Nicholas

My heart breaks when I hear of another mother who has joined the baby loss community.  It is not a community any of us wanted or asked to be a part of.

My neighbor informed me of the stillbirth of her colleague's baby, Nicholas.  I wish I knew her story to tell, but I do not.  In honor of baby Nicholas, I dedicated a run yesterday to him:

Dear bereaved mom,

As one bereaved mother to another, let me say, my heart is holding you tight.  I’m sorry you know loss in this way and I am sending love and healing your way.  I have so many wishes for you – the biggest one being I wish more than anything you could have brought Nicholas home in your arms instead of in your heart.  I wish you strength and courage as you face the journey ahead.

I dedicated a run to Nicholas this past weekend on Sunday April 24, 2016.  I ran through the beautiful trails in Mercer Meadows, carrying Nicholas’ memory tightly in my heart.  It was the most beautiful, crisp spring day, and it was truly my honor to run for Nicholas.  I was so struck by these bright yellow flowers and loved how they were adding so much color and light to the field.

I wish there was more I could do or say.

If you ever want to talk or cry, please do not hesitate to reach out.

Holding you in my heart,

Jessica 


~~~
About run to heal:
I run to heal.  It’s where I learn to hold my grief in my heart as love.  It’s where I practice putting one foot in front of another.  It’s where I honor Quinn and other babies who are gone too soon from stillbirth, miscarriage, or neonatal death.  In preparation for my first Mother’s Day as a parent to both a living and dead child, I asked my friends and community to dedicate a workout to Quinn.  This was a powerful, soulful, and healing experience.  I felt lifted up and loved by the community.  I was humbled that so many people carried Quinn’s spirit with them.  I hope to accompany others on their journey after child loss and hold them and their son or daughter in my heart.  It is an opportunity for me to honor their child and learn their story.  Together, we will learn how to put one foot in front of the other and run to heal.  Dedicate a run here. 

The Deafening Silence

I was incredibly moved by a short film titled, “The Deafening Silence,” produced by the wonderful charity Abigail’s Footsteps.  The film is powerful, heart-wrenching, and an incredibly honest and accurate insight and voice to stillbirth.  Please view it here: 

There was so much that I identified with.  In particular, these jumped out:

Sean’s words, “It’s going to be OK,” echo the words my husband said, and was he ever wrong.  These words still rattle me and make me shutter.

Just as Louise experienced, hearing the other women in the hospital labor and their living babies’ cries through the walls was excruciating and haunting. 

Louise’s plea for a C-section: I made this same plea and desperation.  However, the doctors made me deliver vaginally, as did Louise.  Still to this day, delivering Quinn was the hardest thing I have ever done. 

Louise’s initial urge to not see her baby: I had this same feeling initially but she, as I did, came around and was delighted to see and care for her baby.  I had actually refused everything at first – to see her, hold her, pictures, footprints, etc.  My nurse arranged for the footprints and pictures anyway, telling me I could never get these back.  I didn’t have to look at them, but at least I would have them if I ever wanted them.  I thought it all would be too painful.  In reality, I would be living the biggest regret if I didn’t come around.  It was incredible to see and hold Quinn and these pictures and memories are the only thing I really have left of her. 

It feels comforting to have a resource that so accurately gives insight to stillbirth. 

I beg you to watch this film and share it with others to give a voice to stillbirth. 

Courage of joy after loss

Before my stillborn and miscarriage, I was a genuinely happy and spirited person.  Smiles easily came to my face and laughter rolled off my tongue.  In fact, I have a hard time even looking at pictures of myself before loss because, well…I look so happy.  After loss, that spark to my spirit dimmed and being happy wasn’t natural.  Now that I know death and loss, my once joyous spirit has been replaced with fear and anxiety of more loss.

Since the death of my stillborn daughter Quinn, I have been on a journey to heal.  Part of this journey has been to reintroduce the emotions of joy and happiness back into my life.  Why can’t I be that happy and spirited person that I once was?  I’ve welcomed gratitude and kindness (and how grateful I am for what I do have!), but why not happiness?  Joy seems even further out of reach. 

I had an epiphany when I read the words of one of my favorite people, Brené Brown, in her book Daring Greatly.  She explains that joy is our most vulnerable emotion.  People are scared to feel joy because they are scared it will be taken away from them – yanked from under them like a rug.  It is common for people to rehearse grief and tragedy in their minds instead of letting themselves experience joy.  She gives the example that things may be going well in someone’s life but instead of enjoying that feeling, he or she often thinks: Oh no, I bet something terrible is about to happen. 

I think bereaved parents can especially understand how joy is vulnerable.  In fact, I think this perfectly captures my struggle to let these emotions back into my life.   The vulnerability of joy is exactly what happened to us as bereaved parents.  We made, grew, nurtured, and did everything we could to protect our child.  However, miscarriage – stillbirth – SIDS – whatever the case may be, shredded our hopes and dreams for the future. 

How are we to experience happiness and joy again?  How can we not be scared that any future happiness and joy will be ripped away from us?  It already happened once.  Or twice.  Or more. 

Brené Brown hits the nail on the head when she connects joy to vulnerability.  As a bereaved parent, letting myself experience joy is one of the most courageous things I’ve done in my healing.  Since I feel so vulnerable when experiencing joy, I don’t think I’ll ever be that spirited person that I once was, but I think there is progress to be made. 

However, as bereaved parents we can take little moments to be brave and courageous, to try to experience joy.  It is scary.  It even feels unnatural.  But, what if we were to lose all joy from our lives forever?  As bereaved parents, we know that nothing can prepare ourselves for grief and tragedy.  Nothing.  So instead of always preparing for the worst, can we honor the lives of the ones we love and lost by being courageous and experiencing joy?  Not all at once of course.  But when you find the moment, let yourself smile, and reintroduce yourself to a moment of joy.  

Evangeline

After an unusually cold spring, I was pleasantly relieved when I opened the door, holding Evangeline tightly in my heart, and warm air brushed over my face.  I left the quiet, sleeping world behind me and was met with excitedly chattering birds that welcomed me into the enchanting forest.  I ran through Mother Nature’s playground of newly budded trees and the colors of early spring.  My feet met the damp path, fresh with morning dew and my heart sang in this warmer, light air. 

This morning’s run was dedicated to sweet baby Evangeline who arrived stillborn on January 11, 2016.  Evangeline’s mother, Caitlin, writes:

“I was startled how similar your story was to mine. I arrived at the hospital 10cm on January 11th, 2016 and felt that same chaos. Evangeline was born 8 lb 9 oz and the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. No reason found. I miss her desperately. She would be two months old today and I would love for you to think of her occasionally, as I will think of Quinn, and especially on February 16th, my wedding anniversary. Big hugs.”

Caitlin reminds us how interconnected we are.  Not that it lessens the pain any, but at least for me, it is a huge comfort to connect with someone who shares a similar story.  We also share dates on the calendar - one person’s anniversary of joy may be another’s anniversary of grief.  May this be a reminder to us all of the power of sharing our story and extending our hand.  In the words of Helen Keller:

When it seems that our sorrow is too great to be borne, let us think of the great family of the heavy-hearted into which our grief has given us entrance, and inevitably, we will feel about us their arms, their sympathy, their understanding.

-Helen Keller

This quote says it all.  Our healing is deeply personal but we simply can’t do it alone.  We shouldn’t have to do it alone.  By reaching out to each other we can create a community of love, sympathy, and understanding, which is a powerful healer.  How my heart is warmed to be connected to Caitlin and with so many others who have unfortunately been given entrance to the heavy-hearted family. 

I will think of baby Evangeline and her loving family often, especially when I pass the tree in her photo, where at the base I have a Quinn rock, a reminder that we are all in this together.     

About run to heal:
I run to heal.  It’s where I learn to hold my grief in my heart as love.  It’s where I practice putting one foot in front of another.  It’s where I honor Quinn and other babies who are gone too soon from stillbirth, miscarriage, or neonatal death.  In preparation for my first Mother’s Day as a parent to both a living and dead child, I asked my friends and community to dedicate a workout to Quinn.  This was a powerful, soulful, and healing experience.  I felt lifted up and loved by the community.  I was humbled that so many people carried Quinn’s spirit with them.  I hope to accompany others on their journey after child loss and hold them and their son or daughter in my heart.  It is an opportunity for me to honor their child and learn their story.  Together, we will learn how to put one foot in front of the other and run to heal.  Dedicate a run here. 

Natalie

"An angel in the Book of Life wrote down my Baby's birth, then whispered as she closed the book, 

'Too beautiful for Earth.'" - author unknown

It was my honor to dedicate Saturday’s run to baby Natalie and her family.  As I exited the protected and shaded trail hugged with trees that showed evidence of budding new growth, I was overcome by the vibrant sun and vast blue sky.  On this crisp, early-spring afternoon, the sun warmed the chill from the air and I slowed down for a moment to feel the sun kiss my skin and revel in this gift.  Inspired by the sky’s fresh brightness, the emergence of buds on trees, and the bountiful rays of sunlight, I then propelled forward, taking Natalie with me every step of the way. 

I am so grateful Natalie brought the gifts of new spring to me – a bright, abundant, full sun dancing overhead and new buds of green enriching the previous winter’s bleak canvas.

No mother should ever have to bury her child, but the day after Leah did this unthinkable act she wrote:

“Natalia Rose was born on 9/11/13 at almost 32 weeks, 3 lbs 10 oz, healthy and breathing on her own, with a head full of dark, wavy hair and long fingers. She was born at 11:28 am via c-section, and I saw her for the first time late that evening. She was doing great and I was so happy. At 3 am I was awoken and taken to the NICU. Natalia's heartrate had suddenly dropped. I watched for 30 minutes as they tried to no avail to save my baby, treating her for shock and infection. I held her briefly and she passed away in my arms.

We found out later that fluid had accumulated around her heart and caused it to stop. It's an unlikely risk of the catheter used to feed preemie babies; such an extremely rare occurrence (one-tenth of 1% risk) that the doctor did not even consider it or treat her for it.

Yesterday we buried her in the Little Angels section of the cemetery. Please remember our sweet baby girl, who we love dearly and wanted so badly, and all babies who are gone too soon.”

Sweet Natalie lived outside the womb for just one day, from 9/11/13 to 9/12/13.  Leah adds, “Her given name is Natalia, but we call her Natalie. She should have survived. There is one-tenth of one-percent risk of cardiac tamponade (fluid buildup around the heart) anytime a preemie is given a feeding catheter. It is treatable, but the doctors were unable to detect the problem in time.”

For beautiful baby Natalie who is gone from this world far too soon, my run full of light, love, and natural beauty is dedicated to her and her beloved family.

About run to heal:

I run to heal.  It’s where I learn to hold my grief in my heart as love.  It’s where I practice putting one foot in front of another.  It’s where I honor Quinn and other babies who are gone too soon from stillbirth, miscarriage, or neonatal death.  In preparation for my first Mother’s Day as a parent to both a living and dead child, I asked my friends and community to dedicate a workout to Quinn.  This was a powerful, soulful, and healing experience.  I felt lifted up and loved by the community.  I was humbled that so many people carried Quinn’s spirit with them.  I hope to accompany others on their journey after child loss and hold them and their son or daughter in my heart.  It is an opportunity for me to honor their child and learn their story.  Together, we will learn how to put one foot in front of the other and run to heal.  Dedicate a run here. 

Resilience.

Maybe you know it.  Hitting rock bottom.  Having your life crumble and slip away between your fingers.  Losing a piece of your future.  Having a part of you die inside.  For me, it was the stillbirth of my daughter.  I was thrown off a cliff, my fingers slipping down and further down as they tried to hold on.  I could have let go.  It would have been so easy to just let go and plummet into a dark crater where I could feed and fuel my depression and hurt.  But, for some reason my fingers held on and eventually began to lift me up a little higher and higher until I finally reached lightness. 

This is resilience.  A word that too many people intimately know – cancer patients, abuse victims, people who have experienced tragedy or near death experiences.  To be given life’s biggest blow and to be smashed, stomped on and run over again and again, and then to pick your broken self up and by some miracle of strength, GO ON.  To put one foot in front of the other.  To run.  To challenge yourself physically and fight for life when it would be so easy not to. 

I am honored to be included in Lexi Behrndt’s project called On Coming Alive and to have my story alongside so many people that I received so much courage, strength, and hope from. 

These are the faces of resiliency. 

Read it here: http://oncomingalive.com/posts/running-to-heal/. 

Breaking the Silence: My Miscarriage Story

Miscarriage is a lonely journey, but it doesn't have to be.  The best thing we can do to support each other is to break the silence about miscarriage and share stories.  Inspired by the Real Woman article about breaking the silence, I want to share my miscarriage story.  I would be honored to hear your miscarriage story and in turn, we can help break the silence. 

---

Following the stillbirth of my daughter Quinn, the doctor recommended waiting 16 months between deliveries.  My husband and I had the month marked in our calendar…October.  This would be when hope was restored, when we could give our dreams another shot, so we thought.  We got pregnant right away and we thought “this was it.”  “This HAS to happen.”  I had eight months to think about how I would treat a new pregnancy and from the moment I saw the two pink lines on my pregnancy test in November, I began living my post-stillbirth pregnancy mantra: live this moment. 

I was proud of myself for “living the moment” and had moments where I let myself be happy and hopeful.  I daydreamed of a new summer birthday (how novel in our family!) and reveled in the idea that Riley was finally going to be a big sister to a living child!  My OB confirmed the pregnancy and even let me see the heartbeat at such an early stage. 

However, a couple weeks later during my dating scan, the ultrasound tech told me there was a problem and the doctor confirmed - I would miscarry.  I was 9 weeks pregnant.  My world crumbled and crashed all over again.  The darkness that I worked so hard to escape after my stillbirth rushed over my body and mind, leaving me in a lifeless slump.  Again. 

I asked the doctor if we could wait a week and re-scan to be sure.  During that excruciating week I clung on to the hope that a mistake was made.  After all we’ve been through, this pregnancy had to succeed.  It was not possible for a family like us who wants another baby so much to endure another loss…was it?  However, I started to miscarry the eve before my confirmation scan and as the blood began to escape my body, so did my hopes and dreams.

I was worried I would start gushing blood with little time to take action.  However, this was hardly the case.  I had warning when it was coming and the bleeding was very slow at first.  Over a couple days it got heavier – similar to a period – then heavier still.  At this point, I was a bit taken aback by how much blood there was and it was emotionally pretty tough to deal with.  During the progression, I was still at work and it was almost impossible to survive the day.

I am grateful I was off on holiday break for the second half of the miscarriage.  The bleeding was quite heavy, including passing blood clots.  Through it all I was vigorously running and exercising as I was really worried about the miscarriage not completing fully on its own.  I have a long history with running and I thought exercise would help the progression.  Not only did it help physically but it was an emotional comfort that my dear friend running was there to see me through this dark journey. 

On the morning the embryo passed, I went on a hard, hard run.  For the rest of the day I didn’t have any contractions and the embryo passed that evening (without warning).  I am grateful I was in the loving care of my husband and in the comfort of my home when it occurred.  The OB advised I go to the hospital the next day, since it was a Saturday, and the ultrasound confirmed the miscarriage was complete.  I continued to bleed a week more, the whole process lasting about 3 weeks.  Through it all I was very nauseous. 

As my miscarriage happened days before Christmas, I had a particularly tough holiday.  Not only was it our first Christmas without Quinn, but I was fresh with grief. 

The miscarriage really broke me.  After my stillbirth and much healing, I got to a place where I thought it would be possible to have another living baby.  After my miscarriage, however, my hopes and dreams were again shattered and I dived back into despair.  Suddenly my world of “when’s” turned into a world of “if’s,” and this little word change makes all the difference.  My hope morphed from: “when I have another baby” to “if I ever have another baby,” and the accompanying sinking feeling.

I am not triumphed, however, and I can once again see the light and goodness in the world, and I appreciate this with full gratitude.  As such, I am dedicating my year to practicing gratitude, remembering that people are gifts, building my bond with my living child, and focusing on my family’s health and fitness.  However, the question still lingers…what is next for our family?  I have learned that true love exists as much in death as it does in life, but when is it time to embrace the completeness of my family even though it is forever incomplete? 

Quinn's Day

Although the world continues to buzz around us, today Josh and I light a candle and pause for Quinn’s day. We feel the love and listen to the silence that is our missing daughter. 

Since her death our family has been on the impossible journey of embracing incompleteness. However, seeing the sun shine a little longer each day and hearing Riley laugh a little louder reminds us there is still joy to be had. 

To my daughter who arrived and left ever so quietly, sleep peacefully. 

Our love is never ending.

Bereaved reflections on a new year

For some, the new year may be an exciting time, fresh with hope and possibility.  For me, and other grieving moms, it is overwhelming and quite frankly, depressing.  2015 brought me a lot of darkness and grief, which began with the stillbirth of my daughter Quinn in February and ended with a miscarriage at 9 weeks in December.  Knowing that 2016 will be another year living without Quinn and will not bring the birth of a living child has made me reflect deeply on what the new year means to me.   

Above all, I decided that this year will be a year dedicated to living in the present.  In addition to a new layer of grief, my miscarriage reignited a lot of the fears and anxieties that I was beginning to manage after the stillbirth of my daughter.  For me, living in the present is a survival skill and the only option.  My mantra to survive the day – and the new year - is: “Live the moment.”

My other outlooks for the year include:

Living a year of gratitude.  Despite the darkness and grief, I have so many things and people to be grateful for.  I want this to be a year of focusing on what I’m grateful and thankful for instead of focusing on what I don’t have, all while grieving in a healthy way.  Brené Brown gives me much inspiration in this department. 

Remembering that people are gifts.  We are not eternal and the people in our lives are gifts that we get to keep for a while.  It's time to cherish them.  After my losses in 2015, I have a new perspective on this too.  I am truly grateful for the wonderful people in my life and I want to live with a greater sense of this appreciation.  

Building my bond with my living child.  I am more aware now than ever that my living child is a true miracle in my life.  I want to spend the year nurturing this, building our relationship, and creating memories.  She is the light that brightens my heart and soul. 

Focusing on my health and fitness (and my family’s).  Getting strong inside and out: getting fresh air, making exercise fun for the family, and eating more whole foods and less meat. 

I am positive 2016 can be a meaningful and fulfilling year, even if it won’t include expanding my family.  It will be time to cherish this moment, be grateful for what I have, strengthen my body inside and out, and build the relationships that are meaningful to me.

A Christmas Run for the Bereaved

As I run past the cozy houses full of holiday cheer, with perfectly lit lawns and houses, peeking through the windows and seeing signs of joy and laughter, I think of all the bereaved parents who do not have the family they hoped for…

…Who are holding their children in their hearts this holiday season instead of their arms

…Who are living a life of longing, wonder, and what-ifs

…Who are faking a pretty smile at the party and are just trying to get through this moment

…Whose hearts are melting and sinking simultaneously when seeing a living child revel in the holiday magic

…Who will retreat back to their beds and cry a million tears

…Whose hearts are broken not only this holiday season but forever

…Who are wishing the holiday season wouldn’t come, because it’s too painful a reminder of who is missing from their life

As I run under the winter starry sky this Christmas night, I hold all of the bereaved parents tightly in my heart.  Wishing them peace, comfort, and strength to just survive this day.