The Thirty-Nine Week Rule Sucks.

My constant current view lately.

Its been another night of fighting sleep.

Me and the early hours of the morning have become well acquainted in the last week and a half. Please don’t tell me how I won’t be getting sleep when Mila arrives. It’s a different type of insomnia of worry and fear that people wouldn’t understand unless they’ve went through the loss of their child. Honestly, I would love to be able to sleep or get tired at night. Instead, I find myself getting quick power naps throughout the day that are keeping me going. How? I have no idea, but here we are.

The last time I wrote here, I said I would update everyone about Thursday’s appointment. Before my appointment, I went to Instagram and asked other moms if they had been induced early with their subsequent pregnancy. While there are some countries that will induce early, as in 37 or 38 weeks, the United States has this lovely 39 week rule. In short, doctors and hospitals and research want pregnant moms to wait until 39 weeks for induction, unless there’s a medical emergency with the mom or baby. You can look it up on Google easily, I’m too lazy to post links right now. Long story short, in the late 90s/2000s, people were scheduling inductions and c-sections for reasons such as they wanted a certain date and doctors would go along with it. This led to babies being born prematurely and having to spend time in the NICU. To prevent the rise in c-sections and NICU stays, they implemented waiting till 39 weeks was best.

Don’t get me wrong. When I was pregnant with Jensen, I wanted him to stay put until he was ready to come out. I didn’t want ANY intervention or pain medicine. The thought behind waiting 39 weeks is great for certain situations and if it has helped babies, then awesome. I’m in no way a scientist or researcher in this area, so I don’t mean to sound cynical with what I have to say next.

What I am though is a mom that’s baby hasn’t made it to 39 weeks.

Jensen was born at 38 weeks and 2 days. We were monitored twice a week by ultrasound at the hospital and the doctor’s office. Everything on his scans looked great and they in no way thought he was in distress while he was in the womb. Yet, in one moment, his heart stopped with no warning.

Fast forward to this past week. On Wednesday night, I couldn’t remember the last time I felt Mila move when I got home. I ate dinner and laid on the couch watching TV with no sound and prompting her to move. Nothing. Instantly, I started panicking. After an hour of more stillness, I decided it was time to go to the hospital. When I finally arrived it was around midnight and they got me right in. I didn’t cry and tried to be as strong as I could on the outside. On the inside… well that’s a different story. They ended up having to have me on the NST (non-stress test) monitor for most of the night. I wasn’t going crazy, Mila was having either a very long nap or a lazy spell. Her and I’s heart rate when we first got in there was skyrocketed, but they both came down, thankfully. Since it took her a little while to get some movements in, they ordered an ultrasound. All the tests came back perfectly and she’s measuring ahead. I ended up getting home at 4ish with her finally deciding to give me huge movements.

The very next day I had my second appointment at my doctor’s office. I went in with my knowledge of inducing early (37 or 38 weeks), my history of stillbirth, the previous night’s experience, and knowing what is best for my mental health that directly has an impact on Mila. I asked for an early induction for the sake of all those things and I was told the earliest they could was 39 weeks.

Part of me was happy there was a set date, but the majority of my mind and body know there’s no guarantee of that week coming. No one, not even my doctor, can promise me she’ll live until that point of time. Jensen never got that chance and so many other babies didn’t and won’t either.

Yeah, I could look at statistics for stillbirth, recurrent loss/stillbirth, and even live births. It doesn’t help. My child was the one before. I am the statistic and could very well be again. When Jensen died, I needed to know all those numbers to know I wasn’t alone or think I did something wrong. Knowledge has always been so valuable in my eyes. I still am glad I know all those stats and what can happen, but it has plagued me to not want to sleep, connect, or even feel hungry until I’m starving. It’s the loss of innocence that was stolen away from me two years ago that I wish I could just get back for the remaining time I’m pregnant with her, then I’ll take it all back.

never thought I would say that, but here I am, terrified that if I go to sleep for too long at night she’ll stop kicking or have distressing movements and I’ll miss them. It’s terrifying.

People don’t understand the PTSD after loss. Last year, I had horrible flashbacks and nightmares nearing Jensen’s birthday and you can bet I’ve gotten them this year too. Since I’ve known Mila’s dates were so close to his, I’ve wanted her out before the big day. I won’t go on about this since I talked about it in my last post, but I’ll tell you, I probably won’t be sleeping much during his birthday week and all of week 38.

This is why the 39 weeks rule sucks.

There’s so many reasons why she should be induced this coming Friday and I can’t do anything about it. I’m afraid that I’ll unintentionally hurt her from my fear and anxiety. The whole no sleep thing probably is messing with her, as well as my lack of proper diet. (If you’re worried, I do eat. I set alarms on my phone to make sure I’m getting enough and have not missed a day of prenatal vitamins. My body is just not getting hungry like a normal person’s does at this time. This happened for months after Jensen was born, so I learned ways to make sure I was being as healthy as I can be even when I didn’t want to eat.) I also know that there’s not a switch of these feelings going away when she’s born. There will be a whole other set of complex emotions I know I’ll go through. Yet, the lack of control that I feel is happening as I wait these last few weeks is horrible. What will switch instantly is being able to see her alive. Having her breathing in my arms and feeling like I (or anyone else) can help her if she needs it.

I’m not ‘tired of being pregnant’ or just want her out for the hell of it. That’s where the this 39 week rule messes with women who are just trying to do what is best for their self and child. I don’t feel heard or that my feelings are validated at this point. The only thing, besides being able to have Jensen back too, is to have Mila in my arms alive and healthy.

All I want is to hear her screaming the second she is born and finally being able to see her face. I’m just trying to make sure that happens and not let death steal her away too.

So, here’s to the next (less than) 3 weeks of no sleep and endless kick counts.

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Sharing a Little Secret.

I’ve tried to write and share this post countless of times. My anxiety, PTSD, and depression have kept me from saying anything before, but, I’ve come to a point where I feel it’s necessary to share to help my grief and what’s happening in my life right now.

For the past twenty-seven weeks, I’ve been keeping a secret from everyone…

Yes, you’re seeing that right. I am twenty-seven weeks pregnant, exactly, today. The past so many months have been mixed with mourning my miscarriage, living without Jensen, and trying to feel some sort of excitement for this little baby. I’m doing my very best, but it is so hard. There have been many things that have happened in this time where I’ve wanted to share, but have bit my tongue. As I’m getting closer, I feel as if I need an outlet to say what’s going on in my mind. Especially to other moms who have lost a child, moms who have lived through pregnancy after loss, and every other mom I know.

Although I don’t want to overload everyone with information so quickly, I wanted to share a little about the baby. SHE is a girl and I’ve known since around November to start buying pink. All of her ultrasounds have come back beautifully. The only ‘abnormality’ is her single umbilical artery, which is an isolated incident. She has been seen by my regular OB and the high risk doctors, which they are all ecstatic by her growth and how she’s doing. I’ve had nothing but positive appointments, which as you know, is a stark difference from my past.

She has a name that I will share eventually, just not at this second.

Her due date is three days behind Jensen’s, hello PTSD and reliving each milestone almost exactly the same days. She will probably be delivered around 37-38 weeks, depending on what’s happening then… Jensen was born on 38 weeks and 2 days… you can do that math.

I am happy and so thankful for her. She hears Jensen’s name multiple times a day and I feel his presence close by. I’m scared the same thing will happen again and it has seriously affected my depression, but I’m doing all I can to smile and enjoy everyday that I’ve spent with her so far.

This is an exciting and stressful time for me. I also know how triggering it is to see pregnancy announcements and hearing about other people’s pregnancy journeys. Any time I talk about her on this blog will have a trigger warning picture. I don’t plan on giving weekly updates or things like that, but I do want to talk about how this pregnancy is intertwining with my journey of loss and love.

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Capture This Moment. 

Life is full of important moments. Ones you never forget because they’re so happy and others that are so terrible that they replay in your mind over and over. There are ones where you don’t think you’ll make it to the next and feel so overwhelmed. Grief has put a spot light in them all. 

I’ve learned that you have to take each head on. Once you get past the ones that bring pain, you will make it to the next. I promise. 

The moment they told me Jensen was gone the world melted. I never thought I would catch my breath again and yet somehow my body forced air in my lungs. To be honest, I wish the moment before that one, where I was excited to see him, was my last one. I can’t describe the pain in the following hours, days, and weeks that followed. Each day they replay in my head. I wouldn’t wish loss on anyone. 

For Capture Your Grief, I wanted to capture the moment I came back home. It’s right before I see Jensen’s pictures and his urn; both are things that bring me so much comfort. 

My face isn’t important this month. I’ve wore Pregnancy and Infant Loss ribbons everyday in October to advocate and give babies our babies a voice. It’s before I take off my pin and feel as if I don’t have to wear it here to visibly represent the lives that touch me in every moment I have lived after he was born. I place it with my other ones, waiting to be worn tomorrow. 

Collectively, our moments make up our lives. In them all, I am Jensen’s mom. I am an advocate for pregnancy and infant loss awareness. My voice will not be silenced in any moment that comes after this. For the rest of my life, Jensen will never be forgotten. As he is remembered and talked about, he will live and dance freely in those moments.  

Life is Short. 


For some, it’s much shorter than others. 

Jensen lived thirty-eight glorious weeks. In his lifetime all he knew was love, warmth, and the sound of his mommy’s voice. He danced to Usher and posed for ultrasound pictures. Everyday, he was told how loved and wanted he was. In that time, he grew to be seven pounds, one ounce and nineteen and three quarter inches long. His blond hair was curly and he had ten perfect finger and ten little toes. 

His life was short, but so very beautiful. 

Unfortunately, I found life can be even shorter than thirty-eight weeks, some babies pass much earlier. Ten weeks was never enough with Hux, but it was his and was so full. 

It’s been twenty-four years, one month, and some odd days that I’ve been born. In this time I outlived my child. Their have been lifetimes lived within my belly and I can feel them with every step I take. Sometimes it feels like I have lived a thousand years and other days like I’ve barely made my mark. I get down on myself, constantly, but I think of the life I grew inside me and how he would want me to be happy. 

Life is short. 

I could wake up tomorrow and be gone. We don’t know our destinies or ever predict when we’re going to die. A lot of us know this firsthand, when we learned of our children’s death. Everyday I try to make it a great day and do my best. Whether it’s advocating for baby loss, bettering my future, or taking steps for Jensen, I’m living my life because I know how precious it is. 

One of the Hardest Posts I’ll Ever Write. 

I wish what I’m writing right now would be the good news I hoped it would be. What it should be. 

Truthfully, I had been keeping a little secret from you guys. Hiding my hope and (yes) excitement for the future. You see, the Wednesday before Mother’s Day the word ‘positive’ boldly presented itself right in front of me. I was blessed with another baby, another pregnancy. Jensen had handpicked his little brother or sister for me. There the fire of having a living child was reignited. 

The past weeks were full of anxiety and guilt and joy for this new life inside of me. I’ve been sick to my stomach and craving avacados. Eleven days ago I even saw his or her’s strong heartbeat on the ultrasound screen. Ten perfect weeks of pregnancy. 

Late last night, I noticed light, brown spotting. Of course I was concerned. I read through all the baby blogs and boards. My mind kept telling me, it’s just old blood. Everything has went so smoothly. Then this morning, it was back. The spotting went off and on, I thought about going to the doctor first thing, but figured I’d just rest unless it got worse. 

Then it did. 

My mom and I went to the hospital. Still, I was so confident nothing was wrong. There was no pain or any other symptoms. They took my blood and urine. It said I was pregnant, but we needed to scan just to see. 

I should’ve known when she didn’t let me see the screen. Part of me did know, but I was holding onto hope. 

Loss had already struck, it wouldn’t hit me again. 

We waited in our room for what it seemed like forever. Today there was a ton of trauma patients. There were so many people being wheeled to the rooms beside me. I told my mom that I wasn’t high priority, they were just getting to everyone first. There’s nothing wrong. I really didn’t think it could happen again. 

He came into the room, muttered some words, but all I got out of that cacophony was ‘there wasn’t a heartbeat.’

I don’t know what’s going to happen now. In the blur of the conversations after those words, I know I’ll either miscarry naturally or have a D&C Monday. This weekend was supposed to be happy, I was going to announce to the rest of my family. Show them the baby’s ultrasound, have hope for the future. 

Mentally and emotionally, I know I’m in a sort of shock. Different from what I was with Jensen, but still shock. I am angry and feel as if having a living child is not in my cards. 

There’s nothing that’s going to make this ‘better.’ This baby is not in a better place and I don’t want to hear about God’s plan for me. I’m in pain. Losing this child hurts like hell. I loved and wanted him or her so much. It wasn’t just a few cells, it was my baby. Just like Jensen is my son. 

This is my child. He or she was here and so real. I miss them already and hope Jensen will take care of his little sibling. 


Although I don’t know when this will be posted (I’m writing this on my couch after just leaving the hospital), I will probably be MIA for the next couple weeks. If I do post, it’s not going to be ‘happy,’ my second child just died. 

I do appreciate all of your support through my journey of loss and love. It’s not one I’d ever wish on anyone. 

The Greatest Gift.

If I could ask for anything for my birthday, and every single day, I’d ask for you.

For my birthday, I wish I could be counting your toes. I wish I could have taught you how to walk and then I’d see your footprints all the time. I’d have to wipe them up each day, but every night they’d grow just a little big bigger. In this lifetime, your feet will forever be this big. Even though they were just little, baby feet you continue to leave a huge footprint on my life and this earth.

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This is one of my favorite pictures of your perfect feet. Your ten little toes, that look just like mine. All those perfect creases make such a unique print. Every single part of you as beautiful as the last. I’ll forever be longing to see you using these perfect pair of feet. You are the greatest gift I’ve ever had.

Jensen Grey, I’m wishing for you today and all the days of my life.

The Hurt in Healing.

Today started off like any other day. I woke up, touched Jensen’s urn, and thanked God I made it through another night. When I was out of bed, I talked to Jensen and told him what I had planned for the rest of the day: work, therapy, clean the house, and then the blink-182 concert tonight. The morning went seemingly ‘normal,’ until it came time for therapy. That’s when I learned about the hurt in healing.

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My favorite little button nose.

It hit me, today is Tuesday. My son died on a Tuesday and it wasn’t the first thing that popped in my mind. It’s been eighteen weeks and that doom that I’ve felt on every Tuesday since he’s been born, skipped today. Honestly, I didn’t even process this usually huge trigger day, until I was mid-conversation with my counselor. I was talking about healing and trying my best to continue moving forward in this life after loss. Then I realized I’m healing more than I realize each day. Instead of doom, I felt thankful to be alive and that I was able to touch Jensen’s urn. Instead of crying all morning, I talked to Jensen about what I’m looking forward to doing in the day. This Tuesday wasn’t as heavy as any other one.

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The Story Behind Jensen’s Name.

If you hadn’t noticed, I love Jensen’s name. His name sounds so beautifully when said out loud and the loops look so perfect wrote out. When I hear other’s say his name, it’s the sweetest sound. He always was my Jensen, even before we knew he was a boy. It’s been our connection to him from the start.

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After being asked about his name, I realized I’ve never really told you the story behind his name. Fair warning, it’s not as exciting as you would think. It’s actually a little silly, but it all came together so perfectly.

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Fifteen Weeks & The Painted Name Project.

It feels unreal that another week has came and passed. It’s the fifteenth week since Jensen has been born. One-hundred and five days have passed. On day one-hundred, I felt the biggest pain, triple digits was hard to wrap my mind around. How could it seem like it was yesterday when he was dancing and moving all around? Seriously, I don’t understand how all of this can be possible. But each day I wake up and rediscover my reality.

I feel like I could go on and on and on about all I wanted to do with Jensen or how I feel like my whole entire future was stolen away from me. Today I’m choosing to have a positive day, even though I want to hide in bed. I know he continues to guide me each day and protect me. He dances in the clouds each and every Tuesday, while he celebrates getting bigger in heaven. In my heaven, he grows until I get up there with him. Then we both go back to being twenty-two and him just born. When I reunite with him there, I want him to be screaming as loud as he can be. My heaven does not include silence.

In this world, I don’t want to keep silent either. I will always say Jensen’s name and keep talking about baby and child loss. It’s really unheard of until it happens to you or someone you know. Believe me, there’s a whole community of parents, grandparents, and other families that are effected by losing a child. Stillbirth results in 1 in 160 pregnancies and baby loss ranging from miscarriage to SIDS happens to 1 in 4. I hope to be able to help every single family out there in just a small way and maybe one day I will.

Today, in honor of Jensen’s fifteenth week in heaven, I want to share a beautiful project that my little Jensen helped to inspire.

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Fourteen Weeks.

Tuesday, we meet yet again. Instead of the happiness of each passing week I wanted with Jensen, I get further away from my last connection to him. I wish I could say each lessens the pain, but it doesn’t. Moving forward and processing grief is more complicated than that. His absence is so loud and the only thing I can focus on, especially on Tuesdays. I can imagine him everywhere I go, so I’ve been trying to fill the blank spaces with what reminds me of him. Continuously incorporating him so beautifully into our home and always in our hearts.

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Today I can’t keep my eyes off of his new block; his ‘J’ block. It stays in our living room, where his swing would be. I look over there and imagine him so happy and content going back and forth. Then when I’m spiraling into the darkest parts, I look
at his block. His initial means so much to me. Anthony call him Baby J as soon as we found out he was our little boy. I feel like once I got pregnant, J’s popped up everywhere. It seems fitting to keep them in our house and all around me. Even after we have his pictures hanging up, his J will always hold so much hope and happiness for me.

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