Still under it

I'm sure some of you are growing weary of me talking about Baby Zee. You might think I'm bitter or overreacting. You might think I should be over it already.

But I'm not.

I still cry. I still think about her. I still walk through the baby section at Target and feel a bit disoriented. I still obsess about having another baby, even though I have to wait 6-12 months to make sure I don't have placental cancer.

Like any life experience, I've suddenly met tons of people who have experienced infant loss, both recently and long ago. As we've talked, I've noticed a few common emotions and experiences that I'd thought I'd share to help people understand us better.

First, we want to celebrate our baby's life, no matter how short, and that doesn't mean hushed conversations when the moment is just right. It's not that we don't appreciate your sympathy and reverence, it's just that we're not always sad about our babies. Sometimes we feel proud or nostalgic. Often times I just want to vent about my recent pregnancy - "the nausea was the worst!" - without bringing everyone to an awkward silence. I feel like I have to hold myself back from making others feel uncomfortable.

Also, we want people to acknowledge our children and give us credit for their existence. (Labor is labor, people!) We don't want you to avoid the topic or dance around the details. Even if it drudges up some emotions, we're grateful for the chance to share. But please do not tell us that our babies are "mistakes" or "accidents of nature," or that their deaths are "really for the best." Let us make those judgment calls.

Now, I'm not speaking to any of my friends or family so stop wondering. And do not call me! (That means you, Mom.) I'm not depressed, though the experience does make me melancholy at times. I'm not taking this any harder than anyone else in my situation would. And I'm not refusing to move forward; I'm just insisting on taking my memories with me.

Because what I'm experiencing is normal, even though I can never really be a normal mom again. But no one really makes it through motherhood unscathed. I mean, your son might get into role-playing games, so we all have our challenges. I just don't want to be rushed through mine.

Zuzu's Petals

When I was in the hospital recovering from my C-section, I had two well-meaning hospital staffers ask me about my baby. One maintenance woman asked me if my baby was going to go home with me when I was released - assuming, I guess, that I had a preemie in the intensive care unit, hence my empty room. Sadly, I had to tell her my baby died, which upset her so much I felt terrible. So when my nurse started to give me advice on taking care of a newborn, I didn't have the heart to remind her that my baby hadn't made it. So I played along ... and it kinda hurt.

Clearly, there was no blatant signal for staffers that let them know I was mourning my baby. Although on the last day I was there, Mr. Dub did find a sign that said, "Bereavement," taped to my door. Needless to say, that's got to change. I wasn't too bothered by those comments because I had two full weeks to prepare for such incidents. But what about the mom who has a stillborn unexpectedly? Such comments could be devastating for her.

I know some hospitals use a tear drop to signal the situation, but even that is a little insulting, in my opinion. Why not something cheerful? So I've decided to make my own door markers.

Enter Zuzu's Petals. Named after Baby Zee's nickname, these paper "love blossoms" will hang on the doors of mourning mothers to encourage sensitivity among hospital staff. In addition, they are a happy memento to add to a baby's memory box, which is all these mothers take home from the hospital.

Only catch - I need some help making the flowers. I've already received a generous donation of paper from Waste Not Paper - Paper Source's wholesale division - but I still need a pattern for the actual flowers. I've determined the best way to make them will be to use a die cut machine. I'm currently favoring the Cricut machine and its Walk in my Garden cartridge. That way the flowers can be textured but won't be too heavy to hang on a door with tape.

Anyone have connections with Provo Craft, maker of the Cricut machine? Or any other scrapbooking or paper company that might like to contribute to my cause? Please let me know as I'm looking for donations wherever I can get them. (And I will publicly laud them if they do contribute, I might add.)

When I get up a running - I'm dreaming of a Web site and official charity tax status - I will share my plans and patterns with ch'alls so you can help me flower the hospital doors of mourning mothers across the country. Shoot, the whole world!

I know there are a lot of great causes out there, but this one means something to me.

Help!

Freaking out Friday

Well, my great plans to be Mrs. Perfect on Friday fell to the wayside as another medical crisis hit our family. I won't go into details, but please pray for PDaddy! He's not only a charismatic commenter, he's also the world's best dad. (No, this is not open for debate.)

So instead of baking complicated cookies and shopping for rare art, I spent most of Friday crying. Our recent experience with Baby Zee has made me very aware of the fragility of life. As a result, I have nightmares most nights that some member of my family has been kidnapped, killed or just plain disappeared. So it really freaks me out to have my dad face one of those possibilities. And while I'd like to say I was the positive one, I was totally leaning on others for support that day.

The good news is that the outlook for Mr. Ess is better than it could be. Also, confronting his mortality put Baby Zee's death in perspective. It sort of helped me sew the final stitches in that wound because I realized that life is going on around me, and I need to be fully engaged in it to avoid regrets. Of course, there will always be a scar - a constant reminder of Baby Zee and our love for her - but the wound isn't gaping open any more.

With both of these hard experiences, I've been sort of shocked to realize that the world is still going on despite our sadness. I kind of expected E! to stop stalking Britney for a day in honor of our hardships - but there she was in all her "is-it-a-bump?" glory.

But the positive side to that is that the world is still beautiful despite our sufferings. Having a baby die doesn't mean a blue sky stops being breathtaking, or that flowers stop growing. Even amidst all the horrible things in this world, like the recent glut of mass shootings and global strife, there are glorious things to be found.

So even though I'm still consumed with worry for my dad, I'm also optimistic. But I recognize that one day - a really, really distant day, I hope - I will have to say goodbye to him, just like I will to everyone I love. But I also know without a doubt that I'll say hello them again when it's my turn to bid this life adieu.

That brings me peace. And at a time like this, I need it.

Babies and boxes

This is Baby Zee's box. For now, it is her resting place until we can make it to Utah and bury her ashes with her Great-Great-Aunt Zee, who died as an infant, as well.

But more importantly, this box is full of the only mementos I have of Baby Zee's short life. Inside it I've placed blankets, hats and bracelets from the hospital. I've put ultrasound and post-delivery photos. I've included a birth announcement made by her Aunt Gee and a sweet poem written by her Aunt Bee.

Tonight, Mr. Dub and I are going to write letters to Baby Zee, and Miss Dub will scribble some sort of abstract tribute. Then, the box will be complete. And that's all we'll have to remember Baby Zee by for the next 50 years, unless I start wearing more sunscreen, in which case I might make it a little longer.

I never thought I'd be this sentimental. I didn't think I'd need formal reminders of our baby's existence. And I didn't think I'd be so adamant about including Baby Zee as an official member of our family - but I just can't count her out.

The other day I was at a new pediatrician and she asked me if I just had one child. I said, "Yes," at first, but found myself disturbed by my response and five minutes later blurted out, "I actually have two children." I quickly explained that I had one here and one up there (motioning heavenward) and felt much more peace. Of course, she was a doctor and wanted an in-depth retelling of my situation - I find I'm somewhat of a medical celebrity these days - and expressed sincere sympathy afterwards.

But I don't know what I'll say when the Target cashiers ask me a similar question. Will I be quick to include Baby Zee, or will I avoid any awkwardness by subtracting her short existence? It's tough to say. I don't think either one is wrong, but I do hope that if I include her no one will think that I'm crazy or sappy or "not over it."

Because the reality is that you never get over these sorts of things - you just get through them.

So for that reason I've given my baby girl a special box, just like her sister has a special bag filled with her newborn mementos.

They're both my girls, after all.

Understood?

This week has been MUCH better than last week. I've kept myself busy and tried to get back into my normal routine as much as possible. For me, it's been therapeutic, though I am sometimes afraid of appearing too normal for fear that others won't be sympathetic to me in the future when I feel mad/sad/confused again.

I have spent a lot of time contemplating my situation and others who have cause to grieve. I've realized I really didn't understand how mourning worked. Because, to be honest, I used to think when people said, "No one can understand," that really we could understand - that death was terrible and you didn't have to experience it personally to know that it was a dark, horrid abyss for those left behind.

But no one does understand except the person in the situation (and the Lord, of course). Only people whose unborn children or newborns have died can truly understand my grief, just like I can't relate to the severe pain of someone who has lost a spouse, even though I've now experienced my own loss. It's not that someone else doesn't understand that I'm hurting, it's just that they can't understand the strange myriad of emotions that one uniquely experiences in each separate situation.

For example, the two most emotional experiences I've had were somewhat unpredictable. The first came in the hospital when I got a call on my cell phone from my original OB's office reminding me that my big 20-week/ultrasound appointment was the next day. I got flustered and stuttered, "The baby died," before hanging up the phone and sobbing. I wanted so badly to go to that appointment; to be a woman with a normal pregnancy and a healthy baby. But it was too late to even dream.

The next time came when I went to pick up Baby Zee's ashes. I expected to be very emotional, but found myself very calm as I went to claim her remains. I was so touched to see they'd put them in a tiny silver urn with pink etchings. But when I got back to the car and had to find a place to put them for a moment, I got really upset. The best place to put them was in the car's cup holder and that just seemed wrong. I wanted to hold my baby, not some trinket that could fit in a compartment.

Yet, other times when I should be emotional - holding her after birth, looking at her pictures, putting away my maternity clothes, seeing other babies or pregnant women - I feel either happy or nothing at all. And I don't think someone who hasn't experienced a similar situation can totally understand my reactions. That I like to talk about it with people, but that I don't want to cry in front of them. That I want people to ask me about her and how I'm doing, but that I want the option of not answering back.

So far few people have said anything offensive, and no one has done it intentionally. My favorite thing is when someone just gives me a hug or says, "We've been thinking about you." I also like it when people offer to watch Miss Dub so I can have some alone time, or ask me a direct question about Baby Zee, like, "What did you name her?" or, "What did she look like?" instead of dancing around the topic like I had surgery for an unknown ailment.

But everyone is just trying their best, including me. And somehow we'll figure it out together. Because I really am doing better; it's just a long road that I still have to walk, and some days I just want to stand still.




* My fabulous SIL sent me a link to this LDS talk. A must read for anyone struggling with anything.

Cheaper than therapy

Grief is an interesting thing.

Whereas I felt very strong in the days after Baby Zee's birth, I find myself increasingly saddened by the situation as time goes on. Life has basically returned to normal, but at the same time I feel like a ghost of my former self. It seems like I'm slowly treading around a puddle of despair, careful not to fall in, but never steady enough to walk away.

As I've said, I'm at peace with Zee's short life, and don't question the eternal purpose of it all, but that doesn't stop me from wishing that things had gone differently. Most of all, I wish I could have had a few more weeks to carry her, a few more hours to hold her, a few more moments before I found out she wasn't going to survive.

But a few more of anything would never be enough, of course.

Why I'm sharing this all with you - many of whom are strangers - is a mystery to me since I seem to be incapable of sharing my true emotions with anyone face to face except Mr. Dub. Everyone else gets the positive version, the happy voice, the smiling face. And while my expressions are sincere, they aren't totally indicative of how I'm feeling. And, yet, I think people will expect me to be all better shortly because I've led them to believe I'm healed.

But writing only the uplifting stuff isn't going to help anyone who is experiencing anything similar.

So on Mondays - as long as I feel like it - I'm going to tell you like it is.

And this is what it's like to have your baby die.

Zee's story

As you've all figured out, our time with Baby Zee came to an early conclusion last week. In the end my health necessitated her delivery, even though she was still alive and doing well. I, however, began to develop preeclampsia, requiring induction considering the danger it was to my health and the inevitable fatality of her condition.

Even though the doctors encouraged me to have a medical procedure rather than a delivery, Mr. Dub and I felt strongly that Baby Zee deserved a traditional chance at life, even though she was so tiny. I went in early Monday morning to be induced, but the medicine used to soften my cervix caused my placenta to disintegrate. By noon, I had begun to hemorrhage severely and had to receive an emergency C-section and blood transfusion.

Although a C-section is never ideal - I seriously don't understand women who request them, but that may be tomorrow's HTT - it ended up saving mine and Baby Zee's lives. While a normal delivery might have been too much for her, she was able to take a few breaths and heartbeats before passing away less than a minute later.

Mr. Dub and I, unfortunately, missed those moments since I was in the OR and received general anesthesia. But we were thrilled to find out she had made it through, which is important to us as a family and to our genealogy records.

We did have the chance to hold her. She was very tiny. At only 6 ounces, she was smaller than a glass of water and very delicate, but she already had the beginnings of a perfect body, complete with little fingers and toes. She looked strange, but we didn't mind. We were just happy to put an image with the little person who had been growing in my belly all those weeks.

I think we're doing pretty good. Physically, I'm feeling great and finding that a C-section is less painful than being full of cysts. (They're already shrinking, thankyouverymuch.) Emotionally, I felt very strong the first day but have had bouts of melancholy since, which I think is normal.

As I've said to many people, I really don't feel like we "lost" a baby. Baby Zee developed triploidy in the moment of her conception. It is part of her unique identity. She was never meant for a long life. She was always meant for heaven. So I don't feel like we were denied a baby who was supposed to be my newborn or my 5-year-old. I just feel like we were blessed to get a special baby who was meant to be ours for a few months.

Still, so much of me wants to go back in time a few weeks to when I actually believed she was going to be born this summer as a healthy little babe. It's confusing to be done with a pregnancy long before I expected to be. It's really confusing to be recovering from a C-section with no new baby to show for it. And don't get me started about how awkward it's been to explain it to well-meaning strangers or hospital staff.

But there have been miracles in all this. For one, it's a miracle to realize how strong you are when you are faced with a challenge that you think you can't handle. It's a miracle that we've had so much peace and guidance when making important decisions about her health and care. And it's a miracle that she and I survived the birth.

Still, it hurts. It's really hard for me to think that she's been out of me and gone for a week now; that all I have of her for the rest of my mortal life is memories, a few photos, some footprints and her ashes.

But thankfully I know she is ours for eternity.

And that's the greatest miracle of all.

Baby Zee
February 4, 2008
12:49 p.m.
6 ounces