ONE

Yesterday was Isla's first birthday.

The morning paper read...

Johnston, Isla Michaela - In loving memory of our beautiful baby girl, born into Heaven on June 30th, 2009, born onto earth July 1st, 2009.

A year has passed without you,
And we have found hope anew,
But no time will heal our hearts,
From the pain of losing you.

You, our precious child,
Our beautiful baby “Bean”,
With Mommy’s nose and Daddy’s toes,
A beauty never to be seen.

Our love for you is endless,
We miss you more each day,
While others have forgotten,
In our hearts forever you stay.

Loving you and missing you always, Mommy and Daddy xoxo

And we decorated the cemetery with balloons. One for each precious little life ended too soon...




and with donations made in their honour, we will purchase an oxygen monitor for the NICU, which we hope will help save other little ones and spare their parents this unbearable pain.

There were special balloons for the birthday girl of course, and more money donated to research into fetal and maternal health in her name...

Then we rushed back to the lake and joined the party on the beach*...

The sky lit up with fireworks...

and we wrote her name in lights...

A birthday just isn't a birthday without cake, so we did that too and sang a little "Happy Birthday To You"...

Happy First Birthday Bean. We love you and miss you. xoxoxo

*July 1st is Canada Day, our nations birthday and a national holiday. To us it is and always will be "Isla Day" so we like to imagine that people gather to watch fireworks in honour of her.

Survival

I returned to work in October and juggling my career, household responsibilities, and time for my wonderful husband and pups, has meant less time for this space. It's a reality that can't be ignored, but there are numerous half-written blog posts sitting unpublished in my blogger account signalling to me that I have wanted to be here, needed to be here and I've been silenced.

With fervency I was accused of being "selfish" and having desire to "rake everyone over the coals". Selflessness is entirely subjective and can only ever be measured by others, so I suppose no matter how benevolent I believe my own heart to be, if someone else thinks I'm selfish, well then to them I must be. I could write an entire blog post or perhaps even a novel about how my intentions have never been to rake anybody over anything, but that too is somewhat irrelevant because if my words or actions can be so misconstrued as to lead someone to conclude that "all [I] want to do" is rake people, important people in my life, "over the coals" than its apparent, intentions aside, I have hurt people.

I've always wanted this space to honestly reflect my life in the aftermath of losing my daughter, and to do otherwise would only hurt myself and defeat the purpose in writing all together; but with all that has happened over the past four months or so, I haven't known how to write about my thoughts and emotions without potentially hurting anyone else.

Someone also Twittered about me recently, trivializing my hurt and causing so much more, that I wanted to be certain that by expressing my own thoughts and feelings online I was not doing the same.

This is also after all the "internets" and I can reasonably foresee that airing my metaphorical dirty skivvies out on the line for all to see could also come back to embarrass me in the long term, particularly when you have nosey neighbours if you know what I mean.

I gave much thought to going private or starting a new anonymous blog, but in part, I created this space to share my journey with others walking behind me on this path of life after the death of a baby, and to promote awareness about stillbirth and its disastrous consequences amongst people I know in the real world, so neither option worked for me.

So, I just stopped writing.

I'm hoping now that time has lapsed I can write about what life has been like the past few months for me, without a need to go into detail about the events that have actually transpired other to say that Tim and I have been hurt; very hurt by those who by biological relation and marriage we (perhaps naively) believed would be patient and kind; who would continue to abide even when unwilling or incapable of offering a shoulder or an ear; and who at the very least, would demonstrate a heightened sensitivity towards our feelings at this difficult time in our lives (even when simultaneously experiencing a joyous and exciting time in their own).

The hurt seemed to be continuous - again and again and again - and each attempt to address it directly, and even indirectly, only lead to conflict and in turn more hurt. Eventually Tim and I felt we had no option but to sever ties to save ourselves, at least for the time being. I don't have to speculate that our actions have been perceived as being "selfish", we've been told as much.

Making the decision to walk away from family, even temporarily, was not easy, particularly for Tim. But when I say we made the decision to "save ourselves", I'm not exaggerating.

I will never forget the moment the doctor said, "I'm sorry sweetheart, but your baby just passed away". I cannot allow my memory to linger their for long without instantly being moved to tears, and while that will always be a defining moment in my life, it certainly was not the most difficult to survive. Neither was birthing her dead body, or kissing her goodbye. Don't get me wrong, those moments haunt me and always will. Knowing what I know now and without the benefit of whatever it is your mind does to numb you at times like that, if I had to go back and live those moments again, maybe I would not make it through. But when I reflect on the past 7 months and 28 days, those moments were easy in comparison to what came after.

I do not believe words can do justice to describe the intensity of emotions that consume you and threaten your own life after your baby dies. There is the profound sadness and longing, that I think those who have not lost a child can almost imagine. The duration and intensity of those feelings of course greatly exceed the imaginations of those untouched by this kind of loss, but for me, what has been most surprising and difficult to deal with has been my anger.

For a long time I woke up each morning filled with anger that I could physically feel. I pictured it like a black serpent in my stomach and my throat. I was angry at the anger and I willed it to stop, but it was much stronger than my own will. Day, after day, after day it was with me.

I would wake at 5:30 a.m. and the endless cycle of thoughts would start like a movie in my mind, initially bringing brief moments of intense hurt, which were always quickly replaced with anger. I spent each morning in the shower banging my forehead against the wall, sobbing, pleading with myself, with God, and even with Isla for it to stop.

I became an expert at compartmentalizing my emotions. The anger would consume me from the time I awoke until I got in the car to leave for work. Slowly as I drove towards the office the anger would soften to hurt, and the hurt would eventually be replaced with thoughts of client meetings and filing deadlines. I would keep myself distracted throughout the day, and as I left the office and headed towards home, my thoughts about work would be replaced with feelings of hurt, and then like faithful a friend, my anger would return. I lived like this for months.

My anger was not generalized. I wasn't angry at the world. I was angry at those who were continuously hurting us, and with each new hurt, my anger intensified.

There were moments when I stared at the razor blade in the shower, contemplating how much more I could handle. Finally,one day in early December, I reached a near breaking point.

Certain things had transpired that day over Facebook and email with family members that hurt me badly. I somehow managed to keep myself together long enough to complete a full day at the office but as I drove home, I slowly began to unravel. On the highway, I drove in the fast lane and I kept glancing at the concrete center median thinking if I just swerved a little to the left I could end it all. I called my best friend in hysterics, screaming and sobbing and eventually admitting that I called her because I was afraid I may do something to hurt myself. When I arrived home, I had to sit in the car on the phone to wait for Tim to arrive because I didn't trust myself to be in the house alone.

Tim eventually came home. The moments that followed are a bit fuzzy, but I remember arguing with him briefly and then I just came completely undone. I'm not sure what I was screaming at first, but eventually it was "make it stop, make it stop, make it stop" at top of my lungs and I was smashing my fists against my head. I kept hitting myself - harder, harder, harder. The physical pain felt good and temporarily distracted my mind from the emotional pain. I think Tim tried to grab my hands to stop me. Somehow I collapsed onto the floor. Things seemed to go blank for a while and I felt nothing. Tim was telling me to "get up". I could hear him, but he sounded far away. For a brief moment I thought to myself, this is it - I'm either dying or being carted out of the house in a straight jacket off to the funny farm. And then I just stopped thinking all together. I think Tim carried me to the couch, although I cant really remember. I'm not sure how long I sat there, not thinking, not feeling, not really there at all.

Then the silence in my mind was interrupted. Tim was talking to someone in his family over the phone. Another argument. Yelling. Much like I did as a child when my parents argued, I plugged my ears and pleaded to whoever was listening to the thoughts in my head to "make it stop". Tim hung up the phone. He was upset. He was crying. My wifely protective instincts kicked in. I was present again. I wanted to spare him any further hurt too. I'm not sure what really transpired next. We were both crying for a long while. I can't recall whether I said it out loud or if Tim just knew it too, but in that moment I knew that if the hurt and conflict continued any longer, neither myself, nor Tim, nor our marriage would survive. It felt as though my toes were hanging over the edge and with one more push, that would be it. Sanity lost. So Tim did what he had to do for me, for him, for us and asked for us to be left alone.

Selfish? Perhaps. I can't deny that right now it is all about me. All about Tim. The anger has subsided some and of course now guilt sometimes creeps into the corners of my mind. I'll address and work through that in my own time. Right now, I'm simply surviving.

A packet of memories...

I've always shared a special bond with my maternal grandmother, affectionately known to me as "Nanny". I'm one of eight grandchildren and numerous step-grandchildren, and it would be incorrect to say I was her "favourite". Nanny never played favourites. She loved us all, with all her heart. But I've always been "Nanny's girl".

In many ways I was closer with my grandmother than my own mother growing up, and I think its safe to say Nanny also felt the same way. Its not that she loved me more. That simply isn't possible. But Nanny and I just always understood one another in a way that I think very few people understood us.

As a child, my mother was single, and I spent almost every weekend, school holiday, and sick day at Nanny's apartment. We'd play games she made out of cardboard and old buttons, draw funny pictures with the pens she kept beside the telephone, and watch "The Young and Restless" together. At night time we'd crawl in bed together and Nanny would make up bedtime stories and after I was all giggles with her tales, she would soothe me to sleep by tracing patterns across my face with her index finger.

As an adolescent, I went to Nanny's most days after school and continued to spend many weekends with her. We would sit and talk for hours. I would share with sharing her my innermost thoughts and Nanny would validate my feelings with tales of her own youth and struggles. And of course, we still watched "The Young and the Restless" together.

As a teenager, I would drive to my Nanny's apartment after spending an evening with my girlfriends, to find her sitting in her chair, in her dressing gown, with a bed made up for me on the couch. I would scold her for waiting up for me and she would offer me tea and insist that I "eat something" before I went to sleep.

Nanny would often tell me that there would come a day that I would get too busy and not want to spend so much time with a little old lady like her. As a child I would insist that she was wrong. It was inconceivable to me that the day would come when our sleepovers would end. But of course she was right, well...partly right. I always wanted to spend time with that little old lady, but the day did eventually come when I was just too busy to spend my weekends with her as I would have liked to. I went off to university out of town, and then law school, and eventually moved to the big city and got married.

And Nanny moved on too. Physically, from her apartment to one in a seniors building and eventually to a room in a nursing home. And, as she aged and grew sicker, she could no longer entertain overnight company and eventually all day company became too much too, and our visits grew shorter and shorter.

As her own consolation for the fact that she could no longer hold me on her lap and tell me tales, as I reached my 20's, Nanny started to often say that she hoped and prayed that she would live long enough to see my first born and be healthy enough to enjoy her. "Oooh" she'd say, "I hope I get to hold another little pudge like you."

I can vividly recall speaking with my Nanny last February and telling her I was pregnant with Isla. I could hear the joy in her voice through the telephone. Nanny's health was failing at the time, and I can remember saying to her, "you just need to hang on until October Nanny, just until October". "I can do that" she said, "I have to do that, I can't miss holding that little pudge". In the spring, I visited with her and proudly showed her my belly and told her we were having a girl. It brought me such joy to know that while I had grown up and could no longer spend so much time with my Nanny, and certainly could no longer crawl up onto her lap, I could make her dreams of holding my daughter come true.

I know my Nanny's heart broke for me the day Isla died, and my heart broke for my Nanny too.

In the fall, as my Nanny's health worsened, I sat with her and showed her pictures of my dead baby. "Aww, look at her" she said, "look at her". I announced to my Nanny that Tim and I were going to try again. Naively expecting that we would fall pregnant in the first month or two, I said to her, "You just need you to hang on until September Nanny, just until this time next year" Rather than saying, "I can do that", Nanny said, "well...I'll try." Nanny was in pain then. More pain then any of us realized. She was suffering from colon cancer and she had fallen in the shower and broken a vertebrae in her back. The thought of Nanny holding my child had become my consolation.

This past Sunday Tim and I went to visit Nanny for the last time. Like always, she was dressed with her make-up and jewelry on, but her voice was laboured and I knew she was not well. As we said goodbye, she apologized to me for not being able to be there to hold our baby. "We're trying Nanny, we're working on it for you" I said. Nanny said, "I'm trying too sweetheart." But I could see her physical pain in her face, so as I kissed her goodbye I told her, "I'll be okay if you need to go now Nanny, just as long as you promise to take care of Isla for me". She nodded and kissed my cheek.

Nanny died on Tuesday morning. The end came much faster than any of us expected it to. We knew it was near, but not so imminent. She is no longer in pain, and for that I am grateful.

This loss is difficult to bear. The future without Nanny is difficult to imagine. I was not ready to say goodbye. I don't think I could ever be. My feelings of longing for Nanny are almost as profound as those for Isla.

And yet, this death is also very different for me. Perhaps it is because it has come in the natural order; Nanny's life was a life well lived. Or, perhaps it is because I know there has been an end to her suffering; platitudes like "at least she is no longer in pain" have actually provided me with some comfort. I think more than anything though, it is my memories of Nanny that bring me solace.

Yes, I know who I am missing now, and trust me, I couldn't be missing her more. But I must say, knowing who I am missing, makes missing her much easier. I know nothing of my daughter other than the feel of her kicks and the sound of her heartbeat, and that makes missing her so much more difficult. No, the death of a baby before birth is no easier than the death of living relative. No, no. Not at all.

As I went through Nanny's photos this week, I found a letter written just to me. It was written over 12 years ago as I was headed off to university. Inside Nanny wrote that she didn't know what to give to me, so she wanted to give me a "packet of memories" and she recorded some of her favourites of our time together. What a valuable gift to be given.

I love you Nanny. Hold tight to that little pudge.

Deja Vu

Sigh. I'm back. I'll explain later where I've been.

I'm not pregnant again this month. Even though the nookie was perfectly timed, I didn't really expect I would be because, well, the universe just hasn't been that kind to Tim and I lately. So, its not so much the arrival of Aunt Flo that is getting to me, its her timing.

January 5th, 2009 I was spotting. January 6th, 2009 full blown menstration. February 2, 2009, two pink lines.

January 5th, 2010 I was spotting. January 6, 2010 full blown menstration. February 2, 2010, ???

Aunt Flo is four days early too. What's up with that? A sick joke being played on me by the universe or a sign? Probably just simple human biology. But its strange, no?

This can't be true, can it?

We received a copy of the final autopsy report by fax today. The conclusion:

Although no definite cause of death was identified, the overall findings are suspicious for an umbilical cord accident.

I seem to be oscillating between the following reactions:

a) A CORD ACCIDENT!!! A FUCKING CORD ACCIDENT!!! YOU FUCKING NEGLIGENT DOCTORS!!! I went to the hospital reporting decreased fetal movement and you left me sitting in waiting rooms for EIGHT hours, without so much as monitoring my baby, and when you did finally pay attention to me you wasted precious time hypothesizing over all sorts of random causes for her lack of movement, completely ignoring the most obvious, and all the while my baby was suffocating to death!!! I TRUSTED YOU!!! I TRUSTED YOU WITH THAT WHICH WAS MOST PRECIOUS TO ME. I did everything right and YOU, YOU WHO WERE SUPPOSED TO SAVE HER LIFE, YOU LET HER DIE.

and

b) a cord accident. Phew! Totally random. Not likely to recur. I feel lighter. My body didn't fail her. I didn't fail her. I'm ready to try again.

***

I have yet to let my mind wonder back to the full events of that fateful day, but one moment is now replaying over and over in my mind. I am sitting with Tim in the waiting room of the High Risk Specialist's office in the hospital. It's warm and dimly lit. The grime on the windows is filtering the sunlight and there are spiders on the glass. The 1970s vinyl chair is making my ass numb. My eyes are fixed on the grungy linoleum floor, but I am distinctly aware of the birth announcements covering the wall to my left - precious little newborn faces staring at me while I advert my gaze. And then, THUMP, she kicked. A single, HARD kick. "She moved", I say. I smile at Tim. "She moved!". I poke her. I will her to move again. She's still. I put my hand on my belly and burn the memory of that kick into my mind, just in case. Then I look at the wall, at all the precious little faces. I imagine her picture on the wall.

She kicked in her struggle for life. She was dying, slowly. She was still alive. If only...

***

We have a meeting at the hospital on Thursday to review the report with the doctors. I think it will be the last time I see THOSE doctors at THAT hospital.

Due

The Merriam-Webster dictionary defines due as:

1 : owed or owing as a debt

2 a : owed or owing as a natural or moral right

b : according to accepted notions or procedures

3 a : satisfying or capable of satisfying a need, obligation, or duty...

5: having reached the date at which payment is required

6 : required or expected in the prescribed, normal, or logical course of events.

Today, Isla was due.

Today, I laboured over this:

Loving and missing you little one. xoxoxo

5:00 a.m. Rantings of a Crazy Woman

It's 5:00 a.m. I think I fell asleep briefly sometime after 3:38 a.m., only to wake up again about 45 minutes ago.

Earlier tonight Tim and I somehow randomly discovered that my sister-in-law, Tim's eldest brother's wife, had deleted us both from Facebook. In my bereaved mother craziness, I jumped straight to the conclusion that her reason for doing so must be that she was pregnant. So hoping to put my worried mind at ease, Tim called his middle brother to ask about whether he knew anything. He didn't, but Tim's call prompted his middle brother to call his eldest brother, and within the hour, Tim's eldest brother was on the phone confirming, yes indeed, his wife is pregnant.

Not like just pregnant, but 12 weeks pregnant. His brother swore they were not keeping it a secret just from us, and that they had not told anyone in the family yet. Leaves me curious as to why his wife would have already deleted us from Facebook, but whatever, that's all irrelevant.

Isla was born 13 weeks ago yesterday, which by my calculations means this baby was conceived sometime approximately 2-3 weeks following her death. I would never expect anyone else to put their family planning on hold, and I don't know the circumstances surrounding this little one's conception, but since this is my place to be honest, it fucking hurts that they would allow themselves to become knocked up so soon after their niece died. Not sure when it wouldn't hurt, but somehow I feel that if they conceived in August and not July, I would feel a bit better about this.

News of a pregnancy in the family was going to feel like fucking searing hot metal stakes being driven through my heart no matter when it was delivered, and who was pregnant, but I'm having a particularly hard time with this SIL and BIL being pregnant because they have yet to call, send a card, do anything to acknowledge Isla's death.

We had one email exchange that I initiated when I asked for copies of Tim's baby photos which were in her possession, but literally, that is the only communication I have had with this SIL in 13 weeks. They live half-way across the country, so I understood when they did not attend Isla's funeral, and okay, its hard to pick up the phone to call not knowing what to say after someone's baby has died, but come on, your fucking niece is dead and you can't even send a card, some flowers, something, anything!!

I have been trying very hard to gain perspective on my grief anger, to recognize I'm just angry because my baby died, and to not unknowingly place that anger on friends and family members. But I have to tell you, tonight I lost my shit. Like screaming, banging my head against the mattress, smashing my hands against the wall, pacing for hours, lost my shit. And I'm still just so fucking angry. Yes, much of it is jealousy and just general anger at the universe that they will in all likelihood go on to have a healthy baby and my sweet perfect baby is dead.

But I'm also genuinely angry at these people for doing fuck-all to acknowledge my baby who died, and then calling us tonight expecting us to share in their good news. Apparently they do know our phone numbers and how to dial after all.

I mean come on, they so obviously don't give a rats ass about my baby, so why should I care about theirs, right? But part of the problem is I do. Rational, sane (and I like to think kind, compassionate and loving) Melissa cares. I actually love this little niece or nephew quite a lot already. I'm actually terrified that my SIL who is a teacher does not know the dangers of Parvovirus, and that it will kill another baby in our clan. I would be devastated for everyone if another such loss was to occur. But perhaps much more than that, I'm am terrified that nothing will harm this baby, and he or she will be born alive and then what?!

I never cared much about having the first born grandchild. Our decision to have a baby when we did, had nothing to do with that, and in many ways I wished that one of Tim's brothers would hurry up and have a baby to pave the way for us. But since we did have the first born, and she died, I am now terrified that she is going to be forgotten. That all of the love and affection and attention that was rightfully hers is going to be poured into this new little one, and once that baby is born, alive, and can be held and cooed over, Isla will be nothing more than a distant memory to the rest of the family.

What do I do when someone congratulates my MIL and FIL in front of me on the birth of their "first grandchild"? What do I say when this little once grows up stakes his/her claim to that place in the family? It's not that I care that my SIL and BIL will have a child before we do, its that I wanted to go first again so I could make sure that "first" spot was always held for Isla. It's rightfully hers. If the next baby born into the family was also born to us, I could tell my child all about Isla, and how she was first born, and Grandma and Grandpa's first grandchild. But now, now what do I do!!!

Just knowing these things will be said and done even when we are not present is upsetting. I want the whole entire family to recognize Isla, and I fear, for good reason, that they can't and they won't.

I wish it were as simple as telling my in-laws how I feel, and asking them to acknowledge her place in the family, but its not. Especially when its my MIL who has so forcefully insisted that we "get over" Isla already, and who said, with anger, "Isla was just a late miscarriage". These aren't people who want to understand. These aren't people who I can turn to for support and acknowledgment. In fact, I've tried. I've reached out. I've sent emails explaining my hurts, and flat out begging for support and recognition for Isla. My emails have gone unanswered.

And my SIL and BIL have pretty much made it clear, they really don't care. Maybe now that they are pregnant they will gain some perspective on exactly what it is we lost, but I'm not holding my breath for any additional compassion and understanding from them. I mean seriously, the first time you call me after my baby dies is to call me and tell me you are pregnant?!! And deleting me from Facebook with no explanation, that's not cool, that hurts.

I already feel like Isla matters so little to anyone other than Tim and I, and my mom, that with this new pregnancy she really won't matter to her paternal relatives at all. And that, that makes me soooo angry. Like screaming, banging my head against the mattress, smashing my hands against the wall, angry. I want to stand up and scream, and not just scream in general, scream at these people for what they have already done and for what I fear they will continue to do to the sacred memory of my sweet perfect baby. She deserves so much more than this. She deserves for her aunts and uncles and grandma and grandpa to love her, to honour her, to remember her always.

I don't know what to do with all this anger. Poor Tim. This is his family and so I cannot just rant and rave to him anymore about just how fucking angry I am.

I'm so fucking angry I don't recognize myself. Things have come out of my mouth that rational, sane me would never normally think, let alone say. I'm like an out of control crazy woman. I'm feeling vengeful. I feel like calling up my SIL and telling her that I don't give two fucking cents about their baby because they so obviously didn't give two cents about mine. I feel like refusing to ever acknowledge this child when he or she is born, just to prove how hurtful it is to have a baby and have it go unnoticed by immediate family members. I feel like telling my MIL that she should not be happy about this pregnancy yet, because according to her own logic, at this stage this baby is "nothing more than a ball of cells", so what the fuck is there to celebrate! I feel like calling my FIL and telling him its a good thing he did not waste his airmiles flying here for Isla's funeral because that would have been such a waste when he can now use them to attend the birth of his other first grandchild.

Obviously, I can't and won't do any of the above. I feel sick just thinking that way, it is so far from who I really am and how I really feel. But as soon as I stop thinking like that, I feel hurt again that these people have failed to support us and acknowledge our loss, their own loss, my baby, and that hurt just cycles right back into this blind rage kinda anger. I feel helplessly caught in this cycle of thoughts right now and I don't how to help myself out.

Like seriously. This is toxic. Really toxic. I don't like it. Not one bit. I would much rather be sitting here thinking happy or even just neutral thoughts about this baby. Only I don't know how to keep my thoughts positive and not so dark, and mean, I'm really not a mean person.

It's hurt and fear. I can acknowledge it as such, but I can't turn it off. I feel so helpless because I know I cannot control the actions of others, and the only thing in the world I really have control over are my thoughts and feelings, and the way I react to them. I'm not reacting well and I feel like my feelings have control over me at the moment and not the other way around. I just wish there could be even one outward sign from these relatives that this baby, once born alive, is not more important than poor little dead Isla. That she mattered and still matters just as much. I wish I could make them do the little things it is I want (need?) them to do. But I can't, and without some acknowledgment from them, I can't figure out how to not be so bloody angry.

At this very moment, it feels like someone is taking a spoon to my insides, scraping and scooping them out like you do pumpkin guts before carving. I literally feel gutted. The thoughts im my head are also swirling around wildly. It's now after 7:00 a.m. I have an important professional meeting this afternoon. I need some sleep!!

Blah, blah, blah

Tim and I had an appointment with our grief counsellor today, and she got me thinking. It's a good thing I suppose. A sign that all the money we are spending is not going to waste.

During today's session we were focused mainly on Tim, but when it came to me, we discussed the fact that I've got the blahs. I know I do. Very little interests me these days. Truthfully, I spend most of my days in the house, alone, surfing the internet - reading blogs, cruising Facebook, Googling random stuff. I do little 0f much else. Sometimes the TV is on for background noise, but I usually can't pay much attention to it. I take note of the tumble weeds of dog hair on the floor, the dishes in the sink, the laundry piling up and it starts to get to me (me, obsessive, compulsive clean freak) but then I just feel so blah about it all that I can't seem to do anything about it.

Often I feel a little stir crazy spending so many hours in the house, alone, doing nothing, that I think when Tim gets home in the evenings, I want to do something. But, then when I try to think of what to do, I just feel more blah. Walk the dogs. Blah. Go the movies, blah. Out for dinner, blah. So, the two of us just end up sitting together in the house. Tim watches TV, while I carry on surfing the internet.

Even when I drag myself out of the house, everything seems so blah. For example, I went to the mall today and bought some clothes for Tim and a dress for the wedding we are attending on Saturday. Usually I am so enamored by fall fashions that I get an overwhelming rush of excitement just thinking of the mall this time of year - cable knit sweaters, suede boots, wool suits, jewel toned blouses. But, not today. Nope, today the mall just made me feel, you guessed it, blah.

So, what do the blahs mean? Am I depressed? Sure sounds like it, right? But, my grief counsellor believes I'm not suffering from postpartum or any other form of clinical depression, just grief (another reason why I pay her so much - she isn't trying to label or medicate me). Apparently my blahs are the result of me shutting out the feelings associated with my grief. Rather than my denied feelings creating anxiety as they did before, now my feelings are overwhelming me to the point where I am not feeling much of anything at all. Blah.

She recommended that Tim and I both start privately journaling. Just thinking about what I would write in a journal forced me to acknowledge all the repressed feelings I am holding inside right now - sadness, anger, despair, sadness, more sadness, longing, jealousy, despair, lots of despair, a little more anger, and that longing, that powerful, powerful sense of longing. Oy! It's definitely all still in there.

So, now here I am, home again, alone and on the internet, and I'm thinking. I'm thinking about what it is I have been trying to do lately. I'm thinking about all the comments I have made on other blogs recently about trying to hang on to hope, trying to find the light, trying to see the roses. I think I have been trying a little too hard. At the end of the day, I want to heal. I want to experience joy again. I want to dance and sing and smile. I think I want it so badly, I have been rushing it a little. I have been trying to force it. And, it isn't working.

So, today I am reminding myself that I need to go through it. Head up, straight through it, and feel it each step of the way. Deep breathes. Feel it. The weight of my loss. The grief. Its so bloody hurtful to feel. I thought I was doing it. I really did. I thought I was living in it. Feeling it. Not denying it. But, our grief counsellor is so right. I haven't been allowing myself to feel. I was trying to skip to the finish line without running the race.

Maybe a finish line is a bad analogy. There is no end to grief. I will never "get over" Isla. The best I can hope for is to get to a place where Isla's death is a part of who I am, where I can feel joy along with the residual pain.

I think a better analogy is to think of death as a wound and grief as the healing. The death of a loved one, particularly a child, is an emotional wound, but thinking of it on a physical level, grief is like stitching up the wound. The scar will always be there, and sometimes it will get irritated and sore again, but the wound itself has closed, healed. Right now, only a few stitches have been laid, so rather than being stitched up my wound has scabbed over. And underneath the scab, I've got a huge gaping bloody wound and its throbbing. Only sometimes I can't feel the throbbing because my body's pain defences have kicked in and made me numb. I can continue to live like this, with a scab instead of stitches, but whenever I move, I am at risk of the scab tearing off, and when it does, I will feel the searing pain again. Much better to stitch the wound up properly, right? The catch - there is no anesthesia for these stitches. I've got to feel each one being laid.

The goal of our grief counselling is to teach Tim and I how to feel, but also how turn off our feelings so we can function with our grief. I'll be listening closely next week.

37 Weeks

Unlike some, I haven't been one to watch the calendar since Isla died. I did not mark the one and two month "anniversaries" of her birth and death. Those days came and went, just like other days. Apparently I still like to torture myself though, because just now, for some reason I myself do not understand, I went online to determine how many weeks pregnant I would, or rather, should be. The answer: 37 weeks. Full term.

I have been asked a few times when telling Isla's story whether she was full term. I HATE that question. I always defensively respond by saying she was past the point of viability, and explaining that she quite possibly could have lived outside of me without any long term health complications. I wish I did not have to feel so defensive, but I also wish people understood the depths of my loss and knew not to ask such insensitive questions.

The past 12 weeks feel like an eternity. I feel like I have aged 12 years. I'm old, worn out. It is hard to imagine that I could still be pregnant with Isla now, and could be for several more weeks. Hard to imagine her living inside of me all this time. I can't help but wonder how she might look if she arrived today. How much would she weigh? How long would she be? How much longer would those long feet of hers be? How much bigger those big hands? How much more hair would she have? Would her little face look the same?

Isla was so incredibly perfect, it is hard to believe that she needed another 12 weeks or more of growing to be ready for the world. She was of course tiny, but she was big, very big, for her gestational age. She weighed 810 g, when the maximum range of "normal" birth weights at 25 weeks is only 759 g. She was also very long - 13 inches, when the average length at 25 weeks is only 9. It makes me proud to think of how big she was. How big, and and how seemingly strong and healthy. Like I did a good job of growing her right up to the point of her death.

We were given the preliminary autopsy report last week. Despite that the report was completed on July 7th, we did not receive a copy until last Thursday, when it was faxed to us because my OB decided it was not worth having us come in to discuss the results because the report said very little. Why did I have to wait almost 3 months to receive it then? And why, now, I am still having to wait another three months or more for the final report? So frustrating.

While the preliminary report said little, it did indicate she had pericardial and pleural effusions and ascites (collectively hydrops), suggesting that it was most likely an infection and not a placental abruption that killed her. Poor Isla. Poor big, strong, otherwise healthy Isla. Dead, gone, because of some infection.

While I am enraged by the injustice of it all, and of course wondering when and how she contracted an infection and what I could have done differently to prevent it, I am also somewhat relieved to know that it was likely not a placental problem that caused her death. If it was an abruption, after having one I would have a ten fold risk of having another and there is little, if anything, that can be done to prevent it. I also have spent much time concerned that it was an abruption and agonizing over whether I did too much walk or lifting in the days before her death to cause it. And, thanks to reading books about the importance of pre-conception care, I have also spent time fussing over the things I did before I knew I was pregnant with Isla that may have resulted in the growth of an unhealthy placenta.

With the final report we will hopefully learn exactly what type of infection she may have contracted. I am hoping it was something fluke, like Parvovirus B19 (Fifths disease/slap cheek), and not something reoccurring like Group B Strep. I don't think I will ever not feel absolutely terrified to be pregnant again, and well, like all of us babylost bloggers, I now know of five million other ways in which babies can die, but I am hoping if it is some fluke infection that killed her, the rational side of my brain will be able to reason that it likely will not happen again and that one day I may actually have a living, breathing child in my arms. A child who will hopefully grow inside of me for 37 weeks (and not a moment longer because it would be cruel for any doctor to expect me to last the full 40 or longer).

Thirty seven weeks ago tomorrow, January 6th, 2009, I started my period. At the time it was heartbreaking because my period was a painful reminder of the loss of Peanut. Yet thirty seven weeks ago I was also naive and full of unabated hope (well...almost unabated). I'm wiser now. Much wiser. Nevertheless, while my hope has certainly waned, it still exists.

Thirty seven weeks. Not so long. Less than a year. It's strange how 37 weeks can feel like an eternity. I guess that's what happens when you learn that 37 weeks is sometimes 12 weeks longer than a lifetime.

This Man I Love

It's 12:19 a.m. Officially September 13th, 2009. My first wedding anniversary. Not the way I ever imagined spending it. Tim is upstairs sleeping in bed alone and I'm in the living room curled up with the cat (and the laptop of course).

Before I go snuggle up with my hubby, I wanted to take a moment to tell the world just how wonderful he is. I could not ask for a better partner, although I'm sure in recent months Tim could.

On November 9th last year, I turned 29. Eeek! My 30th year. Tim and I got to talking about the list of things I wanted to do before I was 30. I had never actually made such a list, but I, somewhat jokingly, and mostly fantasizing, said that I wanted to be married, own a house, and have a baby. Perhaps I should have said I wanted a million dollars too, because didn't my sweet little hubby decide he would make all my dreams come true?!

Of course, the marriage thing had been taken care of. So a few days later, rather spontaneously and without any real discussion, Tim decided we'd stop trying to prevent getting pregnant (I conceived peanut sometime around November 19th). On April 28th of this year, we purchased our first house (it was no easy feat with our student debt and Tim took on a second job so we could make it work). On July 1st, we had our first baby. Things didn't work out exactly as we had planned, but if Tim could control the universe, I guarantee I would be sitting here babe in arms.

While I was growing Isla, Tim did everything he could to tend to my every need (and mood swing). He prepared every meal and washed the dishes after. He fed me dinner in bed in the early days when I was often too tired to hold my head up after work. He held my hair while I lost my breakfast every morning for the first trimester. He scooped the kitty litter every other day (despite that I brought the cats into the relationship and he swore he would never touch the litter box). He walked the dogs morning and night. He cleaned the house. I could go on and on. He did all of these things willingly, without being asked, and with a smile.

Since losing Isla, Tim has not stopped taking care of me. Seriously. He cooks dinner every night and insists on doing the dishes. He scoops the kitty litter. He walks the dogs. He cleans the house. He does it all, and when I try to help, he insists that I sit down and focus on taking care of myself.

Of course he does so much more than physically tending to me and the house. He holds me while I cry. He kisses away my tears. He listens when I speak. He sides with me when I am angry. He is patient and kind and caring. He is my best friend.

And oh, how I love him, both for what he does for me, but more importantly for who he is. This man I love.

Oh, and in case you didn't notice, he's incredibly handsome too.

Happy First Anniversary Baby. As the song goes, all I know is we are better together. Together we can survive anything, even losing Isla. Thank you for being you and for all you do. I love you. xoxoxoxoxoxoxo

I Can't Hide My Love Away

I started this post a few days ago, but could not finish then. I sat, fumbling for words and feeling frustrated and angry. Very angry. Too angry to write. I'm in a different place now, so I'm sure this will end up being a different post than the one I would have written on Tuesday, but I'm going to pick up where I left off...

On Monday on our local classic rock station there was a top 50 countdown of Beatles tracks. Despite feeling particularly bereft and frustrated and anxious, in hopes of lifting my spirits, I kept radio tuned into the station as I drove to pick up flowers to bring to cemetery. While I think the song was written about homosexuality, the lyrics of "You've Got to Hide Your Love Away" resonated with how I have been feeling lately:

Here I stand head in hand
Turn my face to the wall
If she's gone I can't go on
Feelin' two-foot small

Everywhere people stare
Each and every day
I can see them laugh at me
And I hear them say

Hey you've got to hide your love away
Hey you've got to hide your love away

How could I even try
I can never win
Hearing them, seeing them
In the state I'm in

How could she say to me
Love will find a way
Gather round all you clowns
Let me hear you say

Hey you've got to hide your love away
Hey you've got to hide your love away

Hide my love away. Hide my grief away. Hiding my grief away is hiding my love away, for what is grief other than an extension of our love for those we have lost?

In our North American society, grief is socially unacceptable. When a loved one dies, not matter the relation, we are told to "be strong", "keep busy", "smile, she would want you to". It seems as though once a funeral has been held and the casket closed, society expects us to have closure on the passing of our loved ones and for grieving to end.

Its particularly shocking that here in Canada, where employment and human rights are (relatively) ably enforced, that the Employment Standards Act provides that an employee is entitled to only three days bereavement leave when an immediate family member dies, including a child.

Last September while honeymooning in Greece, Tim and I ferried from Athens to Santorini. There was a mix-up with our travel provider and rather than on a direct sail, we ended up on an island hopper. Enjoying the sunshine on the bow deck, we did not mind one bit. As we approached each port, we would stand at the deck rail, camera in hand, trying to take in as much as we could of each of the tiny islands we stopped at.

I believe it was in Naxos when a casket was unloaded. I heard the wailing before the ship was even docked. Twenty or so mourners, all adorned in their mourning clothes, stood waiting for the casket to be rolled out. The women sobbed loudly, and one woman, who I presume was the deceased's mother, wailed. She wailed with such fervor that the boat's engines did little to drown out her cries and pleas. She threw her arms in the air, let out noises I had never heard before, and allowed the others to catch her when her knees buckled.

Tim and I, and our fellow travelers, watched from the boat as a priest splashed the casket with Holey water, and then as the men picked up the casket and the mourners all paraded away together, carrying their dead, praying, sobbing, dressed in their mourning clothes.

How sad I thought, and then how dramatic?! I asked Tim if he thought the emotion was real or whether it was forced, like some sort of show. I wondered if the mother felt obliged to carry on that way, and whether if in Greek society, the bereaved would be judged if they did not make such a production out of the death of a loved one.

I do not wonder such things anymore. I now understand that those noises were primal screams, and on tiny Greek Islands, it is okay to let them out. The mourning clothes are like the "My Baby Died" t-shirt I wish I could wear so people would understand my tear stained cheeks, puffy eyes, short temper and inability to make social niceties. Now I wonder, how long it is socially acceptable to wear mourning clothes in Greece?

Here in North America, we are given a few minutes or so to scream and wail when the news is delivered, a few days or so to cry openly, and, at best, a few weeks or so to finish up the business of feeling sad and to get on with our lives. After ten weeks, my grief has already outlasted others tolerance of it.

I've posted before about the lack of support Tim and I have received from our friends and family members. Knowing I have real world readers, I have been hesitant to get into much detail for fear of offending anyone. It is not that I actually care if any of my real world readers are offended, because quite frankly, this is not about them right now, but I am loath to create any conflict or drama that will just make the situation worse for Tim and I. But...at this point I do not know if it can get any worse, and this is my space for sharing and growing and healing, so here goes...

A certain family member, lets call her M, has been relentless in her pursuit to force us to "get over" Isla. She has been not so subtly suggesting we should be "back to normal" for at least six weeks now. She made it clear to both Tim and I that after four weeks, her expectation was that we should be back to work full-time. When she learned that Tim was gradually returning to full-time hours, she advised me that she had decided that an appointment would be scheduled for Tim and I with the family doctor to get anti-depressants because it was, "enough now".

In the initial days following Isla's death, Tim and I made a conscious decision to face our grief head on in order to heal, and that we would not deny ourselves the opportunity to mourn the loss of our daughter because we understood that grief could not be avoided, and suppressing our emotions would only delay inevitably feeling them. We also decided we needed to balance grieving and living. And, truthfully, I think we have been doing a really good job.

When M began suggesting it was time that we started to feel better just a little over a week after Isla's death, Tim and I tried to explain to her that grieving was healthy and necessary and that without grieving, we risked long-term emotional health problems. We also tried repeatedly to explain how profound this loss is to us, despite the fact that Isla was not born alive and we did not have an opportunity to bond with her outside of my body. She did not get it. So we tried again. And again. And again. And again, to no avail.

With each passing week M has become more insistent that we should no longer be grieving and more forceful in her attempts to make us feel and behave the way she wants us to. It has escalated to the point where, on Sunday night, she advised Tim that he required psychiatric help because he should no longer be feeling sad and that Isla was "just a late miscarriage" and we should be over it by now (wrong on so many levels, I know).

At first I tried to be patient and to rationalize that her instinct is to fix things for us, to take away our pain. I'm sure that is a big factor in what is happening here. But, I've decided it is more than just that. She is the ultimate by-product of our grief denying North American society - emotionally stinted as a result of her own unresolved grief and seeking to perpetrate the same denial of grief that has been imposed on her.

We do not talk about death, and particularly baby death, and more particularly stillbirth, so there is little reference for what a "normal" length and pattern of grieving is. We deny the bereaved the opportunity to express the emotions associated with grief. We encourage grief avoidance patterns by rewarding the bereaved for "being strong". And, perhaps most concerning, we label those who still have the ability to express their grief despite these social pressures, as being "overly emotional" or "crazy".

M genuinely believes that ten short weeks after the death of our daughter, Tim and I are suffering from some sort of pathological mental health problem, because we are not "over it" and "back to normal" yet. I have discovered that no matter how often I try to explain to her that our grief, and the feelings associated with it, are normal and to be expected, and that regardless of Isla's gestation, Tim and I are grieving the loss of a child, our child, a real baby, she just cannot get it.

So, alas, I have given up; thrown in the towel (or in this case the tear soaked, snotty Kleenex), and built a thicker emotional wall between myself and M.

I'm not angry anymore. Disappointed maybe, but not angry. Her own social conditioning has left her struggling so much with her own repressed grief from other losses and the loss of Isla, that she is incapable of feeling her own emotions, let alone understanding ours. And you what? While she may not be offering Tim and I the support we so desperately need, she is teaching us a lot about grief and its important healing value.

And this has me thinking about the need for this space, lost baby momma blogland. This is our own little society where our grief, and all the emotions associated with it, are socially acceptable and support is unconditional. While I am so grateful for this space, I am also saddened that it is necessary. What does it say about our society, and our friendships and our families, when we, bereaved parents, must conceal our grief in the real world and turn to people whom we have never met for the unconditional support we so desperately need.

Hide your grief away. The message is everywhere. It is in the lack of cards and phone calls from people who really should acknowledge the death of your baby. Its in the the phone calls and visits that stop after a couple of weeks. Its in the gentle and not so gentle prodding for us to "get back to normal".

Hide your grief away, to me, feels a lot like hide your LOVE away, and, as a mother, I find this impossible. I think this is where so much of my frustration and anger has been coming from. I'm back to the early days of wanting to stand on the front lawn in my pajamas screaming, "ISLA MICHAELA JOHNSTON, ISLA MICHAELA JOHNSTON, ISLA MICHAELA JOHNSTON". Now I won't of course, because well, not only would that likely land me in the psychiatric ward of the local hospital, I would embarrass myself. Such behaviour is socially unacceptable here in North America (well perhaps wearing your pjs on the front lawn screaming is socially unacceptable everywhere).

But, what if it were just okay for me to grieve? To talk about the death of my baby? To stop pretending I am okay and she never existed? To dawn mourning clothes and cry in public? Would I still feel the need to shout her name? Maybe. But at least then it would be easier to do so, right?

And, maybe then, if grieving were socially acceptable, my family and friends would stop talking about how I need to hide my grief away, so they could listen and actually hear me saying her name. And, maybe then, if more people in my real world were listening and hearing her name, I would not feel the need to scream her name at all. And maybe then, my love for her would be validated and I could get on with the business of healing from the pain her death has caused.

Until then (and since I the neighbours are outside right now and my pjs do not even match, making my trip to the psychiatric ward all the more shameful, and well, I am Canadian after all, and you know how polite we are) I guess I will just have to keep screaming her name and professing my love for her here.

ISLA MICHAELA JOHNSTON!!!!!

It is a beautiful name isn't it? Just in case some of you do not know how to pronounce it, it is Eye-lah, like the actress Isla Fischer, not Iz-la.

And, I LOVE her, so very, very, very much.

JETHRO CRAIG WILHELM WE REMEMBER

Today Mirne and Craig lost their third child, baby Jethro Craig Wilhelm ("Jet"). Words really can't express the sadness I feel in my heart for Mirne and Craig and sweet baby Jet.

There are no words right now, so I will just say his name, Jet. xoxo

Sweet, sweet smell...oh how I love you!

The past week has been dark, very dark for me. I'm at a place where its difficult to see any light at all. It feels as though I am moving backwards, in slow motion. Withdrawing from the world. (Mom, if you are reading this don't be too concerned) I know this time is just part of the journey through my grief. I think I am in fact moving forward in terms of grieving - feeling more and accepting the reality that I must somehow learn to live the rest of my life without my first born, my baby girl, my perfect Isla Michaela. Either that or I am really going crazy! Perhaps after reading what I am about to write, some of you make think it's the latter.

I smell her.

Her sweet new baby smell, and not the odour of the morgue which has saturated all the garments in her memory box thanks to the medical examiner performing her autopsy prior to the photographer from Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep arriving to take some final photos.

I smelled her for the first time the night I arrived home from the hospital. As I was climbing into bed, that sweet smell filled the room. I actually thought it was coming from her little hospital gowns in the memory box that was then sitting on a dresser in the bedroom, so I got up to smell the box. Nope. The smell was not coming from there, or anywhere else in the room.

As I laid in bed I inhaled deeply. Mmm. That smell, sweetness. It did not fade. I smelled her again the night before her funeral, when Tim and I were both so anxious about facing the reality that the following morning we would be with her little body again, in a coffin, and that we would have to bury that little body, never to see or hold it again.

Then she came to me one day at work. Again, just to make sure the smell was not coming from somewhere "real", I moved around my office smelling books and files. Nope. The smell was just around me as I sat at my desk.

Two nights ago, Tim was already sound asleep in bed when I crawled in after 1:00 a.m. As I snuggled up behind him, there she was. That sweet smell. It was as if she had been sleeping in bed with her daddy, and once I crawled in she was safely nestled between the two of us. I whispered "I love yous" to the air, and peacefully fell asleep.

Again last night, as Tim and I crawled into bed she was there. I asked Tim if he could smell her, but he couldn't. Hmm...maybe I am going crazy, I thought, but no matter how deeply I inhaled the smell would not fade. I silently mouthed many "I love yous" to the air and again drifted peacefully off to sleep.

A figment of my imagination? Maybe. But, had you have asked me before Isla's death if I believed in the presence of spirits around us, my answer would have definitively been yes.

The loss of my daughter has, however, forced me to reconsider all the beliefs I previously held. I think I have become somewhat of an agnostic. I still believe in God, but I certainly do not believe that Heaven is an actual place, separate from earth and the universe, where all our loved ones hang out in forms resembling the bodies they inhabited during their time in this life. This means I can not take comfort in believing that when I die, I too will go to Heaven and my baby girl, in infant form, will be there waiting for me in His arms.

I previously believed in reincarnation, and that souls visited earth many times over, in different forms, at different times, to learn many different lessons. This belief now frightens me, for I fear that when it is my time to go back to the spiritual world, the spirit of sweet Isla will be here on earth, in another body, and we may never have the opportunity to meet and embrace in the same realm. I also can't rationalize why little Isla's spirit would come to earth for such a brief time. What lesson she was here to learn? Unless of course she was here to teach us something. But that takes me back to the belief that everything happens for a reason, a belief I strongly held before and which now just makes me angry. If this has happened to us for some reason, than I am angry at the Big Guy pulling the strings. It leads to a bunch of whys. Why us? Why Isla? Why, why, why! Anger towards God is just not an emotion I ever want to feel.

So, for now I guess I believe that Isla's death was just an act of nature. An accident. Sometimes people just die for no reason other than their bodies have failed them. And, once people die, their spirits or souls go somewhere, and sometimes those spirits are around us, here on earth, and they can show themselves to us. I am comfortable with this belief right now. I have no one to be angry with and it makes me happy because then I can believe that sweet smell really is my baby girl, and that she is close to me. She is coming to me in my darkest hours, perhaps to ease my pain and to let me know she is okay; or perhaps because she needs to be closer to us, her mommy and daddy, to feel our love. Her visits have given me the opportunity to tell her I love her. Something I unfortunately never actually said out loud to her the day she died, and so desperately regret.

In a beautiful post dedicated to her sweet baby girl Georgina, Catherine W (http://betweenthesnowandthehugeroses.blogspot.com/) recently posted a clip of Nick Cave's Into My Arms, a song I had never heard before. I think the beautiful lyrics to this song are so fitting today, the one year anniversary of Georgina's passing:

I don't believe in an interventionist God

But I know, darling, that you do

But if I did I would kneel down and ask Him

Not to intervene when it came to you

Not to touch a hair on your head

To leave you as you are

And if He felt He had to direct you

Then direct you into my arms

Into my arms, O Lord, into my arms

Into my arms, O Lord, into my arms

Into my arms, O Lord, into my arms

Into my arms, O Lord, into my arms

Into my arms, O Lord, into my arms

Into my arms, O Lord, into my arms

And I don't believe in the existence of angels

But looking at you I wonder if that's true

But if I did I would summon them together

And ask them to watch over you

To each burn a candle for you

To make bright and clear your path

And to walk,like Christ, in grace and love

And guide you into my arms

Into my arms, O Lord, into my arms

Into my arms, O Lord, into my arms

But I believe in Love

And I know that you do too

And I believe in some kind of path

That we can walk down, me and you

So keep your candles burning

And make her journey bright and pure

That she will keep returning

Always and evermore

Into my arms, O Lord, into my arms

Into my arms, O Lord, into my arms

Into my arms, O Lord, into my arms

Thinking of Catherine and her family, and remembering baby Georgina today.

Also thinking of Sarah and David, and remembering baby Ezra today, on the day he was silently born.

I desperately hope one day, in some way, we will all be able to hold our precious babies in our arms, where they belong.

Thoughts of Mirne and Craig and Honest Scrap

For the past few days my thoughts have constantly been with Mirne and Craig. I've never met Mirne and Craig. I only know them through their blog http://freyja-kees-lovedsomuch.blogspot.com/. But, I can tell you unequivocally that Mirne and Craig are the strongest and most courageous people I "know".


Mirne and Craig's first child, baby girl Freyja, was born still at 28 weeks in July, 2006. No answers as to why. Little baby Freyja just slipped away. Sometimes babies just die.


Trying again after losing a baby is TERRIFYING. This I know. I believe it is even more terrifying when you have no answers as to why your baby died. This is why I sit anxiously awaiting Isla's autopsy results and praying we will have answers, and that whatever killed my sweet baby girl is preventable, and history will not repeat itself.


With no answers and no guarantees, Mirne and Craig had the strength to keep going and the courage to try again. Ten months later, oh joy! Another pregnancy. Baby boy Kees was born in February, 2008. Full-term. Healthy. I can only imagine the sigh of relief his parents felt the day that sweet baby boy came into the world. The bliss when they brought him home.


Only for Mirne and Craig that bliss was short lived. At 7 weeks, sweet baby Kees caught a virus. A run of the mill cold/flu virus that "should" have gone to his lungs. But with no sniffles or warning, and against the odds, the virus stopped his heart. Another precious little life cut short.


This is the part I cannot imagine. How must it have felt for Mirne and Craig to lose their second child? How must it still feel? It is just so incredibly unfair.


That is one thing losing a baby teaches you, life is just not fair. I thought I understood this before losing Isla, but I didn't really. The other thing losing a baby teaches you is that there really are no guarantees in life, and that no matter how much sorrow you have suffered, you are never immune to more. People try to reassure me now that one day I will have another baby. Really?!How do they know?


But there is always hope, right? After loss, the desire to have a child, a child who lives, is so incredibly strong. To me, it feels like all that love I felt the moment I laid eyes on Isla is sort of restlessly trapped inside of me, waiting to be poured into another little somebody. Of course that love will always be with Isla. My love for HER will never fade. I pour it into her photos, her little keepsakes, her flowers at the cemetery. But its not enough. There is still so much love inside of me, brimming over, waiting for another little person who I can hold and nurse, and just parent for a lifetime.


I believe Mirne and Craig's hearts must also brimming over with love. Love so strong that despite all their pain and sorrow, Mirne and Craig had the strength to continue to go on living and the courage to try a third time to bring home a baby, who hopefully will outlive Mirne and Craig. SO STRONG and SO COURAGEOUS, and just so loving.


Tomorrow (which is almost today in Amsterdam), Mirne and Craig's third child, another baby boy, is scheduled to arrive. I can't imagine the mixed emotions Mirne and Craig must be feeling right now. Above all else, I imagine they feel hope and of course love, but I also understand they must be feeling a great deal of fear and trepidation. It is so sad that it must be this way for them. Please send your thoughts and prayers to Mirne and Craig, and Freyja and Kees, and baby boy today. I pray that this baby boy lives to a ripe old age, with his heart beating strong, filled to the brim with his parents love!

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In other matters, Mirne nominated me for an Honest Scrap Award. Yay!! Thanks Mirne. I'm so new to blogging, this is quite an honour.





The award is about bloggers who post from their heart, who write from the depths of their soul. In order to accept the award I must nominate seven fellow bloggers as recipients, and then list ten honest and interesting things about myself.





So, my nominees (in no particular order) are:



Catherine W at Between the Snow and Huge Roses

Carol at the Happy Sad Mamma

Molly at the Unlucky Lottery

Jaime at Missing Sydney

Laura at Moments of Pause

Barbara at Burble

OM at Overeducated Mommy.

Now, 10 honest and interesting things about myself...hmm..

1) my first name is Melissa. Not so interesting, particularly if you were born in the late 70s as I was and were one of three Melissas in your grade! But I realized when Mirne nominated me she only knew me as Isla's Mommy, so I thought some of you may be interested in knowing my real name.

2) as a child, and an only and lonely one , I felt deprived that I did not having any pets. Well, I had pets - I had a hamster, a cat, a rabbit, some gold fish, and a turtle, but I didn't have any of them long enough before they died or were given away by my mother to ever form that special human-animal bond. So, I now operate a tiny petting zoo. I have two cats: Essex and Indigo (Indie); and two dogs: a golden retriever named Mickey and a chocolate lab named Finnigan.

3) Essex's full name is Essex Cleopatra. Essex for my university residence, and Cleopatra because, well, it just suits her. She's the only other living lady in our house.

4) Finnigan was named before we met him or were even certain we would get another dog . After seeing a picture of cute brown puppy for sale online (who I decided looked like a Finnigan) and spontaneously visiting the breeder only to find out that puppy had already been sold to another family, Tim and I started sorta seriously contemplating getting a puppy. We visited several litters of golden retrievers and as irresistible as golden puppies are, none them felt right. I then decided I really wanted a brown dog to name Finnigan. We eventually visited a Labrador breeder, and there he was, in the middle of the box of pups, my Finnigan. His name really suits him. His nickname is "Goon".

5) I have several best friends, one of whom I have known since I was two. She is the keeper of my early childhood secrets, a true soul mate, and despite all she knows about me, I can't share this blog with her. She doesn't know it exists. I'm not sure why.

6) I used to treat myself to regular pedicures and now I don't ever want to change the nail polish that is on my toes. I had my last pedicure while I was still pregnant with Isla, about 9 weeks ago, and I wore the polish through my labour and delivery. Despite that the polish is starting to chip and my toe nails are long (gross, right?) I am hesitant to take the polish off. I think I will need to wear this colour forever. I should go find a bottle of this colour for sale somewhere before I start stabbing Tim with my toe nails in bed!

7) the raspberry colour font on the headings on this blog was chosen to match my toenails. It is a colour that will always remind me with Isla. I have this feeling she would like it.

8) the pink and white damask background of this blog was also chosen for Isla. I hadn't purchased much for her before she was born, but I did purchase beautiful crib bedding with a pink and white damask pattern. I had plans to stencil a pale pink damask pattern on one wall of her nursery, with a horizontal stripe and large monogram (IMJ) in chocolate brown in the centre of the wall, over her crib.

9) I desperately want to be a mother to another daughter, natural or adopted, and I hope she loves dolls! I still get the same rush of excitement and wonder as I did as a child when I visit the doll aisle in Toys R Us.

10) I have a shooting star tattooed on my left hip, with the words "Carpe Diem" written underneath. I was 21 years old when I got this tattoo. At the time I believed I had control over my destiny, and if I made a wish (the shooting star) all I had to do was seize the day (carpe diem) to make it come true. I want to keep making wishes and seizing each day, even though I know control is mostly just an illusion.

His Mommy Joined the Club After All

I posted too soon. Now I feel guilty for being so envious.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/8194262.stm

Why couldn't this happen to me?

http://ca.news.yahoo.com/s/cbc/090808/world/world_paraguay_baby_5

Now I'm actually starting to wonder if I prayed hard enough or was deserving enough. I know, I know...stop it...

But seriously? I can hear the "miracle" baby stories now. Dad was praying and then, just like that, he heard a cry. The Lord answered his prayers. His son is alive.

I Am Still Here

I've been quiet for a while now. It's not that I haven't wanted to write, I have. In fact, I've had blog posts floating around in my head often, every day. But somehow every time I sit down to write, I just end up staring at the computer screen, waiting for words that never come.

How do I describe in words how I have been feeling recently? Sure, I'm grieving. But I don't think that one little five letter word - grief - adequately describes all of the emotions I have been feeling, the depths of those emotions. I've actually perused the dictionary looking for a words that could adequately describe these feelings in a way that others who have not experienced the loss of a baby could understand. There really are no words to describe how this feels. I think any attempt to describe this to those untouched by such an experience is futile. And well, I've done enough reading recently to know that you, my online baby loss mama friends, get it, so I don't need to explain myself.

I am so grateful for my ever expanding network of friends from across the world, who, having never met me in person, have offered me so much love, understanding and support. I really do feel this outpouring of love for all of you and your babies. I weep for your sweet little ones almost as much as I weep for my own. I want to turn back the hands of time for all of us, to raise the dead, or at least find some other magical cure to erase your pain and my own. I want to hug you all through cyberspace and I can feel you want to hug me to.

I understand that no one in my "real" world can offer me that same understanding and support. But seriously, is it too much to ask for a little extra compassion? an attempt to understand what Tim and I are going through? or at least to remember that while you may have already moved on and forgotten Isla, or somehow otherwise internalized her death, we're still thinking about her, yearning for her 24 hours a day?!

Tim and I have received much love and support from a few close friends and family members. If any of you are reading, I won't list names for fear of missing someone or offending others, but I hope those of you who I am referring to, know who you are - those of you who still email and call regularly to check up on us, who sent such beautifully written, thoughtful cards, who don't mind spending time with us despite that we are now quite boring. I love you and thank you.

But then there are the other people. I can forgive and understand most of the people who have simply disappeared. Who know Isla has died but who have not called, emailed, said a word. It's okay. I'm really bad at those things too. I've probably missed the death of one of their loved ones. Seriously, no hard feelings.

I can also forgive many of the people who have called or written and said things we have found unhelpful and at times hurtful. Things like "it was God's will" or "you can always have another baby". I get it. They felt they wanted to say something and just didn't know what to say. It's awkward. It's okay, they meant well. I appreciate that these people have reached out to us.

But recently, a few things have happened or been said that have sent me into a bit of a tailspin. Again, I won't name, names. Although it may be obvious from what I am about to write, who I am referring to. If you are reading and offended, I apologize, and I hope you can forgive me for expressing my feelings, just as I have forgiven you. But, I need to get this off my chest.

There are a few very close friends and relatives who are currently pregnant who feel compelled to use Facebook to advertise how happy they are. I understand that these people are just excited about their own blissful state of affairs and want to celebrate (I myself changed my status once or twice back when I naively believed Isla was a sure thing). I also know that nothing that has been written, was written with the intention of hurting me. But seriously, is it to much to ask of my closest friends and relatives (all people who celebrated our wedding with us just 11 months ago and with whom there was much excited discussion about Isla being the same age as their babies), to think about us and refrain from advertising about their still to be born babies on Facebook?! This bothers me on so many levels. First of all, it hurts, badly hurts, that these friends and relatives could be so insensitive to what Tim and I are going through that they could not stop and think before changing their status that we may read it, and feel hurt by it. Secondly, it breaks my heart that these people are seemingly so unaffected by the loss of Isla. A much anticipated playmate for their babies. A cousin. I get that life goes on, and I do not expect anyone to feel her loss in the same way Tim and I have felt it, but I just wish Isla was important enough to these people that they would still be remembering HER and not posting such things out of respect for HER and their own loss of HER. Thirdly, it really bothers me that these people are still so naive as to believe that their babies are such a sure thing that they can publicly advertise in the way they have. Actually, having stillbirth hit so close to home, I think its quite smug. I never want these people to be on this side, the dark side of pregnancy, to really understand how smug it is. But I do wish that they had been affected enough by our experience that they would maybe think twice before so publicly counting their chicken before its hatched.

As I said above, I forgive these people. Some I have felt anger towards, others just more disbelief at the lack of sensitivity, but mostly I am just so hurt. So deeply hurt. Ultimately I guess I have control over whether or not I continue to expose myself to such hurt. I could just stop logging into Facebook, right? But it doesn't really matter whether or not I'm reading. What hurts is knowing these posts have happened. I am being selfish? Self-absorbed? Expecting too much from everyone else? Maybe. But this is how I feel.

There have also recently been a few things said to Tim and I directly that have knocked us down. I fear that by saying too much online that I will do some irreparable damage our already tenuous support system. But what I will say is that members of our family, CLOSE members, the kind on the same branch of the family tree, have begun giving both Tim and I the impression that it is time we start moving on from our grief. That we should be getting back to normal by now. It was actually stated that, "its enough now".

Five weeks ago, five short weeks (or five very long weeks if you were walking in our shoes) our baby girl died. Our daughter. Our child. How the hell are we supposed to feel right now if not grief stricken, utterly devastated, consumed by our sorrow?! WE LOST A CHILD. How much more clearly can we explain this to people? She was not just a fetus. She was not just someone we never met. She was our daughter!

Having to defend our grief to these people is so infuriating. I feel as though by expecting us to move on already these relatives are diminishing our loss, their own loss, and the life of my precious baby girl. Discussing this is actually so emotionally exhausting that I really can't go on. I can't explain it right now, or express my feeling in any coherent manner.

Anyway, this is why I have been so quiet over the past week or so. My emotions are overwhelming, my head spinning, and I just can't find words.

When I started out with this blog I wanted it to be a place both celebrate Isla (precious, beautiful, baby Isla) and share my journey through grief and hopefully towards healing. I'm walking it - this weird twisty, one step forward, two steps back path through what is now my life, my life after Isla. I hope to candidly share both my steps forward and steps back. Only, sometimes the steps back are actually more like backward stumbles to the ground, and I just don't have the energy to put into words my swarming emotions.

To my baby loss mama friends, please keep reading and posting your comments. I love them. And even though I can't always find the energy to comment on your posts, I'm here, reading.

To my real world friends and relatives, if you are reading this, please go easy on us right now. We need you now more than ever.

PS - Isla died on a Tuesday. A few days after my last post I realized it was Wednesday, July 29th when I wrote it. I have been so disoriented that I thought when I was writing it was a Tuesday. It bothered me that I could lose track of time like that. Bothered me more when August 1st came and went I and I didn't even realize I had missed the one month mark of her birth. I'm not really beating myself up about it. In a way its a good thing I am not dwelling on calendar days. But I need to set things straight. Isla Michaela Johnston died around 6:45 p.m. (I didn't think to look at the clock at the exact moment) on Tuesday, June 30th, 2009. She was born at 10:44 p.m. (thankfully my amazing delivery nurse Maya did think to look at the clock at that moment) on July 1st, 2009.