard for and remember the bereaved Mamas and Daddies when you are praying.

Let Me Be Lighter, I'm Tired of Being a Fighter

Angie Smith says in her book, I Will Carry You (2010), "The truth is that to some degree, every day I have here is another day without her.  I don't know when I will be able to see life any differently."

I have been thinking about this quote a lot over the past 48 hours or so. After getting through Mira's 2nd Birthday, my soul sore and tired, but still okay, Christmas took my breath away.  I guess maybe the typical holiday stress combined with being surrounded by groups of people that Mira was so glaringly missing from, and the pain of trying to be okay in front of others, and then failing miserably lead to my downfall.

I haven't caught my breath since about noon on Christmas and I am not quite sure what to do about it except ride it out and keep trying to go about my days until I get my head above water again. I have been hating feeling this way after getting to an 'okay' place recently. It is completely overwhelming and painful in a way I am at a loss to describe.

Could you beam me up,

Give me a minute, I don't know what I'd say in it

Probably just stare, happy just to be there holding your face

Beam me up,

Let me be lighter, I'm tired of being a fighter, I think,

A minute's enough,

Just beam me up.

(Beam Me Up, P!nk)

So, I went back to this quote just to read Angie's words and feel a little less alone and a little less crazy to be in so much pain 2 years after my loss (as Angie said this further down the loss road). 

Almost Two Years

Mira’s 2^nd Birthday is just two short days away.  It is so surreal to be here.  I have used the word surreal before in relation to this infant loss journey and I just don’t think there is a better word for it. 

I can still feel on my fingertips how amazingly soft Mira’s cheeks were.  I mean, I didn’t know skin could BE that soft.  I can still feel her weight in my arms, and it feels so real if I let myself really think about it.  I can feel that pain and tightness in my chest that I felt when the doctor said she was gone and I broke down, wailing and proclaiming that I needed more time with her, if allow myself to go there.  It feels like it all just happened.  

But also, it feels like another lifetime.  It feels like an alternate reality that I got to feel a life grow inside me and then hold my own child in my arms.  It feels like the happiness of finding out I was pregnant could have been an overly realistic dream.  It feels like so very long ago that I was wheeled out of a maternity ward clutching only a stuffed animal, feeling so numb I’m not sure I knew what was happening. 

So, it is surreal for it two be close to two years ago.

Writing Out the Beginning

I started keeping this blog during the 17^th week of my pregnancy with Mira when things got too overwhelming to update family and friends after visits.  Since then, I have fallen in love with writing out my thoughts and feelings as a healthy way to cope and way to spread awareness about carrying to term, infant loss, and grief.  I also find it helpful to share my posts with friends and family that have remained supportive, so I can share how I am doing with a little more comfort than face to face sometimes brings.

Mira’s 2^nd birthday is quickly approaching, and I found myself thinking a lot about the beginning of my pregnancy, the part before I started writing and I was disappointed I did not have a record of that time like I do the rest.  I also know the pain, confusion, and trauma that occurs through a pregnancy with a fatal diagnosis is very isolating.  For these two reasons I decided to write out a summary of what Mira’s life was before I started this blog, from finding out I was pregnant through 17 weeks when I started this blog. I had actually intended it to be a short synopsis, but as I started writing I found that impossible so, if only for me to have it documented (but hopeful for others to read too), here is the beginning of Mira’s story:

All This Fear

10 Things Bereaved Mothers Fear You’ll Think by Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep

I read this article a week or so ago when a friend shared it and have not stopped thinking about it since.  Then this week, it showed up in my email as well from NILMDTS’ mailing list and I read it again.  And the words still rang true, so I just had to write about it myself.  I encourage you to take the time to really read the linked article as the writer share things so eloquently. 

The reason I haven’t been able to get this list out of my mind, is every single item listed is a fear of mine as well.  Usually when you come across list articles, some apply, and some do not.  This article hit so close to home, it was like the author read my mind and put words to fears I hadn’t known how to express.  I would like to list them here and talk about how they affect personally.  I know getting the words out will help me, and I hope they will help those in my life understand me a little too.

I Need a Hand to Help Build Up Some Kind of Hope Inside of Me

I have been carrying my pain fairly well for the past few months.  That does not really mean it hurts any less that my daughter died, but it does mean I that I know I can survive it and have been able to continue living life while carrying her.  It means that there are really hard days, especially around certain dates, but they don’t have to be hard months, they can just be hard days.  It means I can cry and miss her and be angry she is gone, but also be grateful to be Mira’s mom and find joy in my life. It means I can feel full of hurt and pain some days, but know it won’t kill me, and better days will come. I had been doing fairly well.

Then August 2 happened.  About a week and a half ago, I had foot surgery.   I have been being treated for pain in my foot being caused by an extra bone that shouldn’t be there since the beginning of February, and with no other treatment options, I agreed to surgery.  The surgery itself went well, no complications and I am healing as expected.  The pain was terrible in the beginning but started improving after only a few days.  My mental health on the other has taken a hard hit.  This is not something that people often talk about, but problems with depression or anxiety after surgery, especially when general anesthesia and opioids are used are, not uncommon.  Add in a diagnosis of PTSD and history of anxiety, and I was certainly high risk for postoperative depression. 

I have been wanting to take the time to write about this, because I know writing helps me.  But also, because I hope to spread some more awareness with this post.  I am always looking to spread awareness of infant loss and the grieving process with my posts, but with this one, I also ask you to think about how triggering situations affect anyone with PTSD, no matter what trauma lead to the diagnosis.  And I ask you to be aware of the level of anxiety and depression that can occur after receiving anesthesia and/or certain pain medications.  These are things we just don’t speak about enough. 

I Matter Too

The 2-year anniversary of Mira’s initial diagnosis, where we first got a clue something was wrong, is coming up this week (July 19^th). With all the emotions that come with anniversary dates, I have realized over the past few weeks that I have forgotten something rather important over these past 2 years.  I have spent so much time and all my energy trying to make sure everyone remembered that my daughter mattered, that I forgot that I mattered too. 

I think every new Mom goes through this to some extent.  The new baby is the most important thing in the world, and Mom gets shoved to the side a bit (or a lot depending on your circumstances).  New moms can easily lose themselves in this new role and forget that the other pieces of them have value too, not just their motherhood.  It is similar for loss Moms in some ways, but so incredibly different in other ways.   We are mothers too, so we need to learn to find our way in this new role, but there is no baby to show off and no traditional things to do to care for that baby.  We also must find our “new normal” amongst all this, whether we want to or not.  Through this process, we also have the challenge of the world around us telling us (often by accident) that our baby does not matter.  What is a loss Mom to do?  The same thing any mother would do if she was told her child did not matter, fight for her child’s value to be recognized.  This takes an emotional toll, so it is easy to forget about yourself in midst of it all.

Over the past two years, as I have lovingly found ways to mother my daughter despite her being in Heaven and I on Earth, I forgot that I matter.  Her short life matters and impacted many, and I will never, ever, stop finding ways to share that.  I will never stop making sure she matters and mothering her the only way I know how. But through all that, I can matter too. 

Eighteen Months

Two years ago, I was blissfully pregnant.  I was nauseous, exhausted, and having trouble walking due to a pinched nerve, but still joyful and so, so happy to be expecting a baby come winter.  At 9 weeks along, we had gotten passed the misdiagnosis of a blighted ovum scare that happened from 6-8 weeks.  Everything was perfect.  I had a great job, a wonderful husband, great extended family, owned a home, and I was pregnant.  Everything was just perfect.  I was moving at just the pace I wanted.  Then 3 weeks later I received Mira’s initial diagnosis, and it was like I got hit by a train and my whole life derailed over the next 6 months. 

Over the next six weeks while we underwent tests and saw specialists and the news got worse and worse with each test, my life was in triage mode, just pushing through the chaos.  I kept working and pushing through everything. I couldn’t take time off; I needed the money and insurance.  I needed PTO saved for a maternity leave.  This is how things work in our country, no time for a break during a crisis, because the benefits don’t allow this.  I did everything I used to, while also fighting for this little life inside me. 

After finding out no treatment was available for Mira and moving to a palliative care team, life moved at a strange pace. I wanted time to just stop, but it moved forward just like it did before. I filled every moment I could with special time with Mira.  I talked to her in the car as I drove between sessions at work. I sang to her.  I read to her every night between dinner and my early pregnancy bedtime.  Joe and I took her to so many places and described them to her.  We took pictures and prepared for her birth so we could squeeze everything into the time we would get.   The world spun on around us, but for Joe and I, that time was lived in a bubble of nothing but Mira.  When you only get a few months with your child, you need every second to be about them.  We invited lots of people into our bubble and they got to know her too and share many special moments with her.  We invited some people in who walked away instead, but we just stayed in our bubble of love.  Time moved on while we existed in this bubble, and I was aware of every second going by.  Then she was born and died and our bubble continued in the hospital, but burst with an indescribable amount of pain as she was wheeled out of our room by a nurse, never to be seen by us again. 

May We All Heal: Part Eight

May 29th: Day By Day

Everyone says you have to take it day by day right after the loss, just think of one day at a time.  But that is a lie.  You have to literally take it a moment at a time in the very beginning.  Then slowly you get up to an hour and then eventually day at a time.  I still take it a day at a time mostly.  Asking me to plan far ahead is terrifying.  I had plans, wonderful, beautiful plans.  They fell apart.  When Mira died, so did all the plans I had for life with her.  All the plans I had for my life.  It makes it hard to go about planning anything significant again.  I have certainly made progress in this area!  I have started an adjunct teaching position, and will be teaching my first class this summer.  That took a lot of planning and commitment!  I can plan ahead just fine at work and for anything professional.  It is personal planning that is still a major struggle.  Planning a trip, planning an event, planning a future.  It is still scary.  But I work through it day by day.

May 30th: Power

We have so little power or control over our own lives.  I did not fully understand this before losing Mira.  I knew and completely believed the God had all the power and was in full control, but I did not fully comprehend how little power I had.  I followed all the books' advice and doctors' recommendations for pregnancy from the time Joe and I started trying to have a baby, long before I was even pregnant, just to be safe.  I took the vitamins and ate the right food.  I avoided what I should and added in the right things.  In the end, it didn't matter. I lost my baby anyway.  When Mira was diagnosed, I researched like crazy and tried everything to save her.  I found I had no control over her health at all. I begged God, the one with the power, to save her.  And he did not.  It seems, I did not have any power at all to control my life or save my daughter's.  That was a hard, hard, lesson to learn.  And there is no sugar coating it.  My daughter died.  God did not save her.  I could not protect her. And I had no choice, and no power, in the matter.  In realizing this, all I can do is continue to submit to the One with all the power.  I have to trust that God has the power because He knows so much better than I what must happen.  I will never know while I am still alive, why He did not use His power to save my Mira, but I do have complete faith that He has a plan bigger than I do. 

May 31st: From Now On...

From now on....

I will keep loving you, Mira.

I will keep trying to live my life in a way that is honoring to you, your daddy, and Jesus.

I will not give up, even on the hardest days.

May We All Heal: Part Seven

May 23rd: Nurturing Myself

Nurturing myself has looked like learning to say no to some things, mostly events.  Somethings are just too hard to attend now.  I nurture myself and respect myself by not going.  I am still working on this though.  There have been a quite a few events I have attended even though I knew it wasn't overly important that I be there and even though I knew that it was going to be very overwhelming for me and cause some setbacks.  Typically I went only because I did not want to deal with the anger and lack of understand of other people, but that is no reason to do something.  So I am working on it.  But I have learned to say no sometimes.   I have learned how to help others when I can and how to gently step back when I can barely help myself and have nothing to give.  I am also learning to give myself grace in some areas and not beat myself up for everything I can't do perfectly.  I have a long way to go in nurturing myself, but I am starting to try.  

May 24th: Creative Healing

The creative things I have done as I heal have been the most meaningful to me.  I have created a memorial area for Mira in my home, with several of the items made by me.  I paint canvases with lyrics and imagines of my grief. I made a scrapbook and memorial video.  Writing in this blog of course is such a great help for me as well.  The creative things keep my hands busy when I would rather them be caring for a child.  They keep my mind busy when it wants to give up.

May 25th: Sound

The sound of Mira's heartbeat will forever be the best sound <3 

May 26th: What Now?

Oh, this is a question I ask myself all the time lately.  Not very many family or friends read this blog anymore, so "what now?"  Should I stop writing and sharing?  No, it helps me whether anyone reads it or not.  I may wish my friends and family would still read so I would feel more understood and be able to share my feelings with them in a way that is less intimidating to me than having to bring up the my grief with them myself.  But really, the writing does help me get things out whether it is read or not, and I do hear from some other loss Moms who come across my post and find them helpful.  And if it helps one person, than it is worth it. So what now?  Just write when I want to, don't when I don't want to. 

I have so many beautiful items for Mira, I have many things I have lovingly made, I have bought, or others have gifted us. I have foxes and memorial items in each room, just as I wanted, so "what now?"  Do I stop making and purchasing these small things that show my love?  No one else has to stop making/buying things for their children, so I think no, I won't stop doing these small things.  And I still recieve gifts, or cards, or mementos from others every once in a while and it lights me up!  So what now?  I think just keep doing what feels healing in the moment.  

These two "what now"s really get to me somedays as I feel like I am doing something wrong, but for now I will just ignore them, as it is working for me and not hurting anyone.  

May 27th: Spirit

Mira, 

The spirit of unconditional, never ending, never changing, fierce, motherly love you awoke in me will be with me always and forever.  Thank you for showing me this wonderful love.  

Love,

Mommy

May We All Heal: Part Six

May 18th: Luminous

To be honest, I am not really sure what to write for this one.  Luminous makes me think of hope shining through the darkness. It's just that hope is so complicated right now.  There is huge beautiful hope in that I will see my Mira again in Heaven, but honestly, that hope doesn't help me live here today, that hope makes me want to be in Heaven now.  There is a small shining hope that one day I will be a mother to a child I will get to raise here on Earth.  The small shining light is scary though, because having another child opens the possibility of losing another child.  What you need to understand is, when your first, and only, child has a fatal condition and dies, all you know of pregnancy and birth is death.  In my personal experience, pregnancy leads to pain (physical and emotional) and then death and grief.  So that hope of having a living child is present, but it struggles to shine through the darkness.  I do hope that one day it is luminous.  Though I have a feeling it won't happen unless/until I have a living, healthy child in my arms.

May 19th: Changes 

After infant loss everything changes.  Everything.  All your relationships change. Your perspective on work, children, illness, life, meaning, values, on just about everything changes.  Finances change.  Parts of your home change.  How you spend your time changes.  Your life changes. You change.  You learn that nothing is really a constant and everything will change. And that is scary, I once thought I had certain things in my life I could count on to be true no matter what.  I have learned the only thing that never changes is God.  Even in that though, my relationship and ways to relate with Him have changed.  So nothing is left untouched.  This is a big lesson I think we all learn slowly in life, but with a trauma like infant loss, you have to face it overnight.  

May 20th: Emerging 

Emerging back into life after loss is scary.  There is so much that can go wrong.  And the further back into life you venture, the easier it is to get hurt and the harder you can fall.  I had a great Saturday and Sunday with my husband and I was honestly feeling better than I had in probably two years.  I felt myself "coming alive" more and emerging further into the world again this weekend.  Then Monday I had a hard, hard grief day.  It was like a wave hit me for no reason completely unexpectedly.  I hurt so much more because I had been doing okay the last two days, maybe even doing well.  I had emerged further out of my safe space and then the waves pushed me all the way back, and it felt like it hurt more just because I had further to fall.
But I did have two really good days. And those days were triggered by God speaking to me through a beautiful painting of Jesus holding a lamb in a storm.  So I will keep coming back to that moment of truth and I am not letting that feeling of having emerged go, I know God is still holding me.  He didn't take the storm away, but holds me through it, even though I had to retreat a bit, he is there to continue to hold me when I try again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next.

May 21st: Wonder
I wonder all the time.
I wonder what would you look like now.
I wonder what would your first word would be.
I wonder if I would be a good Mom.
I wonder if you would laugh and giggle all the time.
I wonder if you would be stubborn and give me a challenge.
I wonder why you are gone.
I wonder why any baby has to die.
I wonder why others can't understand.
I wonder when I can hold you again.

May 22nd: Separate and Together
Mira and I are obviously separate, as she lives in glorious Heaven, and I live here on Earth where beauty can be found, but so can so much pain and evil.  But we are together still, as she lives on in me.  I make sure of it.  I do things in her honor to help others.  I speak of her as often as I can.  I love her fiercely.  Since I grew her in my womb, I carry her some of her cells and DNA in my body still. And I feel her here. Joe and I have both been blessed to smell her on occasion, so strong and so out of nowhere that we know it is her scent.  I will never forget her beautiful scent of the gentle flower soap we used to bathe her combined with her newborn baby smell.  It sometimes surrounds and overpowers me, usually when I need comfort the most, and always when I am not expecting it.  I know my daughter lives in Heaven, I don't believe she travels her to Earth to be with me.  I do however, strongly believe, no, strongly KNOW, that God sends us these signs to comfort us and remind us Mira is waiting for us.  She is with us in that way.

May We All Heal: Part Five

May 14th: If Only...

If only you didn't have such severe hydrocephalus..

If only it hadn't impacted your brain stem...

If only your kidneys were safe...

If only you had been healthy...

If only there had been treatment for you...

If only, if only, if only, you had lived...

...Then it would all be okay.

May 15th: Insights

I have new insight into grief, insight in the fragility of joy and new life, insight into pain and suffering, insight into "finding out who your friends are," insight into so much.  I think I would rather have my daughter.  I know I would rather have my daughter than all this insight.

May 16th: Joy

Joy was the stick finally having two lines.  Joy was hearing "I see a heartbeat."  Joy was hearing, "It's a girl!"  Joy was announcing her name.  Joy was showering her with love.  Joy was finally holding her in my arms.  Joy was seeing Joe look at Mira the first time.  Joy was making every memory we could in the hospital.  Joy is hearing all the ways Mira touched the lives of others.  Joy is hearing someone else speak her name.  Joy is having a friend to brings her up in conversation without pity or awkwardness.  Joy is knowing she is happy and loved.  Joy is knowing I will see her again.  Joy is everywhere she ever was.  

May 17th: On Coming Alive

Coming alive again after losing Mira has been a slow, hard process.  I have learned you don't get to just wait for grief and pain to pass you have to actually put hard work into the healing process.  When Mira first died, for weeks I felt numb and as if I were floating. Like everything around me was moving but I was just floating on the side watching.  It's hard to explain, but I am sure anyone who has faced a serious trauma can relate.  I was there, but I wasn't.  I worked on projects for Mira as time went on, but I was still only half there, it wasn't that I was necessarily avoiding processing things, but you can't just face it full on all at once, I think it would kill you.  After 8 weeks I returned to work.  That first day walking back in I still felt so lost and confused, everything was the same, but everything was so different.   I wasn't all back.  I slowly got back into the day to day of working, my memory no good, my concentration terrible, and my ability to process thing slow, it was hard, hard work that was usually fun for me.  I kept coming out of the fog slowly as my brain backed off of trying to protect me.

Around April (after about 3 months) I felt I was totally out of the "fog."  It was an important step in healing, but a horribly painful one.  The reality of the rest of my life without my daughter became clear.  It wasn't just the pain of now.  It was the pain of that missing piece being there for the rest of my life.  I would only be whole again in Heaven.  That is when the overwhelming desire to just be with her now hit.  I wished I had died with her.  I wished it was 1950 and ultrasounds were not routine, and Mira's birth defects were never caught and I had gone into labor naturally and without the use of a c-section, died from the complications.  I fought through this time period.  It was the hardest thing I have ever done.  But I did.  I reminded myself about the difference in wanting to be dead and wanting to harm yourself, and made sure I did not cross that (sometimes gray) line, and ask for help when I was too close to it.  Time marched on.  April to the end of May was some of the very worst, between the fog being gone, my birthday, Easter, and mother's Day, that time was just awful.  Then during the summer, I learned I had PTSD and started treatment, I took back some control and took some positive steps.  The pain was still there, but I was fighting.  I was ready to fight (some days).

During the fall and into winter I went deeper into addressing my grief and trauma.  It was often overwhelming, but I kept alive the desire to fight to heal, to honor my Mira.  Her first birthday into Christmas brough lots of emotional pain and constant physical ache of missing Mira with my whole being.  But I kept fighting, I kept working on healing.  I got stronger and pushed harder to advocate for myself and my girl.  January and February brought continued growth and healing, while still struggling with pain.  This April to end of May time has been a time of significant struggle again, as there are so many reminders of where I was last year and the deep dark pain of that time.  I still feel the pain, but it is bearable instead of suffocating.  There are days I feel I am drowning and want to beg for help, but there are more days where my head is above water.  It still hurts, it always hurts, even on the good days.  I mean, even if your head is above the waves, constantly treading water is still exhausting! But I have come alive in the sense that though I long to be with my daughter, I am dedicated to fighting for continued healing and want to live life as I wait to join her.  I am slowly coming alive again.  

May We All Heal: Part Four

May 10th: Understanding

Understanding has been something I have constantly searched for since Mira's diagnosis and continue to even today in some ways.  It started with trying to understand her diagnosis and prognosis.  I researched CONSTANTLY and in every way possible.  I searched through medical journals, even ones in other languages and had them translated the best I could.  I wanted to understand everything that was happening with Mira in an effort to protect the best way possible.  I searched for some understanding of why this was happening medically, I took every test I possibly could to try to find an answer. I have searched for an understanding of why, God, why do you let this happen to babies?  I have read and reread articles with their opinions, I have asked those who I trust, I was searched through the Bible for an answer and understanding.  I have pleaded for understanding from the people around me.  Begged them to understand how much I am hurting and be there when I need it.  I have searched for understanding every day since June 19th, 2017.  I have found some understanding, but still search for more.

May 11th: Keepsake

I don't think anyone could possibly understand the great value their is in tangible keepsakes after the loss of a child, unless you have faced it.  Some parents don't have any physical keepsake, they only knew their babies for a few short weeks and may not even have an ultrasound.  I am so incredibly blessed to have many keepsakes from Mira's life.  I have an area in our living room in the basement where her urn is kept safe and displayed proudly that is full of her footprints, pictures, moldes of her hands and feet, a scrapbook documenting every moment, and so so much more.  We collect foxes anywhere we find them as ways to continue to love her, and those become keepsakes as well.  

May 12th: Beauty

To me, all the beauty in the world is in this face, right here:

May 13th: Nature

Nature was to be the central idea that created the theme of Mira's would-be nursery.  I grew up in a very rural area with a forest behind my house that I spent so much time in as a child, it was my favorite place and filled with peace for me. I would play in the woods with my brother, go berry picking, and often climb a tree with a book and a walkman and sit and read and listen to music.  As soon as I knew I was pregnant I wanted my child to have a room that represented all that love and peace I remembered, thus I chose a woodland theme and quickly got Joe onboard (maybe forced Joe on board).  I planned sky blue walls and a mural of trees for around the crib.  I planned a crib and furniture that was the natural wooden grey of an ash tree truck.  I planned for bedding and accents full of woodland animals. Joe and I fell in love with a fox we found at Babies R Us and decided to make the fox our central animal.  I found cloth diapers and blankets with foxes and put everything on a list to buy/register for.  It was going to be just perfect.  Then at the end of August 2017, I deleted that list and said good-bye to the room I planned to raise my child in.  

May We All Heal: Part Three

May 7th: New Normal
New Normal is all about accepting that your life is different now and will never be the same.  It accepting that it will not go back to the way it was.  This has been very hard for me.  I have accepted a lot of the new normal me.  I will not look at anything the same way anymore.  I see life as more fragile and I empathize deeper with those I work with.  I am more open and honest about my feelings.  I am more willing to be vulnerable if it means helping other or spreading awareness.  I have deeper passion for the children I work with and a new found passion for those who grieve.  I am more willing, in cases where it is appropriate and needed, stand up for myself and my needs (though I working on this one still!). These are good new aspects of myself. 

However, I often long for the time when my heart did not feel so heavy and hurt so much.  I time when I didn't yet know how much some people in my life would let me down and break my heart.  A time when I was more optimistic and cheerful.  My new normal is a lot more tired and a lot more scared.  I don't like being this tired, scared person.  But living with the reality of your child being dead is exhausting.  It is like I used to start pretty much every day with my energy reserves full and ready to tackle whatever came up throughout the day.  Now 75% of those reserves go towards the grief each day, meaning I have only 25% left to tackle work, relationships, housework, errands, and everything else.  I am just so tired.  Everything is so much harder.  I am sure some people reading this that have never had the pain of losing a child, think that 75% of your energy going towards grief over a year out from the loss is either an exaggeration or a sign of unhealthy grieving, but it isn't.  The grief, the PTSD, the depression, they take a lot out of you and that doesn't change after a year, or two, or three.  Now in the first several months 99% of my energy went to grief, so there's improvement, and I know there will be more.  But it will never stop being hard.  The fear takes up so much too.  The fear of never having a child to raise.  The fear of losing another child.  The fear of having more friends/family walking away from me when I need them.  The fear is exhausting too.   New normal kinda sucks when you get down to it.

May 8th: Mother
Being a mother right now at 29 years old looks so very different than I ever imagined.  In the perfect plan for my life, I would have one or even two children in my house right now in their beds.  Children that may wake throughout the night and that I would get ready in the morning and parent the way I always planned.  Instead, I have one child in Heaven and none hear in my home.  Being a mother at 27 years old, meant fighting for my child's right to be born and have whatever moments life she could.  It meant making choices I never dreamed I would have to at 27 years old.  It meant planning a funeral.  Being a mother at 28 and 29 years old has looked like finding ways to honor my child's short life and live in a way to make her proud.  It has meant protecting her memory and furthering her legacy.  This is not what I ever imagined motherhood to look like.  The very most important basics of being a mother are loving and protecting your child though, and that, that I get to do every day.  It just looks different than I planned.

May 9th: In My Heart
This prompt just immediately made me think of the lyrics to "You'll Be In My Heart" by Phil Collins (from the Disney Tarzan movie).  I sang this song to Mira while I was pregnant, I sang it to her in the hospital over the three days that I held her still little body.

My arms will hold you,

Keep you safe and warm

This bond between us

Can't be broken

I will be here

Don't you cry

'Cause you'll be in my heart

Yes, you'll be in my heart

From this day on

Now and forever more

You'll be in my heart

No matter what they say

You'll be here in my heart

Always

Why can't they understand the way we feel

They just don't trust what they can't explain

I know we're different, but deep inside us

We're not that different at all

And you'll be in my heart

Yes you'll be in my heart

From this day on

Now and forever more

Don't listen to them

'Cause what do they know

We need each other, to have, to hold

They'll see in time, I know

When destiny calls you, you must be strong

I may not be with you

But you got to hold on

They'll see in time, I know

We'll show them together

'Cause you'll be in my heart

Believe me you'll be in my heart

I'll be there from this day on

Now and forever more

Those lyrics say all there is to say.  I love you Mira, now and forever more.