Sunshine

Since I heard the words, "I'm sorry, there is no heartbeat" I have been a different person. I stared at the ultrasound screen that showed my completely still daughter and the Brandi I was ceased to exist. In the weeks and months that followed Haven's death, I was afraid to leave the house and have to face a world where I was an outsider, where I would have to answer questions. The whole summer came and went and I barely left my house or office at work. I was constantly afraid that someone would interpret a smile or laugh as a sign I no longer mourned my child; I was afraid to be happy. I was afraid my baby girl would be forgotten, that I would be forgotten. I honestly could not imagine that my life could ever improve or that I would ever be able to be more than the woman whose baby died.

Before I continue, let's establish one thing: I'll never be the same again. Burying your child will shake you to the core, shake your whole world, and you'll struggle to pick up the pieces. I was a pretty carefree person before those words tore my life apart, but now I carry a heavy weight in my heart. These are scars that will never completely fade. I'm twice a mom with twice-empty arms. No amount of time or yoga or even future children will change this. My self esteem will probably never fully recover, or my faith in people, or in my old perception of order in the world. My heart will always walk with a limp.

BUT.

I've been working hard to free myself from the anxieties that weighed me down and I am starting to see that there is life after your child dies. There's life! And joy. And fun. Things aren't all sad days and gray skies forever (though I will viciously defend my right to a sad day when I need one!) Yes, life can grow bright again. You can make friends, grow relationships, and find new sparks with your love. I can't say I'm always content, but I can tell you I'm finding myself again.

I'm grateful. So very grateful. I can see the sunshine again.

Whiplash

I always struggle to put into words how it feels when your child dies. It is life-sized whiplash. One day you are at the top, moving forward, your life is planned out, you know what is coming. You're suspended for a moment, but you don't even know it until it's over. Suddenly you snap back, you find yourself at the bottom, lower than you ever dreamed the bottom could be, and you stare and strain upward, trying to glimpse what you thought was your reality. Surely this isn't real? The denial takes months to lift, and even a year later, your mind has moments of stubbornness and refuses to believe.

Eventually you climb your way up, up, up, but you never reach the top. You can't. The top was for Before You and you will never be that person again. 

As I end cycle 4, feeling that it has also been unsuccessful, I am a little melancholy thinking of Before Me with her baby alive and kicking, her nursery set up, baby clothes hang-drying on the rack, the bassinet sitting smugly next to the bed. What I wouldn't give for an hour in her shoes, not a real care in the world.

Weary

Sometimes I feel like it was all a dream, that it didn't happen. That I didn't give birth to a little girl who died. That I didn't miscarry just nine months later. That stuff happens to other people, after all. It feels like a story that belongs to someone else. 

We have been trying to get pregnant, but I somehow don't believe it's possible to get there again; a baby in my belly, looking forward to a certain future. Maybe that stuff just happens to other people too. My reality is a body that seems to be sick somehow, that is not getting pregnant. 

Some days I feel really at peace with it all. Others where I feel paralyzed by the fear of what could be wrong. I hate that our experiences have robbed me of my peace of mind. I worked hard to cultivate that trust in the world only to have it totally ripped away.

Weary, weary, weary. In all ways.

Month Four and the Kicks

I think one of the cruelest physical symptoms left over from my first pregnancy is phantom kicks and flutters. I have mentioned this sensation before, but this just really, really gets to me. I've had them almost every day for the past week and every time I catch my breath for a second and think, "what if I am actually pregnant?" even if I know for sure that I am not at the moment. My mind goes wild for a few minutes... "maybe I am one of those rare cases where I continue to bleed every month but am actually pregnant, and maybe I'm also one of those rare women who doesn't get a positive pregnancy test for one of her pregnancies." Geesh.

It's just a cruel symptom. I don't know what causes them; I know it's not trapped gas, because that feels different. I wish they would end or, better yet, that there would be a real baby in there sometime soon who would give me real flutters and the reassurance that they are growing.

I keep a mini daily journal - just a few lines to describe my day, or to include a quote or thought. I recently looked back on last fall when I got that second positive and we thought for a few weeks we might have a second chance. I was surprised at how hopeful my entries were, and how excited. I don't feel I can muster much of those feelings anymore after 15 and a half months of grief and disappointment, then hope, then more grief and disappointment.

The last little hopeful part of me thinks, "you got pregnant in month four of trying last time...maybe that will hold true again this time around." Who knows? It would be kind of cool, because I would be due just weeks from when I was due with Haven if I were to conceive this cycle or next. The idea of it being so close totally freaked me out when we were trying last year, but now I think it would be kind of comforting.

And on with the day. Stupid kicks.

Recognition

"Boy, your body is just not the same after having babies, is it? Your abs just don't go back the same."

We were walking out to our cars after our Pilates class, where we'd both laughed as we failed at trying to do a full sit-up. I don't know her name, but she is quiet and nice.

I mumbled some kind of agreement and thought, what if she asks? What will I say? Does she know? I never know what to say.

I said, "yeah, it is just not the same." Dang, she is gonna ask...

"So you have a very young baby, do you?"

Pause. Panic. "Uhhhhh, I did, but she died. Oh goodness, that sounded terrible, I'm sorry... yes, I had a baby daughter, but she died."

She kindly said, "I am so sorry, I didn't realize."

"No, of course, it's not your fault. It just comes out so awkwardly sometimes."

We said our goodbyes and got into our cars.


On the way home, I thought, how did she know I was a mom? Then it dawned on me that I have a mommy body now. She could see my baby pooch and the same weaknesses presenting themselves in my body as in hers. It made me proud and sad at the same time to be recognized this way. I'm part of the club, but not really part of the club. My body was a baby home, but my arms stayed empty.

I drove home to my quiet house and now I am sitting here intensely missing my little love, wondering what she would be like now. My 15 month munchkin, drooling and giggling and causing beautiful chaos for her mom and dad. I know she would have been a character - she already was, even in my belly. When a child dies, they leave such a void. A lifetime of I wonders and memories you don't get to build. I have been thinking a lot about our second baby lately too. We would be in the final stretch now, just about ready to bring home Haven's little brother or sister.

I really took it hard when my period came this month, especially with Mother's Day right after. I can't help but wonder when? or...if? My arms just ache to hold, my body to give, my lips to kiss. I yearn to see my husband fulfilled as a dad, finally able to give way to all of that love inside him.

I wonder where we will be this time next year? Will we have a house that is alive again, or will I still be listening to the refrigerator hum? Will we be facing a life without biological children or will my womb finally be blessed again?

Grief is a winding road with no destination...

Mother's Day and Empty Rooms

I can feel Mother's Day lurking around the corner. Last year, I felt something like panic in anticipation of it...facebook was thick with sappy memes and posts (which are, without meaning to be, very exclusive), stores were oozing with merchandise, the radio and TV blared its soon-coming arrival, and everyone soaked it up. My broken heart was filled with bitterness and anger instead.

I avoided church last Mother's Day, knowing they would have all the mothers stand to be presented with flowers. It never occurred to me until Haven died how many women that tradition hurts - the infertile, the single women who want to be mothers, those whose family is broken for some reason, those who have come so close, like me, only to have their babes snatched away...and the list goes on and on. I won't be taking part this year either. Honestly, I don't think I would even if I was holding a new baby in my arms or my belly right now.

I don't feel the same level of panic this year as last, but there is an ache in my heart all the same. 

An order from Old Navy was the first time I bought anything for Haven. I was only a few months pregnant but found these cute onesies that said "I love my mommy" and "I love my daddy" for Mother's Day and Father's Day. I hope one day I can fill them with a new life. Right now, they are squashed together with all the rest of Haven's unused things in a big tub in the nursery closet. The nursery is still a reminder of what is not. I may finally work up the courage to dismantle it in the coming weeks. It stands as a symbol of expectancy and it crushes me every time I look inside.

Bumpy Road Behind, Bumpy Road Ahead

I've been thinking a lot lately about the last few years and how life has changed since Haven. When she died, I felt that I had died too; there was a Before Haven Me and an After Haven Me. In a lots of ways, I would say that is still accurate, but the more time that passes, the greater my acceptance of what happened.

I do not want Haven's death to define me; I have seen where that leads. There are moms in the online forums I used to frequent who live in the depths of grief every day, years out, and I don't want to end up that way. Yes, Haven is irreplaceable and I will always mourn her death and feel her gaping absence, but I believe life can be good again with or without the children we long for. We are still a family no matter what happens.

I feel in some ways as though the trauma we have been through has set me free. I lived in so much anxiety in the aftermath that I felt paralyzed, but now I can see that it can be a gift to embrace the fragility of life. We only get one crack at today and I want to make the most of it. If it means a change or a risk, so be it.

A friend of mine was talking about her own anxiety and how her husband stopped her one day and said (about her particular fear), "well, what if it does happen? Then we will just deal with it." Hearing that made me stop and think... I have already had the worst happen; I have held the body of my child and I am still getting out of bed every day. Whatever may come, I will deal with it. I made a promise to myself that I will really live, so...here we go.

Missing

There is always a piece missing from our lives; the little dark-haired girl who would be finding her legs and warbling out her first words. Well, two pieces; the little one we never got to know. There aren't words for how hard it is to be a childless parent. Because no one can see you are a parent, it is easily forgotten that you are constantly navigating a present that is drastically different from what it should have been.

I should have my hands full with Haven, big and pregnant with our second baby. We had talked about getting pregnant again right away so our kids would be close in age and so I could be home with them for as much of their early lives as possible. Yet here I am, nearly two years from when I first became pregnant, three negative pregnancy tests in the bathroom garbage, laying on the couch listening to the silence. One baby in the ground and one...I don't know where. 

I have been trusting God and choosing to believe that my time will come, but when months pass without another pregnancy, I feel like I am losing them again and again. When my period comes, it always feels so final. A friend of mine was talking about how stressful it can be to try and conceive and I felt like saying, "just imagine if both of your experiences with pregnancy ended in death." It's so hard to believe I will ever know the joy of parenthood.

As selfish as it is, I get anxious and angry when I think about the fact that some of my friends with babies Haven's age are probably already pregnant again and will have a second child before I bring home one living baby. I selfishly feel that it is my turn now. Anytime. 

I miss my babies so much tonight. I miss the life I should have had. 

Not Forgotten

Around two years ago, I was sitting in church and a lady whose name I didn't know at the time came up to me and said that, if I didn't mind, she would like to share something with me that she felt God was telling her regarding me and Danny. Inwardly, I was a little turned off and skeptical - I had attended a few extremely charismatic churches when I was younger and found myself a little leery of that kind of thing.

"Sure," I said, not wanting to offend her.

What she said has stayed with me. She said, "I feel that God is asking me to tell you that you have not been forgotten. You and Danny have not been forgotten."

At the time, it had significance for me - I was newly pregnant with Haven, which had been a welcome but scary surprise, and we had a lot of worry surrounding our finances. We had dreams which were hanging so far off in the distance that we never knew if we'd ever reach them. It was definitely applicable to us, as we had often felt forgotten. I was touched; I wept and thanked her for sharing with me.

Just a few months later, I was laying on a hospital bed having just heard that Haven had died. My heart was shattered. Suddenly, those words came to my mind and filled me with peace and the assurance that, somehow, everything was going to be okay. As I have seen many times in my life, sometimes we don't understand the significance of something until much later. This moment is when I needed those words the most.

This memory came to me again this morning as I lay awake in bed, depressed about our situation and wondering if we will ever know the joy of raising children of our own. As we step into the unknown and into another cycle of trying to conceive, I am going to hold onto those words, which are a promise.

"I am with you always, even unto the end of the world." (Matthew 28:20)

"I will lead the blind by a road they do not know; I will guide them on unfamiliar paths. I will make darkness into light before them and the rough places into level ground. These are the things I will do, and I will not forsake them." (Isaiah 42:16)

"And we know that in all things God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love him, who are called according to his purpose." (Romans 8:28)

Last First

When you are expecting a baby you can't help but make plans, especially for your first year. It's like a script that has already been written for you with the specific details left to develop. First time sleeping through the night, the next size up diapers, teething, weaning, babbling, walking, words, etc.

When your baby dies, the script goes out the window. There is unfortunately not a handbook out there that can instruct you how to not feel like you want to die that first Mother's Day, or how you will push away fellow moms whose babies were born near yours, all living while your sweet one is underground and their nursery quiet and dusty.

The first year is a minefield of firsts and unfulfilled dreams, especially when facebook cruelly shows all of those babies hitting milestones that your baby should be experiencing. Your heart will twist and shrivel at the joy on their parents' faces and the unintentionally shattering comments that people tend to leave. "You deserve this more than anyone!" "There is nothing better than baby snuggles!"

Holidays and parent celebration days are the hardest, I think. You can't help but remember on those days that your life has been pulled apart and scattered to the wind. 

I was afraid of Haven's birthday, especially so soon after our miscarried baby and Christmas so fresh in our hearts. But thankfully (and surprisingly), I found this weekend peaceful. Rather than be sad at home, we stayed at a friend's cabin (he is out of the country). On the way out, I picked up a rose for Haven to quietly remind us of her. I lit a candle on her birthday (February 16th) and let it burn all day next to her rose. Danny and I relaxed, played games, watched movies, and enjoyed the quiet time together. On the way back into town today, I placed her rose on her stone. 

Yesterday was our last first. It is with some relief that we pass this milestone. I don't believe there is closure when your child dies - how can there be when you are constantly aware of their absence? But there can be peace and healing. I hope that both of those things continue to grow in us. 

Happy birthday, Haven. Mama and Dad love and miss you every day. I hope that wherever you are, you are warm and happy and laughing. 

The End, the Beginning

One year ago today, perhaps to the very hour, I felt my daughter kick inside me for the last time. Sometimes I wish I could go back to that night and savour it. Just soak in the magnificence of my big belly and the beautiful life inside.

We stayed up late even though the next day, Valentine's Day, was my last day of work before maternity leave. We were in a good mood, I remember. High on life - our family was about to be made complete. The next day was the final step toward parenthood - once maternity leave started, it was just a matter of days or weeks before our baby was here. We went to bed like any other night. Our lives as we knew them were over...we just didn't know it yet. Sometime between Haven's last kicks and the morning, she died.

I remember thinking the next morning that she must be sleeping in; usually she was pretty active in the morning. I even poked my belly a few times and said "wake up, sleepy-head." A coworker wanted to feel her move, but my belly felt soft. I was having Braxton Hicks contractions all morning, which felt sometimes like she was stretching inside me, so it wasn't until I returned from my farewell lunch that it dawned on me that she hadn't kicked yet that day.

I called Danny and waited for him to pick me up from work - I was distracted and a bit worried, but the possibility that she was gone didn't fully sink in. Someone handed me a big gift on the way out - they had missed my baby shower a few days before. It would sit in the back seat of our car with the car seat while I laboured to bring Haven into the world, silent.

Those days haunt me. They have played on a loop so many times in my mind since then and the sting has never left. I remember so much of that day in excruciating detail - what I ordered at lunch, what I was wearing, that I accidentally ripped my purse as I sat down, the winter storm raging outside. Later, my clothing piled on top of my winter boots next to my hospital bed as the look came into the nurse's eyes...

I wish I could let go of this trauma. I live with it pretty well most days, but it is always there under the surface. 

One year. I should be planning a birthday party, wiping up drool, trying to get some rest. I should also be halfway through a second pregnancy, but I am laying in bed typing this with an empty womb and an empty, quiet house.

I hope it is not always so.

Lessons and Signs

I have been thinking back to a post that I published on my Map to Joy blog in September (click here to read it). We had just come off of our fourth unsuccessful month of trying to conceive again and I was overwhelmed with weariness and sadness and feelings of failure. When I read that passage of Hind's Feet on High Places, it came to me so clearly that I had a choice to become twisted and bitter or to accept with joy the circumstances of my life. As I sat on the gravel overlooking the river at my in-laws' cottage, I surrendered.

The same weekend, I wandered into the kitchen and froze; there was a rainbow dancing against the white of the oven. For those who don't know, rainbows symbolize babies born after miscarriage or stillbirth in the loss community (rainbows come after a storm). I looked up and saw that the rainbow was coming from a flat crystal which hangs in my mother-in-law's kitchen window on which Haven's footprints are etched. It was one of those experiences where time seemed to stand still; I felt so strongly in that moment that we would have another child.

We found out I was pregnant again about a month after that day and I thought immediately, "this is it! The baby I sensed was coming." We had come such a long way and this was our second chance. As you can probably imagine, I felt so betrayed, angry, and confused when we lost our "rainbow baby" to a miscarriage. I told Danny then that I didn't believe in signs anymore. How could I? He said that maybe we just misunderstand them when they come, though I thought, "what is the point of a sign then?"

I still don't know what the rainbow moment meant, or if it "meant" anything at all. Perhaps it was just that I needed hope that day and so it was communicated to me in a way that really caught my attention. I think I needed to receive that "sign" and this important lesson of acceptance at the same time so that I would not forget either one. I can't explain all of the changes that have happened inside of me this year, but I believe that God is at work in my heart, teaching me acceptance with joy. Teaching me empathy and generosity. Out of the worst pain has come some of the most beautiful fruit. It has been a year of surrenders.

Strong

I read this quote when I was in university and loved it. I was no stranger to difficult circumstances, but even with all I had gone through, I could never have dreamed at the time that my world would so spectacularly shatter in just a few years. That all of the pain, disappointment, and anxiety I had felt would pale in comparison to the events that would befall me.

When your life does crumble, people will tell you how strong you are, how courageous you are. It made me terribly angry to hear that. I thought, "I had no choice in this; I am only surviving. That isn't the same thing as being strong!"

But dammit, I look back to February and March when I was a shell of a person and I think, "I have come a heck of a long way!" I think of the mental and emotional fog I lived in for months when I was out of my mind with grief. When I was afraid to leave my house, when I wished that fate would intervene and I would cease to exist, when I was a wraith among the living.

I look back and I can see that I never gave up. I didn't get bitter. I didn't stop there. So I am claiming now what I couldn't see then. I am strong. I am surviving the impossible every day.  I am choosing hope, choosing joy, choosing life. I'm not there yet. I don't even know where "there" is, but I am going to keep moving forward until I arrive.

Memorial Jewelry

As a bereaved mother of both a full-term stillborn daughter and now of a miscarried baby, I know just how hard it is to find thoughtful and subtle ways to memorialize your lost loved ones. I'm always torn between wanting to share and not wanting to make a spectacle of either us or Haven. It's just another juggling act, one of many in which bereaved parents find themselves. It is difficult to know how to remember our miscarried baby, because hardly anyone knew we were pregnant. In the world of pregnancy and baby loss, it is a struggle to feel legitimate and heard when your loss doesn't usually seem real to many others. I grasp any opportunity I get to tell our story and remember our daughter (and now this little lost baby) with respect and dignity.

I discovered last week that my friend, Kat Grace, sells customizable jewelry for a company called South Hill Designs. I was admiring the photos she posted on facebook and was surprised when she private messaged me and offered to purchase a locket for me in Haven's memory. I was blown away by her kindness and really excited, as the lockets, which are the main seller, are gorgeous and perfect for memorial jewelry (though they can be used for whatever purpose you design them for).

Just one possible combination of many.

I thought immediately of all of the others who are looking for a beautiful way to memorialize their lost babes. I am sharing about this here because I figured it might be an easy way to benefit some grieving parents and to benefit my kind friend at the same time.

Mine will be a large round silver tone locket (no crystals) with a tree of life background screen, a February birth stone for Haven, a November stone in memory of our recent loss, and a little silver sparrow (click here to read about the significance to me). It is so pretty - I will be sure to post a photo when it arrives. There are a lot of little options that I think would be gorgeous for a memorial piece, including charms like little wings or angels, birth stones, coins that say 'family' or 'love' (I have put forth the suggestion of an 'angel' coin for the loss community). There are also wrist lockets (bracelets in which you can put charms, etc.)

If you are interested, please check out the following links. Kat is very quick to respond and will answer any questions you have. Please be sure to purchase under her profile. 

Her section of the South Hill Designs web page:

http://www.southhilldesigns.com/ca/katgrace/default

Her facebook group:

https://www.facebook.com/pages/South-Hill-Designs-by-Kat-Grace/1496301670634782

I love the monogram screens. So pretty!

I really like the oval shaped lockets, but I chose round
because I adored the tree of life screen.

There are so many charm options!

Lots of love to you all.

B.

Air

It hurts to breathe.

Memories crowd 'round,

Precious and terrible both.

I can't tell them to leave me;

They are all that is left.

I gasp for air, sobbing breath.

Like her, but I go on. And on, and on.

Living, but not living, aching with want.

I died that day. I know it doesn't look like it.

Future. Hope. Confidence. Innocence. Gone.

How do I get those things back? Am I able?

Hope: is it something that can regenerate?

Confidence: is it something I can mend?

Innocence: is it possible to restore?

I long to cradle new life, but

My womb is a tomb.

It hurts to breathe.

Journal

I keep a daily journal that has space for only a few lines a day. The idea is that this diary will take you through 5 years. Each page represents a date; for example, March 5 has its own page with five sections so you can compare five years' worth of March 5 experiences. My first such journal was given to me when I was pregnant with Haven and was intended for mothers (click here to check it out). I couldn't bear to keep it up after Haven died, though now I wish I had. I started a new one (not mom-specific) a few weeks before we found out we were pregnant this time.

I decided to look through my current journal the other day...I missed Haven and I missed being pregnant. I noticed two things:

1) A few days before this little baby died, I had expressed to him or her that I loved them. It was a big deal for me, as I was so afraid to bond this time around. I am thankful that I said it before it was too late. Even though this little person couldn't hear me, I hope that the love was felt somehow. I've realized that no matter how I tried to deny my feelings, I was bonding anyway. I hope that, next time, I will open up my heart right away, no matter how hard it is. Life is delicate and too short to not love fully.

2) Around the time this baby died, there was a wicked winter wind storm and I noted in my journal that it reminded me of the weekend Haven died and was born. From the day we found out she had died to the day she was born (Friday-Sunday), the wind was violent, spewing ice pellets and freezing rain from an angry gray sky. It is fanciful, but I remember laying in my hospital bed watching the chaos outside my window and thinking with pleasure that she didn't go quietly. That the gale bore her up to heaven. Perhaps, my imagination says, that same wind visited and whisked this little one up too.

I have been reminded this week of how much I need this blog. Writing about my experiences is one of the only ways I have found to process this grief. Friends have told me that I am "brave" for sharing it publicly, but I only keep it public because I know how desperate I was to relate to someone after Haven died. If my blogs can provide that even on a small level for someone else, then it is all worth it.

Phantoms

There are a lot of hard things to deal with around pregnancy loss. One that really messes with your brain is phantom flutters. Even though little Walnut was not big enough yet for me to feel movement, I have little flutters in my abdomen today that are driving me crazy.

I still haven't processed that I am no longer pregnant. I keep pausing before saying yes to caffeine or alcohol, associating my nausea to hormones, and  being careful about pressure on my belly (though it is very tender and swollen from my D&C).

I hate this. I'm so angry and sad and disappointed.

Empty House, Empty Womb, Empty Room

When Haven died and I was waiting in my hospital bed to deliver her, I sent a good friend back to our house to put away all of the baby things that littered our common space. I had been furiously washing clothes and organizing Haven's things since her shower a few days before and I knew I couldn't return home without her and see everything set up as though she was still coming home.

In the following week, my mom helped me pack up all of Haven's things and stow them in the nursery closet. I left the furniture, bedding set, and decorations as they were, thinking it was for the best; surely we would be bringing home another child within the year. The better-hidden reminders that cropped up in the coming weeks were tucked just inside the door - I still haven't found the energy to put them away. It's fitting; just one more thing unfinished.

I rarely peek my head in the door, which I keep open. Sometimes I water the (neglected) plants in the window or the laundry creeps in from the hall and I step in to scoop it up, then quickly head back out. I know by now things are getting dusty in there, and the room is starting to taunt me. I should dismantle the whole thing and be done with it, but I can't.

I remember Danny so lovingly setting up the room; hanging the wooden shelf his late father made, assembling the crib, arranging the giant farm-themed stuffies on the dresser, making sure everything was just so. It makes me so angry to think about my tender, thoughtful husband putting all of that love into what has become a silent monument to Haven and a symbol of what we are still waiting for. I feel that we have been made fools of...twice now. We celebrated like a couple of trusting idiots, believing we could have what seemed to be our right, what most everyone came by so easily. 

Now we are returning home tomorrow after a week on the road and I'm empty again. Empty house, empty womb, empty room. Once again, freshly washed baby clothing will be snatched from the drying rack and stuffed into the nursery, along with the cheeky hockey onesie that I'd bought in a moment of bravery at a shop this week.

I had so little hope to begin with; having what remained of my confidence snuffed out along with that courageous little flicker of hope has exhausted me. How do I believe again? How many times do we extend our greatest desire only to have it slapped from our hands?

And yet, I am not ready to give up.

There's a bit of life left in me yet.

The Nurse

She was prepping me for surgery, fiddling with my IV bags and settling me into my wheelchair.

"So you have no children?"

I paused. My life has been full of such pauses since February when Haven died. Moments when everything stops and I have to choose whether to educate someone or let their insensitive comment pass.

"How can she ask such a question when she knows I am miscarrying," I thought. "When I just told her that my daughter died this winter. How can she not realize that I am in agony?"

I hated her then. 

Remorse. 

I hated her again. 

Resignation.

The pause ended.

"No," I muttered. "Only dead."

A Beginning

It is hard to know where to begin. For those who know me, the back story is mostly clear, but for anyone who might happen upon my little corner of the blogosphere and wonder what I'm all about, a little introduction may be in order.

My name is Brandi. My hubby, Danny, and I live on the island of Newfoundland on the East Coast of Canada. We both studied Linguistics, but I'm a desk jockey and Danny works in Loss Prevention. I didn't grow up here; I fell in love with Newfoundland, then I fell in love with Danny and made this beautiful place my home. But I guess the thing I am trying to tell you, the thing that I am skirting around, is that we lost our beautiful daughter, Haven, at the end of a healthy and uneventful pregnancy on Valentine's Day this year. I won't tell the story here, but if you visit my pregnancy blog (click here) you can read about it. I no longer feel like I can truly tell someone about myself without first telling them about what happened. Even though it is not obvious, I'm a mother to an absent child.

After Haven died, my life fell apart for awhile. I look back now and it's scary to see how far into the fog I had gone. The shock took about three months to wear off, then I realized that a lot of the feelings I had attributed to grief were in fact severe depression and anxiety. It took time, love, medication, therapy, and people's prayers to get out of that place. Depression's grip is not altogether loosened, but I find myself living again. Scarred, but looking to the future that was so recently obscured. Joy has also crept in, and I find myself living with a depth that I have never experienced before. Grief has a way of focusing you; nothing looks the same through its lens.

Now I'm going to tell you another thing about us. We are expecting again after a few months of trying. I'm happy and grateful...and utterly terrified. I process best through writing, so naturally, I knew that this is where I had to come. I'm just 7 weeks pregnant now, but whatever may come, I want our loved ones to know where we are at. If this year has taught me anything, it has been that we need each other.

There is a passage in the Bible that became special to me this year. Matthew 10:29-31 says, "Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father's care. And even the very hairs on your head are all numbered. So don't be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows." It spoke to me that God knew my little daughter, even if no one else ever would, and that she was in His care. We had that verse printed on her headstone, and it is the inspiration for this blog's title.

I plan to use this blog to track my pregnancy and our journey along the way...to wherever life leads us. I invite you to follow along.