Poetry in Motion

Dear Analin,

Daddy got a new job. It's all the way across the country, of course.

This is why you were cremated. We knew this move, or some other, was likely in our lives. This way, you get to come too. Your ashes, your hand and foot molds, your memory books, a lock of you hair.

What can't come are your other things.

Blankets.
Outfits.
Diaper bag.

I have them all. Not for long.

I found a family for your things.

They lost everything in a fire. Every thing. The people are safe. Including a baby girl and her twin brother.

This is so poetic on so many levels. Poetry can be damn painful.

We lost a girl.

Friends lost one of their twins the same year.

There are all different kind of tears. These tears are small, light, and hot enough to burn.

And we're moving on, all of us.

Poetry in motion.

Things lost in a fire, things given. Comfort found in our families. It's beautiful and I can't stop crying.

I love you so very much, Beautiful.

Mommy.

Connections

Dear Analin,

The "A" stocking has brought you to your second brother's attention this year. He's almost 5 and though we always talk about you, he hasn't been able to comprehend you yet. This year, he has. He asked who in our family starts with an A. He asked to see your books. He told me you are the best girl he ever missed. That he misses you so very much.

I'll admit I was worried about teaching you to him and to your little brother and if they could connect. This year, I'm not so worried. You are a part of our lives, every day, and this is where it shows, when a big brother who was too little to remember connects with his little sister through the memories we've kept and the words we share. It's powerful. You're powerful.

Thank you, my beautiful girl.

I love you.

Mommy.

Full Disclosure

Dear Analin,

I haven't written in a long time because I am currently in denial. I fully recognize it won't change anything, but right now, it's what I need. Not having a girl was harder than I thought, though nothing could replace Benjamin. Nothing can replace you. As hard as it is for me to be pregnant, having a girl to wear the clothes in that big box doesn't look promising. Having another girl won't change what's wrong, anyway. It's a hard place to be right now.

I love you each and every day.

Mommy.

Tired

Dear Analin,

I'm sorry I haven't written much. Life right now is more than busy, it's draining. Draining in a good way - we are working hard toward some rewarding goals - but it's taking its toll. I'm so tired and being tired has lead to not thinking about you as much as I'd like. Being tired, I don't have the energy for it. I don't have the energy to think back and grieve, then climb my way out of it to a happier place.

That isn't to say I don't think of you at all. Just last month I had a conversation with one of those wonderful strangers you just bond with about you and your loss. I even told her the hardest parts about the drive home and the morning after. I'd taken care of myself a bit better that day, with a trip to the spa, so the energy had been there. In fact, I even reached that cathartic point of being proud of making it through the grief and sharing the story of my beautiful daughter.

Right now, though, I shy away from thoughts of you. If I didn't, I'm not sure I'd be able to get through it. There's nothing wrong with taking a day to cry and I have done that in the past. The trouble comes from making the pain more than the memory part of my life, and I struggle with that most when I'm tired.

I have suffered from and fought through Depression before and I'm absolutely certain that weighs heavily on my decisions on how to direct my grief. So, I'm employing a lot of avoidance these days. I'm sad about it. I miss you in my thoughts and conversations. The risk, though, is too high when sadness threatens larger than I think I can handle, so high it would affect the rest of our family.

To be clear, it isn't thinking of you I'm afraid of, it's in the sadness crawling out of my soul and settling into my bones. There's a difference to it that is dangerous for me.

I look forward to the day this is all done and I can put my feet up and cry until I smile again. You are worth every tear and every moment. Every day I wish I could be thinking of you in a different way, in the way of my beautiful, drive-me-crazy, two year old toddler. I want to type 'maybe one day,' but, of course, that would be a lie.

I miss you beyond what you could ever know.

Love, Mommy.

Your Box

Dear Analin,

There's been a debate about what to do with your things. I still have them, two years later. I even dug out some of the neutral things and the toys to use for Benjamin, but there are still so many frills and ruffles and owls and pink in a box we keep in the attic, things unique to you.

At first, I hoped we would use it for a little sister. Then I thought we might donate it to someone in need, or a women's shelter. Yet, I couldn't bring myself to make the arrangements. I kept thinking one day I would be able to do it. I'm not sure there's ever a 'ready' for something like that. They aren't just clothes, they are possibilities lost, and I'm not willing to let them go.

Randomly I ask your daddy what he thinks. Neither of us ever had an answer that satisfied us. Until this weekend.

There's no ready. I am not willing to let go of the few things I had for you. That's all there is to it.

We will not be getting rid of your box. It goes against my usual opinion of not holding on to things we don't use or need, but I do need that box. It's a comfort item, something I can control in this out of control situation. Yet, it won't just sit there forever, or so we hope.

We hope, one day, you will have a beautiful niece who will look amazing in frills and ruffles and owls and pink. For your niece, we'll keep these things as I'm not keeping the same things from your brothers. All I have from them is a custom made tux onsie only Joshua ever had the chance to wear for daddy and my wedding. But I have your brothers. There's the difference.

Things shouldn't matter, but these do and instead of try to find a work-around, I'm going to embrace my attachment to them this time. And I'll cry bittersweet tears of happiness when I gift your box to one of your brothers because even though you never got to wear these things, a beautiful girl I love will get to.

Forever yours,

Mommy.

Rainbow baby

Dear Analin,

Rainbow babies are hard.

We thought having a baby after your loss would help us heal. He did.

We knew being pregnant would be hard. It was one of the hardest things we'd ever done.

When he was born, I couldn't think about you. When he was born, it had to be about him, because if you were part of it, I don't think I could have taken care of him as well as I did.

Having your little brother helped us heal in knowing, physically, we are sound. Not one thing went wrong with his pregnancy despite the doctor's almost desperate search. There were tests and ultrasounds and NSTs galore and our doctor admitted the changes he'd been expecting hadn't come.

Your baby brother was induced at 38 weeks and 1 day. He's pretty perfect, though he had some trouble breathing and eating at the same time at first. I didn't want to stop holding him. I barely shared him with your dad or older brothers. He was mine. My rainbow baby.

My distraction.

It is hard, terrifying, and a massive highlight of how unfair stillborn loss is when you have a live baby. He was perfect. So were you. His pregnancy was normal. So was yours.

I am so very, incredibly grateful to have brought him home. I was up and walking around the delivery room with a smile. I had no problems getting him to nurse or letting him sleep. I was showered, dressed, and chatting away like there was no after-birth pain at all. Someone mentioned how good I looked, how happy we were.

Of course we were. We got to take home a baby. Do you understand? We got to TAKE HIM HOME.

That's a very specific contrast to your birth.

He was about 3 weeks old before I consciously thought about you again. I cried for a day. I held him and rocked him and screamed within my mind because I should have had this with you. You should be toddling around demanding my attention, demanding to hold the baby. Actions from a baby who never got to come home.

Rainbow babies are hard. They are a bittersweet coming that simultaneously heals and rips open wounds that may not have been as healed as we thought in the first place.

I wouldn't trade him for the world. I just wish his waking family was a little bigger.

Always missing you,

Mommy.

Flowers

Dear Analin,

Your baby brother was born healthy and handsome on 8/14/15, but I can't talk about that here. Not yet. My emotions between your loss and his birth are too raw right now, too mixed and dizzy. So we'll save that for another day.

Today we'll talk about flowers. I'm allergic to flowers, so they rarely come into my life outside of Nature. Today was an exception because your grandma had surgery this past week and is now home, so your brothers and daddy decided she needed some flowers to help her feel better.

Of the whole family, it was decided I would go into the flower shop myself, after your daddy made sure I would survive it. ;-) So, in I went, breath held and fingers crossed.

On the plus side, there weren't that many flowers in the flower shop today because they will be closed for the holiday weekend. That also meant my selection was quick and relatively painless. The shop itself, on the other hand, was not.

I blinked a lot in that store, not to fight back the dry itchiness of allergies, but against the prick of tears.

Not being a regular visitor of these stores I forget what they are often used for. Sympathy.

There were pillows for tears, stones for memories, blankets and plush animals for comfort. All for loss.

It's not fair to be blindsided like that, in case you didn't know.

I had a few minutes to look around the store. One of the flowers in my arrangement needed to be replaced. I focused on some knitted leg warmers made in the local school colors for almost five minutes. I'm sure they expected me to buy some.

Eventually, the repaired arrangement came out. The florist said something or other about how to shape the flowers if I wanted to. I told him they were beautiful to get him to go away. I'd already paid so I could get out quickly, back out into the late summer and a heated breeze that helped dry my eyes.

I really don't like flowers.

Your grandma loved, them, though, so that's what matters. They were purple in a purple vase, her favorite colors. I bet purple would have been your favorite color, too. I just get the feeling you two would have been really close. She loves you so very much, there's no way you couldn't have been.

I love you, too. So very much it hurts. It hurts too much to tell you about your little brother, yet. But I will, I promise. I know you love him, too.

Forever, my sweet.

Mommy.

Humbled

Dear Analin,

Your big brothers love your little brother so much. They hug my belly, kiss it, talk to the baby through it. Sebastian is convinced he can only be heard through my belly button and directs all his words there. Joshua will pretend he wants a hug or kiss from me, then duck away at the last second to bestow the hug and kiss onto my belly. He presses his mouth against my skin and growls against the baby, his own favorite noise from when he was born.

The other day we were cuddling on the couch, Joshua caressed my belly and whispered, "I love you so much, baby brother."

How I didn't cry, I do not know.

All of this love, unconditional and unharnessed from the boy who hid under a blanket for 2 days after we lost you. These words from the boy who told me he didn't want a baby any more because this one wasn't a girl. The hugs and kisses from the boy who didn't want to go to any more ultrasounds unless there was a chance boy might change to girl.

Now he's picking out silly names for the baby. He's pushing me to do things faster, like set up the crib, put together the mobile, wash his clothes, get his toys ready. And I can't do a single one of those things without him there to help and supervise.

Sebastian helps and loves and supervises as well, but he doesn't remember, not like Joshua.

Here I am, worrying about all the different things. I need to switch my blood thinning shots in case I go into labor early. I won't, but it's a smaller worry. I want a specific type of bouncer because the one I had broke, but it's so expensive new and cheaper used but the ones I find being sold are too far away. I found one at a second-hand shop, one more small worry checked off.

The small worries keep my mind off the bigger one, the one that reminds me even though this baby is being induced somewhat early, he's being induced at 38 weeks and 1 day, three days after you passed in your own time.

How I wish I could be like Joshua, my six year old, first born. Broken hearted from your loss, missing the sister he'd hoped and prayed for, but so in love with this little boy on the way that none of that matters. He humbles me and I envy him because I know there's very little chance I'll be able to copy him. I'm just so happy he hasn't caught on to my own stress to let it affect him. Perhaps these little, distracting worries have helped with that, too, telling him it's these things I'm worried about, and not this new life.

Whatever it is, I'm thankful for it. I'm grateful for his reminder that love is there and can be greater than the fear if we let it be. He helps me breathe a little easier and bond a little deeper with the mover and shaker on his way as he forges his own connection between their hearts and shows Sebastian how to do the same.

My kids are awesome. I'm such a proud Mommy of all of you. You, as well, for teaching us how precious life is and to take each moment we can to learn each other, no matter how close or far we happen to be.

Thank you for being such a great big sister. I love you, beautiful Analin.

Mommy.

Getting Ready

Dear Analin,

I don't know exactly when excitement turned into fear and sadness, but I almost cried on the way home today. I've been in bed most of the day since. And all I did was buy some things second hand.

Last night I found a post with two of our big things plus some little things for the cost of one of those big things. Within an hour, I had the meet and greet set up for today, got the cash ready and did a little dance for happy deals.

I just do not know when it happened. Even looking back, I don't know for sure. Your brothers were being challenging this morning so I was focused on keeping them on task and out of each other's hair without losing my own. I had set up the meet at a fireworks shop and thought to grab a few sky lanterns while we were there. The boys behaved. They had heart-shaped and American flag and colored lanterns and Joshua was excited for all of them.

When we walked out with our new lanterns, the other Mom was there, toddler in the car, new belly growing just like mine, ready to unload her old stuff into our car. We chatted a minute about the items, she showed me how a few pieces worked and had even thrown in a few smaller things into the deal since I was getting so much and she just wanted it gone.

Price paid, car loaded, your brothers back in the car. I rolled the windows down for the drive, a novelty for them, and they actually laughed and played for the first time that day.

A dry sob burst out half way home.

The boys stopped to ask me what was wrong. When I didn't answer, they went back to playing.

I didn't like the stuff. It was second hand, dusty, dirty, and I'd just spent a lot of money on it.

Except, I loved the stuff for the price we paid and it was in great condition after only one kiddo's use, just dusty from storage from a Mom who'd had a boy and was clearing that stuff out for her baby-girl-on-the-way.

Maybe that was the moment, when I realized what she was doing and why. Maybe the moment happened during the lanterns, or sometime before or sometime after, when money exchanged for things bought for a baby who hasn't been born yet and who I now know may never get to use those things.

Whenever the moment happened, it was about all of that and more.

I have a box of your stuff in the attic you will never use. Why the hell did I just spend so much money for this baby?

Okay, logic time. Do I expect this baby to make it? Yes. Do I expect this baby to need things? Yes. Will he care if things are new or previously loved? Not a chance. Will this stuff make my life easier? Yes. If the worst does happen, am I stuck with it? Only if I choose to be.

He's moving around now as if to tell me it's just a few more weeks.

I really, really wish that meant something that wasn't shadowed with dread.

I'm not going to stop moving forward. We have this stuff now, a baby shower scheduled a month before his due date, a list of names we may throw out at the last minute or choose from after all once he's born.

I just wish I knew what we were getting ready for. Even a when might help, but the doctors aren't committing to an early delivery. All our tests are still perfect, still showing proper progress.

So were yours.

I'm going crazy with worry and sadness. I'm breathing through it and using logic to work through it but come on. There is no preparing for this. There's just the jump and then the experience of it, survived in any way we can survive it.

31 weeks yesterday. We lost you two days before week 38. These next few months are going to be tortuous. I pray so very, very hard that in two months, none of this even matters and is lost in joy.

I'll be okay. I've always known I'd be okay, even when they told me you'd be gone. But life is something we experience, not something we skim through.

Here's to the experience.

I love you like crazy, Analin. I can't wait to send off one of those heart-shaped lanterns to you. <3

Love,

Mommy.

Your baby ....

Dear Analin,

This post should have come a week and a half ago. Yet, as these things go, there was a hiccough.

On the day we found out you are having a little brother, we also discovered we're of a higher risk for Trisomy 13/18 deficiency. Both are considered non-compatible with life because the chances for a live birth are 50%, then a 5-10% chance the baby would make it through the first year of life.

Today, we found out that not only does DNA confirm this baby is a boy, but all chromosomal markers came back normal for the Trisomy's. We are headed down the path for a healthy, live baby boy.

I haven't made that announcement yet because of the pending test results. A few people know, though, people who have known we were going in to find out and specifically asked. Even fewer people knew about this test.

It has been a rough week waiting for these results. There were thoughts of, should we pick out a name? Should we work on the baby registry? Are we only meant to have two boys? That was just on my part. I know your daddy had a hard time, too, thinking small percentages (0.5% chance) might do us in, yet again.

Today, we found out voluntarily taking that test was very worth it. Bonus, DNA confirmed what the ultrasound basically shouted. We are having our 3rd boy.

It's poetic. I like it. Our fourth baby, but our third boy who will be our third baby to bring home.

Not everyone was thrilled with the news. I wouldn't say they were upset this baby is a boy. It's easy to understand people wishing a girl for us, not only with our two boys but with your loss as well. Someone mentioned they'd hoped we'd have twins - one of each.

I'm happy with a boy. I love boys. I'm scared of girls, to be honest. I'd figure it out, of course. And there were a lot of mother/daughter things I'd been looking forward to and that I miss not being able to have with you. Especially now, knowing this pregnancy could have taken a completely different path so early on, healthy is the name of the game. Boy or girl equals love any way you cut it.

On the other hand, a house full of boys. What's a mama to do? Lol. Someone mentioned if they all get through high school and on to college, I'd be up for Sainthood. Well, I'm up for the challenge of college, at least. :)

I love you my one little girl.

Mommy.

Conditional Acceptance

Dear Analin,

It's snowing again. Mimi always says it snows on her birthday, but I hoped we could get that early March warmth and hold onto it.

Not so much. We live in the Midwest. I really should know better by now. Haha.

Last year we still had snow about this time, but lots of it. Your daddy's broken leg was healing. Your brothers got their one day of snow play because the Winter had been far too cold. I kept hoping the cold would stay just a little longer.

Last year I didn't mind the cold. In fact, I loved it. I feel a peaceful type of pleasure when the weather matches my mood.

Outside could stay cold so I could stay cold inside and keep the pain at bay, fed to me in tiny melting rivers as I could handle it.

This year, though, I'm ready for warmth. I'm ready to open the windows, let in the fresh, cleansing air and get to work, make things better and new.

To be clear. I am not over anything. Nothing is erased or forgotten about your loss. It's a little more assimilated, a little more part of every day life. Those little rivers are carving their canyons in my soul every single day. I haven't accepted your loss any more today than I had the day we found out.

I've accepted the pain. I've accepted everyday grief. I've accepted I cannot change a dang thing. Not for one heartfelt minute does that mean I've accepted you're not here. Losing you is still stupid and pointless. I still feel the undercurrent of shock.

My life is so wonderful. I could make hours of lists. A life that wonderful should not feel loss like this. The two should not coexist.

But they do. So acceptance is gradual, complicated and conditional.

Last year, I forced myself through the motions. I pushed myself as far as I could push. I left early, broke down in the middle of parties and strangers, and flat out refused to go when it was too much. I was coddled and nudged, pushed and looked down on when I couldn't quite make it to that one last party of the month. I do not regret a single decision, a single party attended or missed no matter the opinion (or even the support, to be honest) of others. There will be more of both, I'm sure.

I'm ready for the warmth to come. I really want to feel sun again, to have warm skin and a little more melting of that cold place inside me. Pain is not a friend, not something I want to feel every day. It takes engagement with life and our loved ones to help move us beyond, something I'm beginning to crave.

Too much Winter and you forget there is ever Spring, much less Summer. So bring on the season change. Bring on the family gatherings and birthday parties, baseball practice and backyard soccer games, vacations and lazy days. Bring on a healthy, happy pregnancy with a Summer baby come the end.

We'll deal with Autumn when it gets here.

Until next time, beautiful love.

Mommy.

Big Sister Analin

Dear Analin,

I have a very, very good reason for such a long silence. I have been sick. Super sick. Going on 16 weeks now, and still not quite through it.

(Right. Bandaid method.)

You're going to be a big sister.

Well, I guess you already are.

(See, not so bad. Okay, then.)

We don't know if it's a little brother or sister yet. We find out in April. There's absolutely no way we wouldn't. I'm terrified. Hence the bandaid method comment.

It's a little funny, a little understandable. An extended result of this fear is that new infants, particularly girls, scare me right now. It's a gut reaction and not something I really have control over, other than to breathe through it.

The reason is - in my opinion - ridiculous. I'm really scared of my reaction to the sex of this baby. I'm afraid I'll be disappointed if it's a boy. I'm afraid I'll be even more terrified it's a girl, since the only girl I've carried before didn't make it.

I may, but I doubt it. I fully expect this to be one of those fears that proves without bite when the time comes. I am thrilled to be pregnant. I hate the symptoms of pregnancy and I always have, but the end result is a miracle worth having.

This miracle will happen about 3 weeks early and with a blood-thinning shot a day that's left my stomach a ring of bruises. I assume we'll be induced around then, anyway. We had a confusing test result we won't be able to discuss with the doctor until April regarding my hormone levels and their effect on the baby's growth rate. As the option for an appointment was ours and not a requirement, we're going on faith it's not a huge deal, particularly with all the other monitoring this baby already requires. The accompanying 12 week scan was perfect and the chromosome portion of the test came back normal. That leaves us firmly and relatively safely in to the second trimester and free to share the news.

We haven't told many people so far. We told the mothers first very early on. My mom because she needed time to adjust. Daddy's mom because she needed so much to hear we were pregnant again. We told a few other inner circle people because of how sick I get in the first trimester and how much help we need. Then after this baby's 12 week ultrasound, we started telling others as we met them.

Now it's officially public. It will be interesting to see how people react.

I don't mean whether or not we're congratulated. I mean how it's handled after. So far, we either receive a ton of questions, or none. Acknowledgement of our pregnancy or ignorance of it. Either reaction is fine. I'm really not expecting one or the other, I'm just truly curious about how each person reacts in an observer kind of way. I'm a little weird like that sometimes.

I don't think this pregnancy is easy for anyone, remembering what happened with you. My 6 year old neighbor summed it up perfectly when she said to my son during a play date, "Your mommy had a baby in her belly before but it died, so hopefully this baby will make it."

Guileless. I loved it, actually. Her words made me smile in their painless honesty. Kids say the darnedest things, right?

So I may be a bit sea sick now, and a lot busy later, but I will always be thinking about you. I'll not be able to stop the comparisons, to try and figure out where you would be in the mix if you'd stayed. Of course there will be more letters. I can't wait to explore you with a younger sibling.

I miss you. More now, to be honest, with another baby growing. I'm scared for a lot of things but trust this is the way things are supposed to be, whether or not I understand it. Deep breaths. Lots of rest. We'll make it to our August due date eventually.

I love you, beautiful girl.

Mommy.

And now to hit publish ...

Christmas Letter 2014

Dear Analin,

I wonder how many people have been waiting for my letter to you today. To be honest, I just thought to write it. I wish it could be filled with the hope I'd put into Xavier's letter this year, but unfortunately, something happened.

Today the man you would have known as Pawpaw passed away. He has been sick for a while but it was a strange accident that sent him to the hospital where they helped ease him on. He had a big smile and rarely spoke without a joke, even if it wasn't quite the time for it. He will be missed by many.

His death has brought me back around to this time last year when we were struggling through the season. It brought me back to a great uncle's death just this past month. And others again, over the past year or so.

I wish I could be little again, young when death did not exist outside of fairy tales and could be healed with true love's kiss. I do not look forward to a time when bodies age and people who have known me longer than I've known them find their time to move on. Even when death does happen, it's distant to us and easily absorbed.

It is so sad when someone dies on Christmas. Everyone celebrates and your heart breaks into the glitter.

Death is natural. Some people claim to be okay with it. But I don't want to forget myself and those I love. I don't want to be forgotten by those who go before and after.* Whether it's an entrance to Heaven or a reincarnation that causes the loss of memory, I love what I have now. I love life and feel blessed to have such love around me. I suppose I won't care past the forgetting. I care now. A lot.

So, death as natural as it may be, sucks. To put it plainly. Even when it's time.

I love you to pieces, Analin. You and your brothers and our family. If there is a way to remember, I swear I will do it when it's my turn.

This is not the letter I wanted to write today. I'd rather tell you how proud I am of your brothers and their love for family in the spirit of giving. In the way they played together this morning rather than rush down to find what Santa left. Yet, here we are.

I will love you forever, my sweet.

Mommy.


*This thought follows something that has really bothered me today. The Pope recently announced all of God's creatures are welcome into Heaven and we will find our beloved pets there. In response, one poster quoted verses from the Bible stating that when we pass into Heaven, we forget ourselves and all whom we've known. I can't stand the thought, if you can't tell. It breaks my heart to think about and I pray this is one of those interpretations someone along the way got wrong. <3

Thanksgiving Wishes

Dear Analin,

I thought I had learned a long time ago to keep my wishes simple and attainable. Now, to me, attainable is still pretty high. For example, it was always okay to wish to marry a prince as they exist in the world, but wishing for a telepathic unicorn was probably beyond a wish's scope.

Yet, there I was last night, the clasp of your necklace hanging in front. As I moved it to the back, I wished for you.

11:11 on the clock. I wish for you.

Twinkle, twinkle little star.

I always alter my wish to the more sensible side. I wish you are happy where you are and your brothers are happy here. That they grow healthy and live long and that I get to see it.

It always starts with you.

Now here we are at Thanksgiving, the day to be thankful for those wishes that have come true, and for the possibility that more will. I am, and I do, but I miss you so much. Today a bit of that hurt is leaking out.

The funny part is, just yesterday I marveled at how well we were doing. We have our moments, but we are still living life and enjoying each stage. Joshua is doing amazing in school. Sebastian is basically potty training himself. You would be toddling around, but you aren't and that has to be okay. Sometimes it is. Sometimes, a bit of the hurt leaks out.

Just a little bit. The pain is bigger than a lifetime, after all. But we need that release, that gradual leak when it gets too big to handle. Like on birthdays and holidays and random, slap in the face, I-wish-you-were-here days.

I was slapped in the face today. I'm not sure why I'm surprised. Holidays are pinpointed moments, time where family comes together. Of course it's more obvious on these days who is missing. Yet, I was surprised. Because yesterday, I was a super woman and happy and excited for the holiday and thrilled our house is already decorated and sparkling with lights and glitter.

Today I'm just a girl with a broken heart.

One day. One day, my sweet, I'll sit down and write to you about excitement and what we would have done with your future in a bittersweet glow. Maybe. I hope so.

Today I am thankful I got to know you. I am thankful your big brothers talk about and love you. I am thankful your daddy knows when to sit beside me and when to let me sit by myself in the quiet. I am thankful for the joy of the holidays and the excitement I'm sure will return.

And I will wish. It doesn't matter that this wish is impossible. Sometimes, wishes should be out of reach so we learn to reach higher. I am thankful for that, as well.

I love you, beautiful girl.

Mommy.

Post-Loss Infertility

Dear Analin,

Your biggest brother wants another baby he can take care of. Sebastian is almost 3 and is getting self-sufficient and it's causing a bit of a power struggle between the two of them.

To be honest, Daddy and I have been ready to try for another baby for a few months. We are healthier than we've ever been in our lives - a gift from you. Since we lost you we've been eating better and exercising more, if not regularly.

After losing you I started reading a lot of books on female health in particular. I've learned a lot - enough that I'm upset and frustrated I didn't know this information before now. Because, as it turns out, losing you has resulted in a side effect that is relatively common to women after they lost a pregnancy.

I have post-loss infertility. There is a surprising lack of information on this type of infertility when you look at how often different support groups talk about it. Then again, it's probably not all that surprising for many reasons, such as it's women's health, it's a 'secret' affliction, there's no pill to fix it, so there's no reason to pay attention to it. In fact, the information I've been able to gather about it has been more from personal anecdotes than any medical sources.

What I found suggests post-loss infertility appears differently in different women for reasons no one really knows, though I'm sure emotional health has something to do with it. For me, my luteal phase is not long enough or strong enough. That is to say, I may release an egg, it may be fertilized, but I'm not making enough of the hormone to allow said egg to implant for long, if at all. So right now there can be no baby, no matter how hard we try or wish for one.

Before, with you and your brothers, getting pregnant was so easy. Yet another change we were not prepared for. One that fills each month with a roller coaster we never thought we would be on.

I'm working on fixing it through my diet and herbs and other supplements. We aren't to the point of seeking infertility help yet. One of the things I've learned in the last year is how to chart my cycles, and the charts tell me my luteal phase is improving. There's no way to tell how long that will take. There's no reason to go to the doctor if my body is fixing itself in it's own way.

There will be fear and worry, more than we probably expect. But boy, your daddy and I are ready to give you a little sibling, to teach them about you as they grow, to fill our family with more love than loss. To hopefully find a physical healing apart from the emotional one, another step on our grief journey.

No one will ever replace you. You are our first daughter, our third baby, the fantastic girl we barely got to meet. Maybe, one day, more letters will fill this blog - letters from big brothers and little siblings yet to come.

One can hope.

I love you so much, sweetheart.

Mommy.

The Wrong Conversation

Dear Analin,

I'm being told how to feel a lot lately. Or maybe, to be more accurate, how not to feel.

Don't be mad, it's not worth it. Whomever you're mad at doesn't understand anyway. Don't waste your energy. They'll never change. It won't change, so don't be so upset about it. Don't tell anyone, you don't want to hurt their feelings, too.

And I get mad all over again.

Because you know what? My feelings are valid. Emotions are personal and sharing them with someone shows how much I trust them. It's not to be told I shouldn't feel the way I feel.

We all feel. Until we're told not to. Repress that crap. Then get emotionally and mentally crippled because of it. And then, oh my goodness, why didn't you just tell me you felt that way?

I hate it. I can't even explain how much I hate it and I want to scream - literally - at the person telling me I cannot feel that way because it isn't good for me or for someone else. Well, guess what. That's how I feel. Deal with it. And maybe I just won't share with you anymore if you can't support me in it.

Feeling is feeling. Be empathetic when you can, sympathetic when you can't. But I wish people would just let people feel.

The conversation shouldn't be about not feeling. The conversation should be about not acting on those feelings. Honestly, that's the conversation parents need to have with their children. That's how we teach your brothers. Okay, be mad, be sad, but don't hit or throw a temper tantrum or scream at me. Feel your feelings but control your actions.

I feel like I could be a heck of a lot more eloquent about this, but the fact of the matter is, I'm mad. I'm in a lot of pain and I get mad because of it. I get sad because of it. I feel helpless and out of control. Telling me not to feel how I feel, not to get upset about something out of my control, these are things I know. I know how I feel isn't necessarily logical or productive. Guess what? Knowing that doesn't stop one ounce of the feeling.

And this is why that conversation on control is so important. These letters to you help me maintain my outer control. Talking to your daddy does the same. I wish I could say the same for other people, but that's just not the case. And, if I'm to be fair, they get to feel the way they feel, too. That just means we keep that part of ourselves away from each other, or ourselves completely, depending on how bad it is.

Mine isn't bad. It just breaks my heart a little bit. I need to share how I feel now to be able to feel better later. I just wish it was understood I mean to vent, not to model my life on those feelings.

So, yeah. The beginning of year 2 without you isn't all that great. </3 I miss you so much. Your loss has changed me a lot. I was never this vocal before with my emotions. I guess I never had to be.

I love you like crazy, beautiful girl.

Mommy.


P.S. I originally wrote this with some grown up words and then edited them out. If I missed one or two, I'm sorry. <3

You Would Have Been 1 Today

Dear Analin,

Happy Birthday.

Last year, on this day, you were already born. You were born in the early hours of the morning. By the time I'm writing this, around 9am, we may have already been checking out of the hospital. I don't quite remember. I could look up your birth time, but I don't really want to. I don't even know your brother's times. That's kind of more your daddy's thing. I just cared about you and your brothers.

Today we have decided to take a family day trip to celebrate you. We pulled Joshua from school, with their permission, for it. It's supposed to rain tonight, but I'm hoping we'll catch a break and be able to light your lantern.

Your loss last year inspired many things. One, this blog, but before this I started writing a book. I gave it up because I honestly found this to be more therapeutic and the task of making our experience with you into a book was too ... cold, I guess, since as I went along I realized statistics and science needed to be part of it. This blog feels much more personal. A reaction instead of an explanation.

This is from the section called "The Day Of." I added to it today, to finish the story a bit, but mostly, this is what I wrote shy of a year ago:

By now you know how this tale ends, but this is how the day started.

It was a normal Saturday. Waking up to get the boys ready to go to swim lessons. Because it was chilly and rainy I had to convince Joshua to wear clothes on the way, rather than his swim suit as he’d been doing all Summer. Saturdays are always busy, moving from the very start. This Saturday was unique only in that it was my cousin’s wedding, so instead of jeans and a t-shirt, I put on a dress and my new boots, knowing it was going to be warmer later.

Nothing out of the ordinary happened until I was able to sit down in the observation room at swim lessons. Analin normally woke up about then, shifting around just as I was settled. She was quiet instead. I took note, but wasn’t too worried after the Braxton Hicks I’d felt the night before. After the episode in September where we’d gone to the hospital for the practice contractions, she had been quiet for a while after as well, probably as exhausted from them as I was.

Swim class started for Joshua and his cousin at 10:45 and finished at 11:15. My sister’s kids also take swim lessons and we share travel duties, then drop off the kids’ at my Mom’s house. This day she happened to have lunch for us. While everyone was moving about, I decided to try and get some movement out of Analin.

I drank some milk and rested on my left side. No luck. I tried again after eating a bit, still, nothing. I didn’t feel strange, or have any other symptoms to be wary of. I was nervous, though. Kris asked me if I wanted to go to the hospital, but I said no.

I lied. Of course I wanted to. I also didn’t want to be an alarmist. Then there was that part of me, still confident nothing was wrong, whispering away that if something was wrong - so wrong that she wasn’t moving - going to the hospital now or later wouldn’t change a thing.

I couldn’t stop either inner voice, so I made a deal with Kris and my Mom. We would go to the wedding. The ceremony started at 2:00 with the reception following. If I didn’t feel anything by the end of the ceremony, we would go to the hospital then.

Everyone closest to me was at the wedding. My best friend made it with her husband, planning to leave after the ceremony to visit her baby girl in the NICU. My family, of course, was also there. We chatted before the ceremony, talking babies and weddings and other plans, waiting to see if the rain would allow for the outdoor ceremony the bride and groom had planned.

It was a beautiful ceremony. The bride and groom did get their outdoor event, standing together with their wedding party on a small dock out on the lake, surrounded by trees that had just started shifting their colors for Autumn. We watched them exchange their vows as I prodded at my stomach, worried at how soft it had become, wondering where my very active and vibrant little girl was hiding in there, terrified to think of something different.

The ceremony ended and I quietly announced we were going to the hospital. Kris spread the word to a few others. My mom had previously agreed to watch the boys. My cousin, whose girlfriend was also pregnant and high risk, offered us the use of his hospital-provided heartbeat monitor he had in his car. I told him the heartbeat wasn’t what I worried about, but the umbilical cord, particularly after the September hospital visit.

I can’t tell you how glad I am we didn’t try to find the heartbeat then and there. I can’t imagine what type of car ride it would have been on the hour ride to the hospital. Of course, we wouldn’t have gone to our hospital then, but the closest one, perhaps the one my best friend was off to to sit with her girl in the NICU. I don’t know, but for many, many reason I am glad we didn’t.

For one, we were able to laugh and enjoy some quiet time together on the way to the hospital. At  this point, we were both incredibly worried, but also finding some comfort in the knowledge that nothing I experienced felt overtly wrong, or that there were no other signs of trouble.

Except there were. Secretly, I kept pressing on my stomach. It got softer, not harder. This was not labor. I knew, but I didn’t want to know. I couldn’t get Kris because he was driving, and what if I was wrong? Why all the worry just to find out I was wrong?

We checked in through the ER and made our way up to Maternity. They were able to get us in pretty quickly. I was happy to see a familiar face in our nurse - she had helped deliver Sebastian just 20 months before. She recognized us by face, then remembered us through stories as she prepped the machines and got my belly ready for the heartbeat monitor.

It was silent.

Kris grabbed my hand and gave me a tight smile before squeezing his eyes shut. I looked up to the ceiling and listened, feeling her gentle prodding and the cold gel move over my belly without success.

The nurse informed us it was time to get the doctor, but not to worry just yet. Sometimes the baby was just too low in the pelvis for her to get any reading. I held my breath, hoping, hoping, knowing without wanting to know what that ultrasound would find.

The process was a bit of a farce. It was five minutes to four and the ultrasound tech was off at four. She had been able to slip off early, though they hoped to catch her in the parking lot. In the mean time, the nurses had found an old ultrasound machine - a grainy black and white, single unit machine that wasn’t nearly as reliable as the newer versions.

At first the doctor wasn’t going to use the machine for us, but wait for the tech instead. After thinking for a few minutes about his own wife, however, he decided to come in and give it a try.

There really isn’t much I know about ultrasounds. I do know there’s supposed to be movement on them that goes against the motions of the ultrasound wand itself. My eyes were glued to the screen, looking for anything that would move - an arm, a hand, the ‘holes’ representing the chambers of the heart.

After a few minutes, I looked away, knowing my answer, feeling as though I had known my answer all day. Kris was still holding my hand, I think. I couldn’t look at him, just look off.

Then the doctor said it. “This is the worst part of my job. I’m sorry to say this is not a good day.”

No clear cut words of ‘she’s gone,’ or ‘there’s no heartbeat.’ Without those words, I held my breath, praying he was going to tell me I needed an emergency C-section - praying that’s the worse it would get. I didn’t get those words, either. Just an explanation of how old the machine was, but these results were pretty clear. When the ultrasound tech came back, she would verify with the blood flow observing capabilities of the newer machine.

He was very kind, quiet and compassionate, but he never said the words. Hell, who could, I guess.

I was given the chance to go home, or start the induction right away. We chose to induce. Kris called his family, I called mine. Because all mine were still at a remote wedding, people in Denmark knew before people here. I did get ahold of my best friend’s husband, but they were in the NICU at another hospital with their premature baby girl.

Finally, my mom called me back on my uncle’s phone. She took charge in a lost kind of way, yelling at the kids to get ready, they’re leaving. I don’t know how it happened because we lost contact, but they ended up trading a car for the kids so my mom and step dad could come by themselves. My sister came later, after she got off work and we were able to call her.

I lay there all night with my family. I was allowed to eat, so I snacked whenever I could. We watched the Detroit Tigers lose their game. A woman from Tiny Purpose came and talked to me about my options preserving Analin’s memory. Then she was born.

I tried my best to separate myself from it. The drugs helped. People holding my hand helped. Analin slid right out without an issue, but I could still feel it. I still feel it, even a year later, on some nights. We got to meet her and hold her. I couldn’t hold her for long. My nose was still pregnancy sensitive, but to be honest, I was okay with that. Holding her felt wrong somehow. Something I needed to do, to feel her and know her, but it was wrong. It was not how this story should have gone.

Time passed. It didn’t pass. But somehow it was time to leave the hospital and go home to the boys. It was the hardest trip I’ve ever had to take, leaving that hospital without her in the backseat.

And that, my love, is how you were born. I love you so very much. Today isn't what it should be, but none of them have been. And just like those, today will be what it needs to be.

Forever in my heart, birthday girl.

Love, Mommy.

Not for the Faint of Heart

October needs to be done.

I'm tired of these firsts. Part of me thinks the seconds are going to be harder, despite what 'they' all say, because I was ready for the firsts. Well, not all of them.

I wasn't ready for my family to tell my niece she could only talk about Analin in certain situations, even though it wouldn't have been a problem had Analin lived. My niece hasn't talked about her much, since.

I wasn't ready for when someone offered me photos of the sky lanterns we let off at the Memorial, but they weren't sure I wanted them because it had been so long. I could only reply that two days prior would have been her eight month birthday as I stared at their few months old son.

I wasn't ready for the world to be so willing and able to keep my baby a secret, despite the fact that so many women have lost.

I wasn't ready for not knowing what to say to my best friend about her loss, even though our losses were just a few weeks apart.

I wasn't ready for the anger I felt at my best friends' daughter's birthday party when I was the only one who wrote the lost baby a card, who (besides the parents) seemed to remember there were supposed to be two.

All birthday parties were hard, regardless of the birthday person's age. My daughter would never have one of those.

I'm so angry the doctors have 'decided' what happened to my baby despite the fact there was no proof, but the 'decision' is to protect any future pregnancies I might have, so it seems so foolish to feel that way.

I can't stand when someone says they wish babies would just stay little. I have that, and wish with all my being she would have grown up instead.

I'm fed up with not writing on this blog just because I don't want to hurt someone's feelings because of how they inadvertently hurt me.

I have an entire future ahead of me, one child short.

My life is not hard. I am not debilitated by Analin's loss. I understand and accept there was nothing I could do about it, and there is nothing I can do about it but carry the pain with me day after day after day. People 'help' with words barbed in ways they simply can't understand.

This is not for the faint of heart. October just has to end. Then I can let you know about the rest.



Dear Analin,

I'm really tired, baby. Maybe I'll be better in a month or so. I love you so very, very much.


Your Mommy.
<3

Bubba Misses You, Too

Dear Analin,

My mom asked me the other day if it was too late to send a sympathy card a week after a colleague of hers had lost her father. I told her absolutely not. Sometimes those delayed sympathies can mean more than the ones that come right away. They're a reminder to us that we're not the only ones who remember, and it reminds us we're not alone even though our grief goes on beyond that week of 'bereavement leave.'

At the beginning of the month I received a sympathy package from my beautiful blogging buddies, +Tena Carr, +Leanne Sype and +Nicole Pyles. It was full of different keepsakes, but the one that has been used the most is a beautiful throw. Joshua got it out with a big smile and I told him about the box it came in. The blanket had come with it's own note - when you wrap this around your shoulders, we hope you feel yourself wrapped in a hug. Joshua immediately covered himself neck to toes and announced, 'I feel Analin hugging me, Mommy!'

Sympathies and condolences can be too heavy right after a loss. Honestly, at that time, silent presence and support may be more the answer. Later, when the pain still hurts but isn't quite as raw, when sympathies can be heard with less of a bitter ear, that may be when they are needed most, yet not given because they'd been spent too early.

In our case, it was another reminder for your now 5-year-old brother, and a way for us to help keep you alive in our family through memory. Another memory we could make with you, even though you're not here. And that is what's so special about other people remembering you. That is why I love talking about you. Because the more people know and remember you, the more memories that can come from it.

Here's to a million more memories and then some.

Love,

Mommy.

Re-Introductions

Dear Analin,

I've been reminded lately about a blogging challenge somewhere out there where we're meant to re-introduce ourselves. It's in part for new followers of the blog and in part to help reconnect us to those we've known for a while.

I'm beginning to feel like I need to re-introduce myself to the people in my every day life. I've written before how losing you has made me really look at myself. I've become more opinionated - not because I never had opinions, but because I was more content to keep them to myself before. I've become bolder - reaching out to people where I usually keep to myself.

For example, we were at Cedar Point this past weekend and I saw a man with a baby footprint tattoo and a name on his forearm. I asked him if he'd lost a baby, and he said no, it was his little girl's footprint. He has his other daughter's on the other arm. I told him it was beautiful and apologized. We'd lost a baby recently, so that's why I'd gone there. There was no conversation after that. I kept waiting for the embarrassed feeling I usually get for chatting with a stranger and feeling like I overstepped, but I didn't. I wasn't embarrassed for reaching out, or even for talking briefly about our loss. It was just something I needed to do in that moment, and it was fine.

I've been a bit more aggressive with people these days, too. I'm not willing to put up with as much as I used to, such as when I feel taken advantage of, or more specifically, when I feel others I care about are being taken advantage of.

Heck, forget re-introducing myself to others. Sometimes when I look in the mirror and think about these changes, I don't really recognize myself.

Self empowerment, maybe. Maybe a touch of desperation. In ways, I'm proud of myself and I like it. In others, some of these tendencies are so outside my comfort zone I feel the need to stop myself and ask what it is I'm really doing, and what am I doing it for?

So far, no harm has come from it. I hope these changes settle down and settle in without taking me too far away from myself. Or rather, help me become a stronger and more steady form of myself. That would be nice. Being able to say no and mean it, being able to stand up for myself even when doing so might 'rock the boat' unnecessarily, these are things I think I could do more with. Perhaps your loss has given me the key to being able to find it.

Life happens, of course, and changes do as well. I guess your loss was just so big and these changes are so sudden ... it's all a shock. Some days I think I'm still in shock. Others, I know I am. I am sure it will all settle in. When and how are the questions.

Oh, but I miss you. <3 All these silly and not-so silly thoughts and it comes down to missing you. I know that won't change even with everything else going crazy.

Forever, Love.

Mommy.