8/20/2018

So much of this day is crystal clear, and so much is like a blur. We spent the night before in the NICU, letting Lizzie meet her baby brother for the first time and we were told to keep our phones close because things were precarious. I woke up to pump throughout the night, going on as usual, always glancing at my phone with trepidation. When it finally rang that morning, time slowed completely. I can remember the way my heart dropped into my stomach and how it felt when I saw the NICU number on my caller ID. It was months before I could hear my phone ring without feeling instant anxiety. The voice on the other end spoke calmly and clearly, telling me that I needed to come to the NICU, to get there as soon as I could, but to be safe, take a shower, make any phone calls I needed to. That's when the trap door opened and I fell through. It felt like walking through sand as I went up the stairs, I spent my nights in the recliner in the family room, so that when I woke up to pump every 2 or 3 hours during the night, I wouldn't wake up Liz or Taylor. I wanted to run up those stairs, I felt such an urgency, but my body wouldn't cooperate. I think I went in and woke Taylor up, my voice shaking, then told my mom that I got a call and we had to hurry. I climbed into the shower and just stood there. I wanted to yell and scream, but I couldn't hardly make a sound. I couldn't move my arms, I just stood there and let the water wash over me like the grief I was feeling. Taylor came in and washed my hair for me and let me cry, "I'm not ready to say goodbye, I'm not ready" was all I could say. What can you say when you know, in your heart, this is it. This is the day we fought so hard to prevent for weeks and weeks. The 15 minute drive to the hospital felt like 5 hours. I was so afraid we would get there and it would be too late, that he would have gone without us there, surrounded by just machines and beeping and people who weren't us. We finally made it and made our way down the longest hall in existence to the NICU. When we made it into his section, I could see more people than usual in his room, but the machines were still going, everything sounded "normal", but the mood was palpable. The doctor pulled us out and had us sit. This is where it gets fuzzy for me. I remember hearing words, things like "no urine output", "collapsed lungs", "restart his heart", "nothing we can do." I also remember hearing a baby cry in another section, that cry piercing every part of me as I realized I'd never hear my own baby cry. The doctor showed us an x-ray they had taken that morning of his lungs. If you've ever seen a lung x-ray, the chest area is kind of light. This chest x-ray was just all dark. To see in black and white, literally, the condition of your baby's failing body was devastating. We were once again, as we had many, many times since my water broke, given the choice of what to do with his life. Because both lungs were collapsed, his kidneys were not working properly as he had had no urine output in a long time, we were kind of at a cross roads: let him pass away peacefully in our arms, or wait and see, which meant possible cardiac arrest, more suffering for our little baby who had already suffered his entire Earthly existence. We knew we didn't want to let him go, but we had to. How could we let him suffer more when we were given the gift of letting him pass in our arms, surrounded by those who love him? That we could all have such a beautiful transition from this life to the next. It all felt like a dream. Sometimes it still does. I never in a thousand lifetimes would have expected to bury one baby, let alone two. I never would have thought I'd be presented over and over again the choice of whether my baby would live or die. And I never thought I'd be in the position to take my own child off all life support. When we finished talking with the doctor, we finally got to go in and spend some time with our boy. He looked very different, very swollen, purple, lots of veins and arteries so prominent under his skin. It was shocking to me, but it helped to confirm that we were doing the right thing. I sat there, trying to memorize every line, every curve of every inch of him. I took photos of his toes, of his hands. I wanted to engrave his image into my mind. We had family come and say hello and goodbye, many of them seeing him in person for the first time. He was given a blessing that he might pass peacefully. Then we had to tell Lizzie that her brother would not be coming home. I thought my heart was already broken, but it completely shattered when she started crying and asking why her brother couldn't just come home. How do you explain something to a 4 year old that you can't even understand yourself? It was absolutely one of the most painful conversations I hope to ever have. We spend the next few hours surrounded by family, bringing them back so they could say their goodbyes. I was so torn between feeling a need to take him off the vent, and wanting to hold on just a little bit longer. I was still waiting for that miracle that I had been praying so hard for. I don't think I really cried very much. I felt like I needed to keep it together for Liz, for Tay, for all our family that was there and already feeling so much grief. I didn't want my tears to add to their pain. We finally asked them to remove his vent and we were able to see his uncovered face for the first time. He was so beautiful. It was such a bittersweet thing to finally be able to kiss his little lips, those plump cheeks. I never wanted to let him go. Some of his care team stopped by to see us. One of his Nurse Practitioners, Kris, who was his first one actually, came in. She was the sweetest lady, who clearly loved her job and loved every baby she helped. She was crying and asked if she could hold Mason. I can't begin to describe how much it meant to me to have these care givers grieve with us. To openly show emotion. We also had one of our favorite Respiratory Therapists, Traci, come in. She always would say how Mason was her favorite troublemaker, he always kept her on her toes. We hugged and cried on each other's shoulder. I will forever be thankful for the great care and love that was given to our Mason during his time at IMC NICU. We had a wonderful volunteer photographer come from Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep, and as a result, have some of the most beautiful and treasured photographs. The day felt so busy, so exhausting, and no matter how much I wished time would just stop, it didn't. For the second time, I handed my baby to another, knowing I wouldn't see them again until I dressed them for burial. If I thought the walk into the NICU that day was long and hard, the walk out was on another level. Leaving that NICU felt so final. I wouldn't be coming back. My baby is dead. Other people get to bring their baby home, but I don't. Again. I don't know why I chose this as a part of my Earthly existence, but I believe that I was given the choice in Heaven. I know I will see Mason again, but I just wish it were different. I wish he were here. I wish I didn't have 2 headstones in a cemetery to visit instead of two pairs of hands to hold. But I know I would rather have a moment of love, than a lifetime without it. A year later, I can see how I have been blessed by Mason's short life. I've found a new dedication to taking care of my body, because his body failed. I have a deepened appreciation of Lizzie and the absolute miracle that she is. I am still working through the trauma of this whole experience too. I'm changed forever, how could anyone not be? PTSD has been my companion this past year, and I feel has made grieving harder. In addition to grieving Mason, I've had to grieve the loss of the family I had always imagined. I always wanted a lot of kids, now I'll be lucky to have one more, but it's something I'm not ready to dismiss yet. I will never birth a baby without a c-section again, I will never get to experience labor. Any baby I have in the future will be delivered at 36 weeks, or earlier, should my body try to go into labor. There will be a lot involved with having another baby. Something I'm not sure I'm physically and emotionally prepared for. But even if Mason was my last baby, I'm so honored to be his mother. I'm honored to be Lizzie's mom and Hunter's. These special spirits were sent to me. ME. What makes me worthy of them? What makes any of us worthy of the special task of raising children. It's truly a gift. If you are blessed with children, please hold them close. When you're at the store, with more children than you have hands for, and they're driving you crazy, pause a moment to think about what a blessing it is to have your hands full. When your baby is waking up every hour in the middle of the night, and you're exhausted, remember another mama is losing sleep over missing her baby. If Mason's life and loss can teach any of us anything, I hope it's that life is precious. Being a parent is a gift. Our families are what is most important and they are FOREVER.

One Month

It's been one month since we had to say goodbye to a piece of our heart. I don't know why certain milestones carry such weight, but for some reason, hitting that one month marker feels so momentous. Maybe it's just part of being human. Our entire lives revolve around time, every day. We use time as a ruler for emotion, we tell those who are hurting or grieving "Time heals" or "Give it time". The thing with time though its that there's never enough of it, especially when it comes to time spent with someone we love. I truly, with my entire heart, believed Mason would be okay. I saw our lives with him. I pictured him this Christmas, my family of four in front of a Christmas tree, smiling and laughing because our miracle baby was home for the holidays. I saw us next summer celebrating his first birthday, reflecting on the roller coaster ride that it was to get him here. I felt it in the depth of my soul that we would have more time. Then suddenly, we didn't. Time ran out on us. It began with waking up to an early morning phone call. "How soon do you and your husband think you can get here? Drive safely, but you need to hurry." Driving to the hospital, knowing that the clock is ticking. Feeling the need to walk faster, move quicker, yet wanting everything to just stop because once we get there, once we're in that NICU, it's real and reality is making it hard to breathe. Walking through the double doors and down the hall to the NICU still feels like a dream. I knew from the phone call from the doctor that this was the day we had prayed would never come. From the moment my water broke, I had been given the option to let my baby live or die. I always knew that was not my decision to make, nor was it one that I felt I could ever actually make. You read or hear stories about people having to take their loved one off of life support and you think "Oh my gosh, that would be so hard" and let me tell you, it is, but it also isn't. I never thought I would be able to say that. We walked into Mason's room and saw him for the first time that morning and he looked so different. He was a light shade of purple, his face was swollen, and you could see all his little veins through his skin. My baby was sick. Before this, when we had been told he was sick, it felt so distant because he looked so healthy. He was growing, he was gaining weight, he looked perfect. But today, the sickness had crept to the surface and we could see it. We were taken out of the room to talk to the doctors. I don't even remember everything they said to us. It was like an out of body experience. I could hear another baby crying and thinking "I am never going to hear my baby cry." We were presented with two options: we could hold and love on Mason and let him pass peacefully in our arms and remove him from the ventilator, or we could wait for him to essentially go into cardiac arrest. We saw his chest x-ray from that morning, with both lungs almost fully collapsed. He had no urine output since the night before. My baby was suffering. You think it'll be a hard choice when you're asked whether you want to end life support, but the thought of your baby suffering is enough to make that decision an easy one. From that moment on, time was all we could hold onto. Our families got to come in and say their Earthly goodbyes. Mason's big sister got to sing to him and hold him. And for the second time in my life, I held my baby as a doctor with a stethoscope told me "He's gone." You hear those words and you can feel your entire world shift to the before and the after. Like I mentioned before, we like to tell people that "time heals all wounds". I can tell you right now, there are some wounds that time does not, nor can it, heal. Some wounds simply become easier to manage with the passage of time. I think every day, I wish I had one more day, one more hour, just one more minute. One month has passed and we're just one month closer to being together again.

Mason's Story

To say the past few months have been eventful would be an understatement.  I have been blessed with 3 pregnancies, have never had to "try" to conceive. Fertility has not been a problem I've experienced, however, staying pregnant is another story. Most are aware of the first baby I carried, who came into this world at 19 weeks 3 days. Too premature to save, we held him and loved him and waited for his little heart to stop beating. There's a special kind of pain holding your living baby and knowing that there is absolutely nothing you can do to save them. You're waiting for your world as you know it to come to a crashing end. Fast forward to the birth of a special girl, who lights up everyone's world, and then a surprise positive pregnant test almost 4 years after that. I always wanted a lot of kids. Six was always the number I had in mind. So even though I knew we wanted to expand our family, we were not trying to have another baby when we found out we were expecting. After our first doctor's appointment, we weren't sure the pregnancy was viable. Where there should have been a flickering heart, there was an empty sack. We were so worried that we were going to have another loss, and even though it was the first trimester, the thought of losing another baby was just so hard. It was such a relief to go back to the doctor and find out that we had just conceived later than originally suspected. After losing Hunter, and then all the steps we took to get our Lizzie here safely, we knew the plan for this baby would include a cerclage placement, progesterone injections, many doctor's appointments and extra monitoring. At almost 15 weeks, I had a cervical cerclage placed and found out afterward that the placement was very difficult. I barely had enough cervix to even stitch. I tried to not let that worry me, but I honestly felt uneasy from there on out. A few weeks after placement, I started getting even more worried. I was experiencing some discomfort. Not really in pain, not really able to fully describe what was going on. But I felt like something was off. After talking to my doctor, I ended up in L&D just to make sure my stitch was holding and doing its job, and everything looked great, though we couldn't explain the discomfort I was feeling. I felt some relief after that visit, but decided I needed to take it easy. Two days later, I was laying in bed and felt a small pop. I lept out of bed and ran into the bathroom and knew my water had broken. That was such a surreal moment. I didn't feel panicked, I just existed. I could not wrap my head around the fact that this was happening. I mean, what are the odds that I'm pregnant with a baby boy, I'm 19+2, my first baby boy was born at 19+3...I just could not believe what was happening. I was familiar with the term PPROM (pre-term pre-labor rupture of membranes), but I had no idea what rupturing so early meant. After a ride to the hospital that seemed like a blur, it was quickly confirmed that indeed it was my water that had gone and soon we had a doctor talking to us about our options and possible outcomes. Nothing was positive. There was really no hope given. All I knew was that I wasn't going to induce labor and deliver yet another living baby that I would have to wait and watch die. I felt like it was not my decision to make, to end the pregnancy was to end this baby's life. After making the decision to continue with the pregnancy, every meeting with a doctor meant another discussion about how unlikely survival was for the baby and how I was even putting my own life in danger, "You can end this any time you want". It wasn't until I was a few days shy of 24 weeks that we heard anything positive at all, and that was just because we would be allowed to enter the hospital and be monitored full time. We toughed it out for 5 weeks at home on bed rest, shed many tears, prayed, and some how we made it with no infection, no labor, and still no fluid for baby to viability. The first few days at the hospital involved steroids to help baby's lung development, magnesium to help baby's brain, daily NST's, twice daily injections of blood thinners, blood draws, ultrasounds, and staying in bed. We made it to day 4 at the hospital when I woke up to some bleeding. Since I had PPROM'd 5 weeks earlier, I had a few instances of bleeding and they all ended up being nothing. I mentioned it to my nurse and off I went to my NST. After a while, it was evident that baby was not doing that well. When you have an NST, its important to see some variation in baby's heartbeat. A baseline heartbeat is established, so lets say 150 beats per minute. You want to see that heart rate go up about 10 BPM within a few minutes time. We weren't getting much acceleration in heart rate, only decelerations, which meant his heart rate kept going down. It wasn't super frequent, but enough that it warranted some attention from the doctor. It was decided we'd do an ultrasound to check on baby, but first his mama needed a bathroom break. It was all down hill from there. I had started bleeding much heavier. After that, I was sent down to L&D for monitoring. I was hooked up to some more magnesium, and I knew that was not a good sign, as I'd already had mag the week before and knew I wouldn't get it again until it was suspected that I would deliver. Baby's heart rate kept dropping and after a few hours I was feeling some sharp, stabbing pain. It didn't feel like a contraction, but it kept coming and going. I asked for a pelvic check because of my cerclage, to make sure the stitch was still holding. One of the residents did the exam and didn't say much, just said she was going to get another doctor's opinion. In comes another doctor and an ultrasound. He starts scanning my abdomen and I just knew that something was going on. Sure enough, he could see on the ultrasound that the umbilical cord had slipped below baby. He did another pelvic exam and confirmed our fears: my cervix was opening through the stitch, allowing the umbilical cord to prolapse. This was something I had read about with PPROM and knew was a risk, but honestly, I felt immune to it because I knew I had the stitch. I couldn't wrap my head around the fact that I had done everything to keep my baby safe inside, even with no water. We had gone without infection, we had a healthy beating heart, even after a partial placental abruption, baby was growing and moving and reacting to the voices of his dad and sister...how could this be happening? When the cord prolapses, that's it. You have to deliver. With a prolapsed cord, there's pressure being applied to the cord that can compress blood flow to the baby. We were basically then given the option to deliver via csection right then, and have a more controlled, safe environment for delivery, or we could try and put it off for maybe a day, take the very rare chance that the cord would retract, risk baby's health, and end up with an emergency csection, which is riskier for both mom and baby. We were also then told to decide whether we would want baby resuscitated, because based on him not having any fluid for 5 weeks, and his gestational age of 24+4, it was not likely that he would be doing well. Once again, we were asked to essentially decide if our baby would live or not. All I knew was that we had to try. We had to give this boy a chance. I was taken into the operating room, with those awful bright lights and surrounded by a team of doctors and nurses. The anesthesiologist couldn't place my spinal. I laid on that table, half naked, curled in the fetal position on my side and just sobbed. I have never felt more scared and alone. I didn't want to be there, this wasn't how or when I was supposed to have this baby. My doctor held my hand in that operating room. I could see in his eyes how much he hated that this was happening. Another injection to numb my back that didn't work, another unknown poke from the anesthesiologist and that awful click click sound and sensation of trying to place that spinal. I cried out in pain so many times, it was like being tortured. Taylor couldn't be in there with me now that I was going to be put under. I was so scared I was going to wake up from that surgery and have my husband tell me that another of our sweet babies had gone back to their heavenly home. The last thing I remember is tears streaming down my cheeks as I went under and just overwhelming fear. Our little guy was born at 11:33 pm, almost 12 hours exactly after that failed NST. Waking up I still felt so much fear. Then I saw Taylor. He was smiling and instantly, that fear and dread was gone. Our boy was not only alive, he was doing WELL. He was 2 lbs 3 oz, almost a full pound bigger than your average 24 weeker. He was feisty, and tried to fight off being intubated. There was an energy in that room that just spoke to the fact that things had turned out in a way these medical professionals had not expected, and they were savoring it as much as we were. I was told that the nurse that handed our tiny micro preemie to the NICU team even cried. It was overwhelming for all involved, and reminded me how amazing these doctors and nurses are. That's the kind of care that I and my sweet baby have received this entire time. I am SO glad that I didn't listen to the advice to end the pregnancy 5 weeks ago. I'm so glad that I gave my baby a chance. And now he's showing us all that all the medical knowledge, all the statistics, all the what ifs mean nothing because there is a bigger picture and power at work in our lives. Now, we are no where out of the woods. Baby is 2 days old and doing well, but we have months ahead of us. We have risks. There are going to be hard decisions and scary situations. There is no guarantee that we will have him tomorrow even. Life can change on a dime and I pray that we get to bring this baby home in a few months. But if I'm going to learn anything from the experiences I have been asked to have, it's that I'm not in control and I have to trust that what ever happens, it will all be okay. We're doing everything we can to take care of this precious gift, and the rest, we give to God. I cannot express how much we appreciate the love and support that we have been given. The prayers and positive energy sent our way is what has helped us get to this point and we are so thankful for how blessed we have been during one of the hardest times our little family has gone through. Now, onto the NICU part of our journey!

Lizzie's Birth Story

This is the amazing birth story written by my dear friend and doula, Natalie Terry. I am so thankful for her involvement in not only my pregnancy, and Lizzie's birth, but as my good friend! This birth story is one of the many wonderful benefits of having a doula, there's no way I could have remembered all these amazing details!

"Sweet little Lizzie, you changed not only your mom and dad's lives when you were born, you changed mine as well in so many different ways. I remember when I found out your mom was pregnant with you. She was still grieving the loss of your beautiful brother Hunter. She posted on Facebook that she was expecting you in August. I had just started my doula journey and wanted to help your mom have a healthy and happy birth outcome. Your mom hired me to be her doula and I was able to learn everything I could about your mom, dad, and big brother Hunter. I learned that your mom had an incompetent cervix, which means she was unable to be pregnant without having to have a little stitch inserted into her cervix to keep you safe inside her womb until you were to be born. I also spend a lot of time with your mom deciding what type of birth she wanted. Our goal was never to have an un-medicated birth, even though she did want to go as long as possible. She just wanted a healthy and happy baby when all was said and done. We continued to talk almost daily about you and how well you were growing inside your mom. We went through a lot of ups and downs worrying about the cyst you had inside your body. We didn't find out where it was located until after you were born and your mom and dad dealt with the new wonderfully. A few weeks after your mom had her stitch removed she continued to see her wonderful doctor, Dr. Porter. He cared about your mom and your dad more than any other doctor has cared for another couple. There was just one little problem Dr. Porter had to take care of and that was that your mom was starting to get pregnancy induced high blood pressure. It happens to a lot of women and your mom was just lucky enough to have it. This meant that we all got to meet you a couple of weeks sooner than we were planning. Your mom was told she could be induced on August 1st. She went into the hospital at 3:00 in the morning. She sent me a text letting me know they were there and asked me if I could come on down to the IMC hospital to be with them. I showed up to the hospital around 3:40 am and took a seat. It was early in the morning and the doctor hadn't performed the induction yet. We asked for a Foley bulb and the doctor agreed to give you mom that option. They finally started the labor process at 5:30 am. Your mom was awesome. She had the bulb in with a small drop of pitocin going which would make her body mimic labor. She was tolerating the contractions. Your dad was the best support I have ever seen in the delivery room. He was helping your mom with her breathing during each contraction and reminding her how beautiful and wonderful she was. Your mom showed so much strength, she made me look like a weakling. At 8:52 am, the doctor came in to check your mom, which meant that they were able to remove the Foley bulb and check your mom's dilation and station. Your mom was dilated to 6 cm and effaced 100%. We were all so excited that in only 3 hours your mom was so far along in her labor and still handling things so well. We continued to labor int he room by ourselves with your dad doing most of the coaching. I was mostly helping with knee presses and reminding your mom which areas she needed to relax. Your dad was the real star of the coach show though. At 11:00 am the nurse came back in to see how far your mom had progressed and she was dilated to 76 cm. Your mom was starting to feel the tiredness of working through contractions creep up on her and she asked for an epidural. Your mom got to 7 cm on pitocin without an epidural for 6 hours. I was astounded. You have one very tough mama. The anesthesiologist came in and gave your mom the epidural at 11:30 am and she was able to sleep. She took about a 45 minute nap and then woke up to talk with the numerous family members who arrived to await your arrival. The nurse came back in around 1:40 pm to see if there was any change and you were stationed so high up, your mom wasn't able to dilate much. Your head was not engaged on your mom's cervix yet and we really wanted you to come, but you knew you weren't ready and we are thankful that you weren't. From 2:45 pm to 3:30 pm, we were waiting for you to come down and engage because your mom was dilated to 9 cm. We were told that if you didn't come down by the next time the doctor came to check on your om, he would have to do a cesarean and get you out himself. This is something none of us wanted to do. Your mom and dad worked too hard to get you Earth side already they didn't want to have to have another surgical procedure to get you to take you home. We immediately moved the bed all the way upright and made your mom sit straight up and push you down as much as she could. We were determined to get you Earth side the way your mom wanted to. At this time in the night, I was worried that there was something holding you/her back. So I asked your om what she was most worried about. Your mom decided that she wanted to talk to me about your angel brother Hunter. Wee talked about him for about 30 minutes. Your mom told me about his birth, and the things that led up to to it. Your dad even chimed in and told me a beautiful story about a very good friend of his and your brother. It was beautiful; we all cried and let our emotions hang out on our sleeves for the whole hospital to see. The doctor came back in at 6:00 pm to deliver your mom' fate. Would it be a cesarean or would it be a normal birth for you? He checked her dilation and we were all so excited when the doctor said that your mom was ready to have a baby. I remember looking at at your mom and saying, "You're going to have your baby!" I was crying and couldn't wait to meet you. The doctor got everything set up and ready for your arrival. Your dad took one of your mom's legs and I took the other. She started to push and there was your beautiful little head. At that point, your mom wanted the mirror so she could see you be born. She continued to push very effectively and within 7 minutes, there you were. Doctor Porter placed you on your mom's stomach and we all just had to cry at your beauty. You were the most beautiful thing we had every seen. Your mom was just kissing and loving on you. Your dad was so happy and filled with joy that you were here. He couldn't take his eyes off you or your mother. He was so in love with his two girls. It was wonderful to witness. After you mom had cuddled you for a few minutes, the nurses took you to to their station to give you your shots and eye cream, as well as weigh and measure you. You weighed in at 7 lbs. 7 oz. and 21 inches long. Your Agar's were 8 and 9, which are very good numbers. The highest you can get is 10!! Then they brought you back to your mom and she was ready to nurse you. I taught her how to hold her breast and how to position you and bring you to the breast. You latched right on and suckled beautifully. We were able to introduce you to your grandparents, aunts, uncles, great aunts, and great grandparents. Your mom was so happy to finally have you here she didn't want to stop holding you and she definitely didn't want to let you out of her sight. We were finally moved upstairs to recovery and we were able to just love on you. Like I said before, you changed my life. I have never seen so many people who love a person more than your family loves you, Lizzie. You were the bright rainbow that came into your parents stormy lives, and brought the sunshine with you. I will never forget the way you looked and the way your daddy looked at you when you were born. I will never be able to forget the tears of happiness running down your mom's face when she finally got to hold you in her arms, and I will never forget how much I fell in love with you. The moment your mom asked if I wanted to hold you, I was so honored. Your light radiated into my heart and made me realize that birth work is where I was meant to be. Lizzie, you will always know how much your family loves you, and I hope you will always know how much your doula loves you!!!

"Birth matters and I believe the way a child is brought into the world has an important impact on the rest of life. Helping with that transition is an honor."- Anjil Aurora Hinman

I am grateful for every birth I witness, but yours is one of my favorites."



This was by far, one of the most beautiful, spiritual, transforming experiences of my life. I'm so thankful to my Heavenly Father for my sweet daughter, my husband, my doula, my doctor, the nurses, everyone who helped get my sweet girl here safely. I can't believe it's been a year already, but it's been the best year of my life.

Happy Birthday baby girl, I hope you always remember what a special, beautiful, wonderful person you are!!

First Birthday Letter

My darling girl,

You're laying here in my arms, with your little hand resting on my cheek, and I can hardly fathom that it's almost been a year since the first time you were placed in my arms. What a journey you and I have been through together. I remember the day I first learned you were growing in my belly, and I loved you instantly. I wanted you so much, from the very beginning. You entered my life at a time when I was unsure of the world, and where I belonged in it. Your big brother's life and death changed me, and I was still trying to find my way out of the darkness of my grief at his loss. And then there was you. You saved me, my darling. You brought me back to life. There were times I missed your brother so much, I felt sure I would never know true joy and happiness again. I was lost and you found me. The first time I heard your little heart beating, it felt as though my heart finally started beating again. Do you know just how wonderful you are? You have been the light in the darkness, truly my rainbow after the storm. I will always remember the first time I felt you fluttering around in my tummy. I was so worried about the special surgery I had to have to help my body keep you safe so you could grow. I was praying and talking to you, fighting back the fears and doubts. And then, out of nowhere, there you were, reassuring me with little flutters. What a joy it was to feel you grow and move and roll and kick. I wish you could have seen your father's face the first time he felt you moving. I think you brought back the light to his eyes in that very moment. My pregnancy with you was not easy, but oh my sweetheart, I'd do it all again in a heartbeat. The day you were born was, is, and will be one of the most cherished days of my existence. The moment you were born, it was like the world stopped spinning. There was peace and joy like I'd never known before, and when you were placed on my chest, I knew you'd have my heart for the rest of this life, and the next. You were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen, and I couldn't get enough of you. You were minutes old, but it felt as if we'd always been together. In those quiet, early morning hours, when you'd wake to nurse then fall asleep on my chest, the feeling of your heart beating next to mine helped heal the broken pieces of my heart. I loved those moments, when it was just me and you. It felt like we were the only two people in the world. Watching you grow this past year has been the greatest privilege. I am so humbled and honored to be your mama. You already have such a sweet and sassy personality, I can't wait to see who you become in life, yet I wish I could keep you this small forever. I hope you always know just how special and important you are. You've been a gift to me, your father, and anyone who has the pleasure of meeting you and those big blue eyes. Your big brother made me a mother, but you, my sweet girl, have made me a mom. Thank you for choosing me.

"I'll love you forever,
I'll like you for always.
As long as I'm living,
My baby you'll be. "

-Mommy

Real Talk: Food Addiction

Every day I see something, somewhere, commenting on some one's body. Typically, it revolves around the person's weight. You see a post about a celebrity on Facebook, a woman who would be categorized as overweight, and scroll through the comments to see a range of negativity and some support. Comments like "She needs to put down the pizza" or "Would it kill you to hit the gym every once in a while" seem to be the general theme of these internet suggestions. Here's the thing that I think we, as a society, have yet to grasp: food is as real an addiction as any drug. *GASP* "What? No way, the person just has no self control. They just need to try harder." In some cases, sure, maybe that's all it is. But as someone who has struggled for probably the majority of my life with using and abusing a substance that is so easily available, it's so much more than that. And I don't think I'm one of just a few people who deal with this. I think it's something that most people who have struggled with their weight can relate to. Some people turn to alcohol, some to sex, some to illegal substances. Then there are those of us who turn to ice cream (or whatever your "drug" of choice may be). I doubt its as easy to purchase any illegal drug as easily as one can walk into a supermarket and purchase whatever it is you need to make yourself feel better. We live in a world that still doesn't recognize mental illness as being as serious as cancer, and we live in a world where if someone is overweight, we automatically assume they're lazy, they have no self control, they don't care, etc; we recognize anorexia and bulimia as real disorders, yet someone who uses food to self-medicate is not taken seriously, or often times, not even regarded as having an eating disorder. Throughout my life I've relied on food to fill emotional voids, used food as a coping mechanism, both through over-eating and even periods of restricting what I ate to an extreme, simply because it was the only thing I had control over. After the death of my firstborn, I had many days where 5 o'clock would roll around, my husband would ask me if I had eaten anything, and I hadn't. Part of that was grief, but part of it was I felt so out of control of my life at that time, the only thing I felt I could control was what I put in my body. I also felt such a deep loathing for this body of mine that had, I felt, let me down to such an extreme. Why would I nourish something that I had no regard for? Flash forward two years later, and I'm realizing I still have some deep seeded feelings regarding this body of mine. What does this body deserve? What do I deserve? I'm still in the process of figuring that out, but I do know what my child deserves, what my husband deserves: they deserve a wife and a mother who cares enough about herself to make the changes necessary to be around for them for as long as possible. My child deserves to have a healthy upbringing. She deserves to have a mother who can teach her how to love and care for the body she has been given. And though I might not fully realize it yet, I deserve to be HAPPY and HEALTHY.

Motherhood

I can hardly believe we just passed the 2 year mark from our Hunter's birth and passing. Two long, yet short, difficult, yet blessed, years. As I was sitting here Pinterest-ing ideas for Lizzie's first birthday, I couldn't believe the wave of emotions that washed over me. I have never been an outwardly emotional human being, until I became a mother. Now, I will shed a tear over a touching commercial, or sob over the little baby bird who died after falling out of his nest at my work, and I wouldn't change that for the world. My experience with motherhood, though limited when counting months and days, makes me feel as though I've lived two lifetimes. Perhaps that is just the "norm". But I also feel that my experience as a mother is so vastly different from the "norm". I was a mother, for a time, with no living children. To be that mother is so lonely. You don't feel like you fit in any category, and we, as humans, love to put ourselves and others in categories. I wasn't like my other mom friends. I had no child to bring to a play date, no stories of sleepless nights, no real understanding of the ins and outs of what motherhood entailed. Yet I didn't fit in with those who had no children, who had never experienced the reality change that comes when you find out you're pregnant, who had never felt those beautiful little flutters that let you know it's all "real". Before you become a parent, you have no idea of the magnitude with which you are capable of loving another human being. You truly think you know, but it's so much more than you could ever imagine. Everything about motherhood is "more". Including the grief you feel when that child you've loved from the very second you learned they were there, is simply not there any longer. This past week has been full of memories and reflection. Celebrating the birth of a child who never got to come home is truly painful and peaceful and agonizing and...I could go on and on. It's filled to the brim with emotions. This year, I had my Lizzie here. The added dynamic of having another child who I can hold, kiss, love, on these heavy days, is so beautifully heartbreaking. I have been blessed to get to be a mother to her. She has helped heal some wounds that were so deep, so raw, I couldn't imagine them ever easing. Each milestone she has reached has been a bittersweet reminder of the child we never got to have these experiences with, and just how blessed I am now. Not a day passes when I don't look at her beautiful face, see those big, blue eyes and thank God for her in my life, while at the same time wondering if her brother would have had eyes those same blue. With each giggle she lets out, my heart swells with happiness and twangs with a bit of sadness at missing out on Hunter's laugh. That is my experience as a mother. It's so different than I had ever imagined it would be, but it's so much more than I ever could have imagined as well. I feel like I've been allowed to participate in a miracle, with both of my children. I have never felt more fulfilled in my life and I know that no one will ever love me the way my children do. I hope they always know that no one will ever love them the way that I do. I rejoice daily in my role as a mother, and every night, after I put Lizzie to sleep, I look over at her laying in her crib (usually with her little baby bum sticking up in the air), and I hope and pray that she felt loved enough that day. Motherhood is no easy task, regardless of how you arrived at the role. I hope and pray that I do the best that I can, each and every day. It's a good thing I have a little angel who is always looking out for me.