The power of language

I hate the term "pregnancy loss." I've hated it since my first baby died and someone said to me, "I'm sorry you lost the baby." What? Huh? I didn't lose the baby. I didn't put him down and forget where I left him.

Why don't we call it what it is? Why can't we say to someone, "My baby died." I didn't lose a pregnancy. My baby died.

I also hate the word "miscarriage." Do you know what the term means? "Failure to attain the just, right, or desired result." Women all over the world who have this experience have been told they failed. The suggestion that we did something to end our babies is beyond cruel.

I know, I even use it in the title of this blog. I've been conditioned, I suppose. The rationale is that it makes people feel better. Saying a baby died is too harsh, too sad, too in-your-face. Who cares about other people's reactions? Why is that my problem? Why should I be made to feel like I did something wrong? The horrible guilt I feel for what happened to my children is enough on its own. Don't burden me with that label.

There's another term I've been seeing around lately - Baby Loss Mama (or BLM, if you're in a hurry). I'm torn on that one. I like the intent of it, but it still has the word "loss." It's also kind of a tongue-twister. Try saying it 3 times fast. Really.

The medical term for me is a Habitual Aborter. This is actually in my file. This is so offensive to me, it makes me sick to my stomach.

Maybe I should come up with new names. I could be an Angel Mama. I'm not sure how I feel about angels, though. I like "spirits." I'm a Spirit Mama! Hey Dr. Obstetrician - put THAT in my file!

Okay, I just had to get that out. Breathe, and release.

Point of no return

There is no corner of my life that my experience with recurrent pregnancy loss hasn't touched. My experiences have affected my relationship with my husband, my interactions with my coworkers. It has impacted what I read, how I spend my time, and how I relate to strangers. My experiences have affected my body and my relationship to it. My friendships have been affected. I've lost friends; I've gained new ones. I'm grateful for the new ones. I mourn the lost ones.

I know that I have pushed people away. My friendships with women who haven't had my experience have suffered, in part, to my unwillingness to let them in. I felt I was a burden to them because they were having healthy children. I assumed they didn't want to hear about my pain. Some of these women contributed in their own way to the demise of our relationship, which is something I have never and will probably never share with them. There was the friend who was struggling with infertility. After my second miscarriage, she told me she'd rather be dealing with what she was dealing with than with what I was dealing with. That was 6 years ago, and it still hurts. My relationship with her never recovered from that. Perhaps if I had talked to her about how that comment hurt, about how her lack of compassion affected me, that relationship could have been saved. Perhaps not. I know I didn't do anything about it by choice. I chose to not forgive her.

I wonder if I should go back to this friend and to others to explain to them how I was feeling at the time. To tell them "you said this" or "you didn't say this" to let them know that I was hurt and to give them a chance to explain. But, I don't. I assume they don't care anymore.

The yardstick with which I measure the people in my life changed after my first baby died. The expectations I demanded in a friend were already pretty high. After my first loss, I measured people by the amount of compassion they demonstrated towards me. If they didn't show any or, worse, didn't show enough, then I let them go. I didn't have the energy to sustain those relationships, not when I was changing so much. I no longer felt like the person I was when I entered the relationship. To stay with them meant I had to set new expectations, verbalize my feelings, and be patient. I did little of that. I think people who haven't spent time mourning a deep loss can't fully understand the amount of energy it requires to go about with your life. When your life profoundly changes it takes every amount of strength you can summon to get out of bed and function. Thankfully, routine allows you to operate on autopilot. The amount of energy it takes to sustain a relationship that isn't feeding your soul in the new way you need, is excruciatingly hard to maintain.

I never wanted this experience to define me. It has, however, changed me in ways that I can never return to.

Why I Avoid Facebook

In the beginning, I thought Facebook was pretty cool. My husband was posting things daily and sharing stories of what he had read from current friends and reacquainted ones. I appreciate the genius of the concept. After all, humans are social creatures. We have a need to connect. We all want people to bear witness to our lives. So, I can see why people want to share details of their daily lives, post pictures of their kids, hear how their high school friends have turned out, and share things that are important to them. It also provides a way for introverts, like myself, to be social without having to imbibe alcohol in order to relax.

So, I opened an account and starting adding "friends." At first, it was fascinating. People I hadn't heard from in years (and frankly, hadn't thought of either) were now friending me. I could read updates on their lives at the click of a button. Got a few minutes of downtime at work? Check out new status updates. Want to share my big news that I'm training for a half-marathon? Put it on Facebook!

What I wasn't prepared for was the updates I didn't want to see. The announcements that friends were having their third baby (two of these updates popped up in the same week). The belly pictures. The "I'm at 20 weeks and can celebrate!" Facebook had opened up another portal for pain. I now had a whole new way to get updates on everyone I know who's having a baby, just had a baby, or wants to have a baby. I tried to balance the joy with the grief, feel happy for them while feeling sad for me, understand that other people have the right to be happy while I grieve. And, then I couldn't anymore. I was very happy when I discovered the "hide" feature. Uh oh, so-and-so just announced her pregnancy. Quick, hide before you have to read any more!

It brings up such a complexity of emotions. Take feeling happy for someone who is blissfully pregnant for the first time, sprinkle in the gratitude of the miracle of a child coming safely into the world, fold in a cup (or two) of jealousy, add a dash of guilt for feeling all of these things, and what you're left with is a nasty piece of lumpy dough that sticks in your throat and leaves you miserable.

I have no control over women in my office being pregnant. I have no control over being surrounded by pregnant women and babies in public, in movies and on t.v. I do have control over what I read online. Right now, Facebook is not a place I want to be.

P.S. Be sure to read my last post if you haven't already entered in my giveaway. And, while you're here, leave me a comment on how you feel about how social networking has impacted your "baby full" life.

Something to celebrate

To celebrate the unveiling of my new blog design, I'm doing my first giveaway. I've been reading the recently released book, They Were Still Born, which is a collection of deeply personal essays written by parents who have lost babies due to stillbirth. It is heart-wrenching, honest, and hopeful. I read a little bit of it every night, and each story touches and teaches. I want others to experience it, as well. Leave me a comment with a way to reach you by February 20, and a copy of the book will be yours.

A huge barrel full of gratitude to Franchesca Cox of Small Bird Studio for helping me create this design for my blog. She has the perfect blend of skill, patience, and creativity. If you want to update your blog, Franchesca also graciously gives a discount to bereaved parents. Thank you, Franchesca!

I have so many things to write about my journey....there are more posts coming soon, I promise! Thanks for walking the yellow brick road with me.

Put it down, if only for a moment

"You haul around this grief, all the time, and there's no place to put it, no one to help you set it down."

This sentiment so perfectly encapsulates what I feel that when I read it, I had to read it again. And again. And again. I could have written it. I didn't write it. David Hlavsa in They Were Still Born did. This is an incredible collection of personal stories from bereaved parents of children who were born still. I was at the library yesterday with my son on one of our regular weekend excursions to return books and discover new ones. I approached the section of "new non fiction" and this book was sitting on the shelf. As I saw it, everything else slipped away and this book was the only thing I was aware of. To see a book about stillbirth sitting on the library shelves where so many people could see it, borrow it, read it, share it. I felt that book had been placed there just for me. It's what I wanted to see after my first baby died in 2003, and I couldn't find books from parents who had lost what I had lost. What a long, hard journey we've taken to get to the point where not only are these books published from mainstream publishers, they are common enough to be placed prominently in a library. And, while my births aren't called stillbirths in the medical community, I also birthed my children. I feel the pain these parents feel. I recognize their grief as my own.

I was drawn to this book. I carried it around in my arms barely aware of what else was going on around me. And, while I knew it would wait until I got home and was in the privacy of my bedroom before I read it, I couldn't wait. It was like a gift that was begging to be opened. I sat down in the cozy armchair in the children's section, and I began to read the stories. As I sat in the library reading this book while my son played with the train table, I was deeply aware that I was going to cry. I tried to hold back my tears; I don't want to cry in public, with my son nearby. Those are the two things that cripple me and cause me to shove my pain down deeper - the fear my pain will be on display and I'll have to explain it to people who won't understand. In that moment of holding back the tears so much that my head felt it would explode, I decided to let it be. Let my pain be. Let my grief be. Let my sadness be. Let me be. I cried. Not shoulder-sobbing or ugly crying; simply tears welling up in my eyes and dropping slowly down my cheeks. And, it was freeing.

When I came to the quote from David Hlavsa in the third essay of the book, I felt understood. Somebody, a man even, had perfectly captured a feeling I've had for the seven years I've been conceiving, birthing, and grieving babies. My arms are tired, my soul is exhausted, my heart is heavy. There's nowhere to put down my pain. There's no escaping it. I've thought about my babies every day since they left my body. I can't even escape the pain when I sleep. I dream I'm pregnant. I dream I'm not pregnant. I dream I've had a baby and someone has taken her from me.

There are people who do try to "help you set it down." There are people who see my pain, may feel it themselves in their own way, and want to relieve me of it. I received a card after my last miscarriage from a family member who I haven't seen in a long time. She has grieved her own children over many years, and she was kind enough to reach out and acknowledge what I was going through. She said she knew how painful the experience was, and then she shared her own stories of loss. She held on to my pain and made it lighter for me, if only for just a little bit. She'll probably never know how much that support meant to me.

We have to create ways to put our grief down, to let our pain be, to let ourselves be lighter. If only for a moment.

The Power of Sharing

Thank you to the lovely ladies, Paula and Joanna, who graciously bestowed me with the Stylish Blogger award.

You Pay it Forward when you receive this award, so here we go:
1. Thank and link back to the person who gave you this award.
2. Share 7 things about yourself.
3. Award 15 recently discovered great bloggers.
4. Contact these bloggers and tell them about the award.

Seven things about me:
1. I daydream often about living in a house by the sea.
2. I love to knit, especially gifts for others, and wish I had more time to do it.
3. I learn something new from my five-year old son everyday.
4. I would love to quit my job and travel the world (Italy and France are at the top of the list).
5. I have a major sweet tooth.
6. I'm originally from the South and achingly miss the food, the accents, and the people.
7. I will someday write a book about how my losses have shaped my life.

Here's Round 1 of my favorite bloggers:
Alissa at On KK's Butterfly Wings.
Melissa at Amazing Mikayla Grace
Christa at Fumbling Towards Motherhood
Wifey at Semi-Fertile
Jennifer at The Blue Sparrow
Sharing Your Thoughts

It still amazes me that my words reach people and inspire comments and accolades. There are so many blogs out there now by bereaved parents. It's so sad that there are so many women who have these experiences to write about, and yet it's so comforting to know there are so many women who share what I feel. When I had my first miscarriage in 2003, I don't think these kinds of online resources existed (if they did, I was oblivious - and I looked...a lot). Now, you can find hundreds of blogs that are written about baby loss, and hopefully, find a few that resonate for you.

I think this explosion of online journals illustrates the need we have to share our thoughts and feelings. To say without censorship or shame what we feel, what we're experiencing, the struggles and pitfalls, the sorrow and the anger. After I spend time talking with my therapist, sharing with a mutual BL mom, and commiserating with my support group, I feel understood. I feel less alone. I feel lighter. The power of talking out the pain can not be underestimated. We all must find somebody we can talk to who will help us navigate the pain, who won't say "It was for the best" and "It's time to move on." We need people who will listen without judgment, care about your feelings more than their reaction to your feelings, and hold your hand as you feel through the pain. I hope you have someone in your life who does this for you.

Nowhere is safe

Everybody is pregnant.

Of course, that's not true. When you want to be pregnant and you're not and won't be ever again, it certainly feels like EVERYONE IS PREGNANT. Every time someone in my office has her baby, I sigh a breath of relief. "Good, I don't have to deal with THAT anymore." Then, WHAM, somebody else shows up giggling with her happy news and talking about whether it's a boy or a girl. Great, now I have to figure out how to avoid HER now. I've canceled my subscription to a parenting magazine because it was page after page of happy pregnant women, advice on planning a birth, and suggestions on how to make it through the final weeks of pregnancy. What a cruel joke. Then, there are the celebrities. I realize I do this to myself when I pick up the latest People magazine and read about who is pregnant, who just delivered, who is thrilled to give their son a sister, blah blah blah. I'll admit (here and nowhere else) that I take in their news with a lot of judgment - judgment that sprouts out of the head of a giant green monster.

Here's the conversation in my head: Kelly Preston had a baby at 47? That's crazy. How is that possible? Oh well, good for her. Victoria Beckham is having her 4th child? Seriously? Doesn't she have enough to do? I then have to remind myself that celebrities lose babies, too. That, however, doesn't make it on the cover of People.

I hate these thoughts. I hate to admit them. I hate that I still have them after all my "healthy processing through the journey of grief." It can't be healthy to feel such rage toward innocent strangers whose happiness is earned and whose news should be celebrated. Their happiness has nothing to do with my sadness. I can (I should) be happy for them while being sad for me.Of course, I'm thrilled whenever a soul makes its way safely to this world. So many of them don't. I just wish one of them could be mine.