Wishing for a do-over

I have tried all week to think of something else to write about.  No luck.

Blogging is way cheaper than therapy, so I guess I will just continue to pour out of my heart, whatever it is that needs to come out.

I have mentioned many times that Carter's death was completely unexpected.  On the way to the hospital, I knew that something wasn't quite right, and I had typical pregnancy worries.  But I never considered that something actually might be wrong.  During the weeks and months of getting ready for Carter, we didn't plan for the possibility that he wouldn't come home with us.  "Decide what to do if your baby dies" isn't on any of the 'get ready for baby' checklists.  It is so unfair that for those of us thrust into the situation, that the hard choices must be made so quickly.  It is impossible to have a clear mind when making decisions.

The nurses and midwives asked us if we wanted an autopsy.  Shawn and I agreed - "no".  The doctors saw the abruption on the ultrasound.  All the symptoms lined up.  We decided that we were ok accepting that it was the abruption and that we didn't need more information.

Then, they asked again.  "Are you sure you don't want an autopsy?"  -  "Yes, we are sure".

Yet again, I wish I would have heard what they were saying with unspoken words... "We can't force you to do this.  But please, have the autopsy.  You will regret it if you don't.  Days, months, years from now when the questions pop up, your only chance for answers will be gone."  ... Yet I didn't hear the hidden message.  All I heard was them asking if they should cut my baby open.  Of course I didn't want that.  How could they possibly cut into this sweet little boy?

Besides, an autopsy would take time.  And I wanted it all done and over with as soon as it could be.  As if leaving the hospital and rushing the funeral would make reality disappear.

But the unanswered questions now swim in my mind.

I am certain I had an abruption with Livie as well.  But it didn't kill her.  So why did it kill Carter?  What if the abruption wasn't the true culprit?  Or what if it was a contributing factor, but there were other forces at work that weakened him?

That morning in the hospital, when I confirmed that I didn't want an autopsy, I didn't know what information I was passing on.  Carter was a perfectly normal weight for his age.  Right-on compared to what Liv weighed at birth.  And he was big for his age - there was no way he would fit in the preemie clothes I had brought.  He had long legs, and the nurse measured his height multiple times to make sure she was correct.  These indicate that the placenta was doing its job.  Helping him grow.  What I didn't understand, was that in some situations, there could be clue inside his little body as to how long the abruption had been going on for.  Were his organs normally developed?  Or was their growth stunted?  If it appeared that the abruption had been going on for some time - what would that mean for a future pregnancy?  If he was completely normal, that would be a clue that the abruption was sudden, happening only after labor started.  What would that mean for a future pregnancy?  The doctors can't check the size of his organs from a container of ashes, so I will never know.

And then, there is the question I am scared to ask.  We agreed that we could live with abruption being the cause of his death.  So why does my mind ask more questions?  Why am I not satisfied to accept the clearest answer?

Nine days before Carter was born, we went to a birthday party.  The party was for the daughter of one of my dearest friends.  We all had a blast.  And then, the e-mail came.  An e-mail telling me that a little boy that had been at the party had the chicken pox.

I didn't know much about pregnancy and chicken pox, except that the two weren't good together.  Doctor google provided me with the info I needed: chickenpox in pregnancy... "A greater threat to a baby occurs when the mother develops chickenpox in the week before birth. Then it can cause a serious, life-threatening infection in a newborn."


Other sites suggested that stillbirth was possible.  Some sites said that the mother needed to show symptoms before there was a concern.  Other sites said that exposure in pregnancy was concern enough.  I spent the better part of that day freaking out to a co-worker.  She eventually was able to calm me down.  "You will be fine.  You can't worry about this.  After the year you have had, I promise, everything will be ok.  It has to be"  And I believed her.  I was just being a hormonal pregnant lady.  Over-reacting.


I did call the on-call midwife immediately, who suggested that we check at my next appointment to see if I was immune to chicken pox.  I never made it to that appointment, due to Carter's early arrival.

When I first looked over his sweet little body, I noticed something on his arm, but I dismissed it as 'just something'.  But now, I always wonder - what was it?  Just a mark, or the start of chicken pox?


I had been wanting to discuss my questions with my midwife, and then I ended up in the hospital for my gallbladder.  Because I pretty much have the greatest care providers ever, my midwife (came in on her day off as a friend, not a doctor) was by my side when I was brought up to my room.  The nurse asked the typical intake questions.  And then she asked a question I hadn't been asked before.  "Have you been exposed to the chicken pox in the last 3 months?"


I saw my midwife bristle at my answer.  There was an audible gasp.  It was neither the time or place for a discussion about that.  And now I am scared to talk to her.  What if there is more to Carter's story than just an abruption?  What if there isn't?  What if I am just continuing to grasp at made-up straws?  Over-reacting yet again?


I will never know.


I try to tell myself that I am ok not knowing, but that is simply not true.  I don't have questions because I want someone/something to blame.  I have questions because that is all there is to have.  I need answers, but there are none.  Too bad that there are no do-overs in real life.

More moping

Tonight as Livie was finishing up her shower, I reached into the linen closet and grabbed a towel. My hand came out holding a fluffy blue towel. Carter's towel. Not that he ever used it, but it was bought specifically for him. I thought about handing it to Liv, but I knew she would protest. So back into the closet it went. Who knows when we will use it.

After she was tucked in, I started picking up, and check out what I found.

A couple of days ago Livie asked for some blue envelopes so she could write a letter to Carter. The envelopes are full of her magnetic letters. I found them in her pretend mailbox. I wonder if she was just mimicking motions, or if in her mind she wrote a letter to him and was trying to send him something.
(To update, Liv saw them laying out in the morning, and shrieked "My Carter letters!"  She licked the envelopes closed and plopped them back into her mailbox.  I guess she is trying to send him something.)

This whole thing plain old sucks. The reminders of him are everywhere. I want so badly to remember him but it seems like all I remember is his stuff. The swing, the car seat, the clothes, all the things that I remember buying for him. But it is hard to remember him.

When I close my eyes I can only conjure up a couple images of him in my mind. I want to have memories and stories to tell. How can I love and miss someone so much that I never even truly got to meet?

During my pregnancy I rarely got the chance to relax. I don't have any memories of sitting down and just focusing on the baby. I try to remember a time when I just soaked up the kicks and the movement, but I can't. I was always busy and stressed and exhausted. I barely remember the pregnancy. Just snippets of a kick here or there. The lack of memories is painful.

I feel like I am grasping for straws to try and keep him in my mind. We haven't gotten the rest of his pictures back yet. I am so anxious to get them - I want to see them so badly. And at the same time it will be hard to get them, because that will be it. The last chance for a part of him.

I have been having good days and bad days. Today was definitely a bad day. I miss my son so much, it is all I can think about sometimes.

To the ends of the earth

I spoke with a woman today who knows our story, and yet still hinted (not so subtly) that in her mind I only have one child.  As we parted ways, she told me that she hoped I was enjoying my maternity leave.   In the interest of harmony, I will bite my tongue for now. But I have been replaying the conversation that I wish I could have with her in my mind all day...

If you are a parent (she is), think back to when you were pregnant. Remember all of the hopes and dreams that you had for your child. All the planning and preparing that consumed 9 months of your life. The exhaustion, pain and hormones that come with sharing your body with another human being.

Now bring yourself to the day your child was born. Do you still remember the beginning stages of labor, and all of the anticipation that comes with that? What about the pain of the contractions that you knew would bring you your baby? Giving birth is an experience embedded deep in every mother's mind and heart. Can you still feel all the emotions that came flooding over you as you pushed your baby from your body? And the first time you saw your child - have you ever loved anyone more than you did in that second?

What would happen if your child was taken from you at that moment? "I am sorry. You can't have your baby. You may look at him for awhile, but he can't go home with you.". What if you were forced, against your will, to hand your baby over to strangers before leaving the hospital?

No matter how loudly you scream, no one will come and help you. There is NOTHING you can do. There is no choice. You must go home without your baby. And you will never see him again. There is no ransom that can be paid, no police or court that can intervene - your baby is simply gone.  Taken from you without your consent.

Do you write that child off? He is gone so he never existed? Would you ever stop looking for him?  No. Mothers all over the world would walk through fire and never stop searching for their baby. What if your 2 year old disappeared? Or your 10 year old? Do they suddenly stop counting as one of your children?

Just because my child is no longer on this earth does not make him any less my son.

I am sorry if thinking of me as having two children makes you uncomfortable. Just think about how I feel about it.  Maternity leave without a baby to care for is a blast.

An angel in the book of life wrote down our baby's birth.  Then whispered as she closed the book, "too beautiful for earth" 

Pulmonary Embolism

A month ago, I would not have had any clue what a pulmonary embolism was.  But a lot of things have changed in the past month.

The week after Carter was born, we spent our days getting ready for his funeral.  It was a surreal experience - I went from eagerly awaiting my son to planning his good-bye.  The abruption and delivery left me physically and emotionally drained, so when I started to tire easily I didn't think much of it.

The morning of Carter's funeral I took a shower with the water as hot as I could stand it.  I cried and cried until I couldn't handle the water anymore.  As we got ready for the day, I started to feel light headed and dizzy.  I chalked it up to the hot shower and my dread for the day.  As the day wore on, I felt worse and worse.  I tried to push how I was feeling out of my mind. It was my son's funeral - I had to be there.  I had been looking forward to seeing him since I said good-bye at the hospital.   I needed to see him.  So I went on with the day.

After the funeral I found myself with a line of people wanting to hug me.  I am thankful for all of the support, but by the end of the hug-line I could barely stand.  I snuck away to sit with a friend as soon as I could.  Sitting with her, she told me that "the friend in me wants to give you a hug, the nurse in me wants you to go to the doctor".  As I sat with her, my vision got blurry and my heart started to race.  The parish nurse checked my blood pressure which was elevated but not dangerous.  Once again, I chalked it up to the day.

The next morning as we were getting ready, I gave in to my symptoms.  I could barely see, and was extremely dizzy.   After dropping Liv off at daycare I had Shawn bring me to the ER.

After some tests and a scan, the emergency room doctor came in and told me that I had clots in my lungs. I still didn't understand what a big deal this was.  Pretty soon I had my midwives (and an angel named Dawn) checking on me, and everyone was telling me how lucky I was that I had come in.  At some point it hit home that a PE was not to be taken lightly.   I have never been so scared in my life (and still am).

That first night in the hospital was rough.  All I could think about was Shawn and Livie.  I don't know how to articulate all the thoughts I had that night, but I am thankful that the heparin did what it was supposed to do and thankful that I got to the hospital in time.

Going forward, I need to be on warfarin for 6ish months.  That seems like an eternity.   I feel like my life will be in a holding pattern for the next six months.   Blood tests (for clotting disorders) need to wait until I am off of the warfarin and the hematologist won't even discuss a possible future pregnancy until the results are back.

I don't know where to go from here.  Even though I am not emotionally ready for another pregnancy, everything in me wants to be pregnant yesterday.  I know it is the hormones and my heart's desire to be snuggling my sweet baby, but I can't shake the need to plan for another baby.   But I am not healthy.  I need to take time - time for my body and heart to heal.   I am struggling to accept that this is my life now.  My son died and I am not healthy.  How did I get here?

Did I know? Should I have known?

At some point in spring 2011 I remember laying in bed and looking at our closet door.  I think Shawn may have been up and getting ready in the background.  But I remember the closet door so vividly, and thinking about how blessed we had been since meeting each other six years earlier.  And suddenly, I got a horrible awful feeling in the pit of my stomach.  I knew that things wouldn't always be easy for us, and our time was coming.  I don't know where those thoughts and feelings came from but I have never been able to shake that feeling.

 It isn't my place to share Shawn's journey with the world, but May brought a brain tumor.  And it wasn't always easy.  That was the beginning of our struggle.  I was already pregnant.

 My entire pregnancy, it felt funny to buy baby things.  Was my mind trying to tell me something?  Did my body know something that I didn't?  I was both scared and excited for the baby.  But there were somethings that I could never bring myself to do (like think about whether or not to circumcise).  Some decisions didn't feel necessary - even though they were.  When Livie and I went out to buy a new pump, it felt SO wrong.  The entire time that I wavered between the PISA and the Freestyle I kept thinking in the back of my mind, "why am I buying this?".  At the check-out, I had a strong urge to tell the cashier "never mind" and put the pump back.  I felt the same way when I bought the play mat, and sheets and clothes, and everything else I bought.

 The night I went into labor, I KNEW I was going into labor soon.   Livie's labor was so quick, that I swore this time around I would head to the hospital at the first sign of anything going on.  So why didn't I?  Why did I crawl into bed that night?

 Carter wasn't a particularly active baby.   My midwife said it was the anterior placenta.  Some days I hardly felt him at all.  But nighttime was our check-in time.  If I laid on my right side at bedtime, I would feel him.  And I could never fall asleep until he let me know he was still ok in there.  So that last night, why did I rationalize it when I didn't feel him when I laid down?

My Internet reading has taught me that a placental abruption can feel like a never ending contraction.   I know that feeling.  It started at Livie's bedtime and continued until I got my epidural.  And a placental abruption isn't all or nothing.  It takes time for the placenta to separate.  So what if when I crawled into bed that night it wasn't all the way separated?   What if I headed to the hospital then instead of trying to get some sleep in?   My midwife has told me multiple times that the outcome likely would not have changed.  Likely.  She says that there is nothing we could have done.  And I want so badly to believe her.   And I know I should.  I can't bring myself to think through the reasons why she is right, but she is.  By the time I knew something was wrong, it was too late.

I can't help but feel guilty.  Should I have seen this coming?  Should I have known?  My son is gone and I didn't save him.  My husband lost his son, and my daughter lost her brother.  And I am the only one that stood any chance of having saved him.  Not only do I mourn my son, I mourn for my husband and daughter and their losses.  I had so many plans and dreams for my little guy - and they are gone.

I don't know what the future holds for our family, but I do know that I am scared.  The future will never feel like a safe place again.   I want a long future with the man I love.  I want Livie to have a sibling.   More than that, she needs a sibling.   Otherwise she will be very much alone one day.

It will probably be 6-9 months before we get the ok to try again.  And even then, will we be ready?  Will we be healthy?   I will be a high risk pregnancy.  And there are no guarantees.  This we know.  And it won't be Carter - it will be some other baby.  And Livie will be 5 or older when he or she arrives.   That is too far apart for them to be close like I imagined and dreamed.   My mind spins 100 miles an hour with all the possible scenarios and lost dreams.

For now, all I can do is hope and pray that we all heal and stay healthy.  Time is precious, so I don't want to wish it away.  But I hope that the next six months are a good healing time for our family, and not as long and painful as the past six have been.

Did I imagine it?

Mornings are the worst. 

I sleep soundly all night, but when I wake up, reality hits me like a ton of bricks.  Some mornings I wake up and remember immediately.  Other mornings I reach for my belly before realizing that I am not pregnant anymore.  The worst is when I wake up to the feeling of my milk letting down.  On more than one occasion I have woken up to a letdown and in my half-sleep state thought to myself, "oh, it is time to feed the baby".  The thought lasts only for a split second but the moment I remember is like reliving his passing all over again.

When I was pregnant with Livie I loved every painful second of the pregnancy.  As much as I wanted to meet her, I also wanted to savor every second of her inside of me.  My pregnancy with Carter was different.  There were times that I forgot I was pregnant.  He wasn't a particularly active baby, and I didn't find myself enjoying the pregnancy like I did with Livie.  I told myself that it was the stress of Shawn's medical issues, and I told myself it was 2nd child syndrome.  The truth is, that I never got as attached and bonded to the pregnancy.  And that is so painful to me now.

Some days I have to remind myself that I didn't imagine Carter.   It is as if I could have been pregnant 10 years ago.  From the moment that I realized the nurses couldn't find a heartbeat, I felt like I was having an out of body experience.  Was this all really happening to me?  Did it all actually happen?  I went through labor and delivery.  I fell in love with the sweetest little boy I have ever laid my eyes on.  I have milk in my freezer.  But no baby to show for it.  Walking through a store, I don't have a little bundle for people to ooh and aah over.  All I have is 25 extra pounds.  No one knows that I should have a baby in my arms.  It would be so easy for me to pretend it never happened - but I can't.   I can't forget about the hole in heart.

Someday I will run out of pictures to share.  But for now, I have my proof.  I didn't imagine him.  He was here, and very much loved.

There are times when I just keep thinking that the nightmare has to end.  The past year has been so hard on us that there is no way it can possibly be real.  Why has this all happened?  Shawn and I are 29 - what 29 year old couple should have to go through brain cancer, the loss of their son and a pulmonary embolism all in 5 months?  It is just unbelievable to me.