Tag Archives: life

Another Post-Op Appointment.

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Seventy days are all I had with Jensen’s sibling.

In that short amount of time I took pictures, laughed out loud, and had hope for the future ahead of us. Everything was going to be right with this baby. We had an angel looking out for us. I was feeling so positive in that time, the anxiety of pregnancy after loss didn’t set in.

When this child died, my world crumbled again. The days I was stuck on the couch, I looked at all I had from this pregnancy. It doesn’t dent the amount of things I had for Jensen, but this is what it is. I had a feeling this baby was a girl and planned the nursery out. There were clothes I had on my Etsy favorites and I even bought a little onesie for his or her arrival. The truth is, I didn’t know anything about the baby growing inside me, besides it was mine and I loved it very much.

Last week, my doctor’s office called and wanted me to go back in to hear more of the results from the testing on the baby. Today was the day I went back in.

I found out the exact reason why this baby died and that there was no fault on my part. That the reason I lost this child would be unlikely to happen again in a subsequent pregnancy, which I’ve heard before then lost again. From the testing, I found out that even if they baby made it full term, they would have died shortly after. Hearing that didn’t make it easier to know I miscarried. I guess I should be glad for future babies, but I don’t feel that. It just felt/feels like I was in a whirlwind of information, but it was always backed up by the hope of the future. Sometimes when we’re pressured just to look towards the future, we don’t really grasp how we feel in the present.

There was one, big fact I learned about my child, he was a boy.

The six weeks I knew about him, I thought he was a girl. Somehow finding out that little piece of information gives me a little more closure. He isn’t just a disregarded ‘it.’ Jensen has a little brother to play with in heaven. They can do what boys do and that makes me smile.

It has been a hard day. Obviously.

As soon as I came home, I pulled out all the papers I had on him and the things I bought so early on to put them in his own little drawer. Then I looked on my phone and saw the pictures I had of him. There’s not a lot, but it’s all I have and cherish.

His name is Huxley. This is a snippet of his life: his infinity.

‘Your Loss Makes Me Uncomfortable’ and Five More Things I’ve Heard.

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Last year I wrote this post about hurtful things I had been told only four months into losing Jensen. It’s been one of my most read post and I think by sharing things that are painful to hear will help others know what they’re saying is hurtful.

Now fifteen months into my loss journey, on top of my miscarriage, there are comments said to me that really sting. Sometimes hearing them is just the tipping point of a complete grief attack. It’s horrible. Deep down I believe a lot of these are just a person trying to help, but it’s a little misguided. Other times it’s just complete cruelty from a person. I’m not sure if that stems from not having any empathy/sympathy for a person or they just don’t care.

With all that being said, here’s part two of my original post. As with any of my posts that could come off distasteful, this isn’t me trying to put anyone down. If you have said any of these things, I’m not calling you out. This is purely just to help break the stigma of child loss and open the conversation of how to treat the bereaved. Of course, every person is different and what bothers me may not effect the next.

Your loss makes me uncomfortable.

Oh, I’m sorry that my child who died makes you uncomfortable, I guess I’ll act like it never happened so you’re okay. HA.

Guess what death and grief is uncomfortable and I live with that every second of the day. Losing a child is hard, sad, and really indescribable. The moments I get to talk about Jensen and the love he brought into my life are the ones I treasure the most. If I’m sharing him with you, that means a lot. Yet, when I hear how uncomfortable you are about my stories and his pictures… it makes me never want to share him.

Of course I keep sharing him because that’s what makes me happy. Babies who have gone so soon shouldn’t be hid away, they should be celebrated.

At least it was an early loss, it doesn’t hurt as bad.

This has made way in the mix of comments since losing Jensen’s little sibling. I was ten weeks, which was a lot less time with that little baby then Jensen. Our time together wasn’t ‘long,’ but it was that child’s whole life. The moment I saw that pregnancy test flash positive, I was over the moon with happiness.

Then he or she died and I tumbled down.

Pregnancy and infant loss, heck any loss, hurts. It doesn’t matter how long with a person you had, they still mattered and made a difference. Honestly, people told me this with Jensen too. That it was a good thing I wasn’t attached to him because he hadn’t taken a breath outside my womb. My question with this comment is how long is long enough time with your child that losing them starts to hurt?

That’s in the past. You need to live in the present.

My eyes roll so far in the back of my head every time I hear this.

Yes, believe me, I know how many weeks and days it’s been since Jensen and his sibling died. Just like I know that I’m in this day right now. This comment usually is said when I’m having a bad day because I don’t have enough strength to look my ‘okayest’ on the outside.

It doesn’t matter how long it has been, my life should be different. My present should not be how it is now. Jensen should be walking around all over the place and I still should be growing his baby sibling inside my belly. When you look at it like that, how could you not understand why the present is so hard? Their death is deafening. Loss parents try their best to keep moving forward, never leaving their children and their memories behind, and continue healing in the best way they know how. We are living in the present we never thought was possible, don’t judge us while we’re trying to figure it out.

You can always have more.

This was on the last list too, but I think it’s important to mention it again.

Maybe you’re right and maybe you’re wrong. I don’t know infertility rates off the top of my head, but I do know there are tons of men and women who are battling to get pregnant. There’s also this little thing called secondary infertility. Just because someone was able to get pregnant before does not always guarantee a future pregnancy.

Let’s take this in another direction, that I’m all too familiar with. What happens if you do get pregnant and that child dies too? Yeah, that’s real talk. The truth a pregnancy doesn’t always result in a living child. Multiple loss happens to so many parents.

My advice on this one, mind your own business. You never know what’s happening behind the scenes.

I couldn’t go on if my child died.

Each time I’ve heard this I’ve wanted to scream.

One, I’m not strong or cold-hearted to have ‘kept going on’ after Jensen’s death. There’s really only two options of what I could do. First, try to make sense and keep moving forward in life after loss. Second, not go on. That was nicely put. When you say you couldn’t go on, you’re implying you would die if you children did. So frankly the other option I would have is to just die and then it would be pity her she couldn’t handle life.

Two, when you say this, it feels like you’re downplaying the love I have for my child and the pain I feel. The truth is you can never predict how you’re going to react after you child dies, but you have the two options I stated above: to keep going on or taking your own life.

So you have NO children.

This is a newly inspired comment to add to my list of horrible things I’ve heard. If you haven’t heard the whole episode of what happened during my post-op appointment, you can read it, here.

I’m going to put this in a perspective anyone could understand. If your mother dies, are you still her child? Is she still your mother? Does death take away the relationship you had with her? If you answered, yes, yes, no. Then you should understand why hearing this would make you livid. Now, let me flip the switch. If you died, right now as you’re reading this, would your mom still be your mother? Or would your death just take that away from her?

She would still be your mom, just like I’ll always be Jensen’s and this little baby’s. Death does not take that time away. It steals your future, of course, but not the unique relationship with that person. SO, how could a person look at a mother who has went survived pregnancy and infant loss and tell her she has no children. It’s cruel and completely untrue.

Again, this post is not written to throw anyone under a bus. It’s meant to help educate to make others aware that child loss is a real tragedy and words really can hurt.

Learning How to Swim, Again.

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Yesterday, as I floated alone in my parent’s pool, I was fueled by anger. In my head I was screaming so loud, but my exterior just seemed like I was uncomfortable. I tried to calm myself by watching the clouds, feeling the sun’s warmth, and letting the cool water extinguish the flames of madness inside me.

How is this my life?

Let me back this up a little bit. Since my D&C, I’ve had this horrible cough. I can’t sleep at night due to it and nothing seems to ease my coughing fits. In trying to figure out why I am lacking in sleep, I realized it was from the breathing tube they had to put in my throat for surgery. The lasting, physical evidence from this pregnancy. The combination from the lack of sleep and headaches from constantly coughing and drinking hot tea has me on edge: emotionally and physically.

Knowing all of this, I wanted to try my best to relax yesterday since I had the pool to myself. Right before I plugged my iPhone in to blast music, I scrolled through Instagram like I normally do. Now, I follow lots of loss moms, motivational accounts, and profiles that have journal prompts. If you didn’t know, I write a lot for myself, that no one ever reads. Sometimes it’s nice to be guided in writing. One of my favorite accounts, @rusticojournal, posted a seemingly fun and innocent prompt yesterday…

@rusticojournal


The mix of no sleep and my emotional battle twisted this nice, light prompt into a soul crushing reality that is my life.

Dramatic? Probably, but that was the spark that lit the fire in my mind. Since I felt so emotional after reading the prompt (and spewing while floating) I decided to write a response and wanted to share it with you.

I learned how to swim in this new life after loss because I was pushed off the highest mountain into an ocean that’s undercurrents pulled me down to the bottom. During the fall, I forgot how to swim or even which way the surface was to swim. I succumbed to the ocean of grief and let it twist me around. It would have been easy to just stay there in the darkness, for I was afraid of what would happen when I came back up. The world had defied me and how could I trust it ever again?

Something inside me made me want to begin swimming, to try to heal from the loss of my son. Stroke by stroke, I became stronger and reached the surface. There were waves so tall and big that knocked me back under, but I refused to sink. Each time I was plummeted down, it took me less time to swim back up. When I resurfaced I saw different beautifies that didn’t exist before. Yes, the world had looked different, but I couldn’t go back to how it was before. I didn’t want to go back to a world without Jensen, so I had to accept these pains and joys.

For a year, I learned how to swim in the ocean of grief. I was actually getting quite good at maneuvering and predicted the waves. Then it changed when I got pregnant again. There were still huge obstacles ahead and it didn’t take away all those I had overcome, but something new had come into play, hope.

My short pregnancy after loss experience was smooth, until the hurricane came and I had to learn how to swim again.

I hate comparing this loss to losing Jensen. They’re so different in many ways, but the pain I feel… it’s still heartbreaking. My hope for the future was extinguished and the flames of anger and the intense grief is back. Yes, I’m still in the ocean of grief, I’ve never left. I was pulled down to the bottom again and am still swimming up.

This time though, I’m not afraid of getting back to the surface. I know what’s there now. Learning how to swim this time is easier than what it was when Jensen died. My muscle memory is guiding me in how to grieve, even though it is different from before. The movements and waves are tricky, but I want to be on top. I want to see where I am in this sea and how far this hurricane threw me. There’s no way I can go back to where I was before this miscarriage. It’s a new terrain for me that created completely different situations and experiences.

Loss has altered me and the world around me, but it hasn’t taken away my ability to learn how to swim.

Usually it helps getting all the built up words out on paper, but this wasn’t the case yesterday. My cough kept me up again last night and since I released some of my pent-up emotions, they just wanted to spill out. I questioned God why He had to take Jensen, when he’s all I want, or why He had to take his little sibling away, when he or she gave me so much hope for the future.

If I could share anything from my experience in learning how to swim again (navigate life after loss), is that no matter the loss, it hurts like hell. There is no reasons babies should die and parents to be subjected in this pain and grief. No words can take away that pain, no future living children can erase what has happened, and no matter how much time has passed, a parent can feel how deeply their child’s loss impacted their life. All we can do is help each other swim.

Fifteen Months. 

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Another month is here without him. One more that I never thought I would survive, yet here I am trying to be strong. The anticipation of each month change has not gotten easier since the very first one. I feel its weight in my bones trying to make me crumble. 

This past month has been one of the hardest. Two weeks ago my second child’s lifeless body was taken straight from my womb. The grief of losing him or her ontop of what I feel for Jensen and his loss has been complex. Most of the time I don’t know how to describe what’s going on in my brain. Maybe this extra weight has made this month change so much worse. 

I went into his room today. Sometimes I have this strong pulling to just sit in there, more than my everyday look. 

Every time I step in there, it’s like I’m transported to another reality. I see his room what it would be like if he was here. Not at infancy, but right now running and testing his limits three months after his birthday. Toys are scattered along his rug and there’s clothes to be put away. There are projects we have done on the wall and all his books are on the shelves. I see this scene and him in there. Somehow I wish I could describe it better than just being transported to another reality, it’s literally like I step through another veil and there he sits. That’s how I picture Jensen and I’s heaven.

After snapping out of the world I want to be living in, I saw things I hadn’t paid attention to in awhile. The little details that I love that wouldn’t be exactly there if he was here. On his changing table lies a little racecar and my favorite sign I bought before he was born. ‘Just be awesome.’ There wasn’t any pressure on him to be something, just as long as he was happy and growing up to be a good boy. Then there’s the books I actually have in his room. Stuffed away with a lot of his things is his whole library, many of those books from the book drive we did during the baby shower. The ones in his room are my favorite though. Sometimes I pull them out on special days and read out loud for him to hear. I know he’s listening and sometimes Leo comes to listen too. 


Yes, I accidentally bought two of the same J’s…. oops. 


Fifteen months have gone by since I last physically felt Jensen. In that time I’ve picked up most of the pieces, dropped them multiple times again, and kept trying to place them back to a new normal. I’ve felt the biggest heartbreak, twice, but I’ve also learned how to love so deeply. 

To feel everything so deeply. 

I wish this wasn’t my reality, but I’m surviving and doing my best to thrive. Even if I knew what was going to happen, I’d still choose my little, blond hair boy born fifteen months ago.

Five Unexpected Experiences I Faced During My Miscarriage. 

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I woke up before the sun rose this morning. As I watched the light creep up the sky a harrowing reality entered my mind, I’ve been in my post loss world for almost fifteen months.

Jensen was born at thirty-eight weeks and two days. With his birth and death, I learned so many things about my loss and so many other people’s losses. For all those months, I focused on stillbirth and how each situation was different.

I knew about miscarriages through talking to others about their experiences and journeys, but I didn’t understand this type of loss. That, unfortunately, all changed with losing Jensen’s little sibling this month. In this past week and a half, I’ve been immersed in thought and physical changes that I didn’t know went along with this loss.

This post is long, raw and in your face. Writing and being able to authentically share my experience helps me and my healing process. I hope it will be able to help someone else in knowing they’re not alone. This is my experience and every situation is as individual as the person.

Fear of miscarrying naturally.

When I first found out that my second child’s heart had stopped beating at ten weeks, I didn’t want to have a D&C. I wanted to miscarry naturally and give this child this labor of love. It felt like I needed to feel all this pain and let my body do its job.

That all changed when genetic testing on the baby and information about infection was presented to me.

I had to wait from Saturday to Wednesday to get my D&C. It was so stressful. I was terrified to go to the bathroom and see my baby right there. Every pain or pressure I felt in those few days made my heart drop. Although I wish I was able to give this baby a natural birth, I needed the closure to see what was wrong or what happened. I never knew this fear of not wanting the baby to come. Honestly, I was also afraid of that ‘what if’ I did miscarry. Expectations can warp your mind.

Before this loss, I didn’t even think of how it would be to wait to miscarry naturally. That sounds crazy coming from me, but with Jensen I had an idea of what was supposed to happen. My body took over my mind during birth and I was able to give birth. With this loss, my mind was so present and terrified of what I would see or feel. Those thoughts turned into pure fear that I didn’t know would happen.

Physical trauma.

There is a difference between having a stillborn baby and a miscarriage on your body. With Jensen, I have PTSD. Losing him and those two days were traumatic. I completely blocked them out still to this day. When I learned this baby’s heart had stopped beating, I didn’t know the extent of trauma it was going to do to my body.

The doctors tell you, it’s like a heavy period. I disagree. For me, when I started bleeding it was more than a heavy period. It was days of knowing my child had passed inside me and slowly seeing discharge getting heavier. Seeing that bright, red blood made my stomach drop, even knowing there was no heartbeat. There were literal days of feeling that way and experiencing my body trying to miscarry, then came the D&C.

When I say I had surgery, it sounds so passive. One, surgery is hard on you no matter what you go through, but knowing you’re going under with a baby in your belly and waking up feeling empty… it’s anything but passive. I can remember moving on the operating table and having my arms strapped down. The lights above me were so bright and I was just so defeated. It was really happening. This was trauma and I keep replaying that scene and what happened when I woke up.

The thing is although it’s a different trauma to stillbirth, a miscarriage is just as traumatic.

Anger.

This might be a mix of my miscarriage and experiencing multiple loss.

I don’t like to swear, but I’m pissed. There’s constantly a scream in the back of my throat knowing that Jensen and this child have died. Death is hard. It’s so hard when it’s your child and you can’t do anything about it. You feel hopeless and like a failure. That angers me.

Truthfully, I hate that I keep comparing losses, but this one has to be compared. With Jensen, I knew so much about him. Of course there’s so much I will never know, but I can imagine with him. I saw him so many times on the ultrasound screen and felt him grow. That time was gold. With this baby, I didn’t get that time. I don’t know who this little person was and he or she is my baby. That makes me so mad. It is unfair and like another loss mom friend of mine said, insulting. I didn’t think of it that way until she said it and it’s so true.

This anger… it’s not something I expected to be this strong.

Welcoming the feeling of isolation.

As I said in the beginning, each loss and how a person grieves is so unique.

When I got home from the emergency room Saturday, I texted a few people who I knew had miscarriages and wanted to hear their experience. After that, I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I wanted to be alone and wrap my mind around how this was happening again. With Jensen I was afraid to be alone, but this loss every encouraging phrase or really any words to me felt like a slap in the face. Hence why I didn’t get on social media or read any texts. I’m sure this mixes in with the anger, but they feel so separate in my mind.

I wanted to be isolated.

I wanted to feel what I needed without any other words coming my way.

I didn’t/don’t want to hear how strong I was/am or how I’d get through it because frankly it sucks. This shouldn’t happen to anyone. Going with that, I’ve been keeping everything to myself because I don’t want to show the pain or have others feel it. It’s like I have to soak up every feeling before I begin processing then to talking about my miscarriage.

Me wanting to be isolated for this past week was unexpected and new to my grief, but I’m adapting and figuring out as each day passes.

My body returning back to ‘normal.’

Throughout this pregnancy I ate extremely healthy and walked every night. I did this because I wanted the best for my baby and my body too. This routine was great for me. My body felt good and my brain was clear. I didn’t realize how bloated my belly (my whole body) was from the pregnancy until the day I went to schedule my D&C.

The days prior, I felt like my body was normal. It had to be too early to start showing or so I thought. I put on a pair of denim shorts that had been a little tight the past few weeks and magically they were almost falling off. No lie. It was crazy how big these shorts and all the shirts I tried on. When my mom came over she kept looking at me and asked if I had looked in the mirror. She kept telling me my face and legs looked like they shrunk.

I couldn’t believe how much my body had changed with my baby still inside me. After surgery, my body has continued to go down, quickly. This has a whole entire different level of grief. Physically seeing my body just go back to normal, like I hadn’t just been growing a baby, is hard to see in the mirror.

With Jensen, it took my body a while to get back to a somewhat normal, pre-pregnancy weight. With this miscarriage, I don’t have my body showing what I did. It’s disheartening and I didn’t expect my body to react in this way.

Again, this is just my experience with my miscarriage that happened not even two weeks ago. Everyone experiences loss differently, but these are somethings I didn’t expect to feel or happen.

Miscarriage is a hope-sucking tragedy that shouldn’t happen. Just as any loss. I try not to compare how I’m feeling like I did with Jensen, but it’s hard because that’s my only experience with having a child. No matter how angry I am or in shock of what has happened, this child is loved and missed. Just like my sweet Jensen is love and missed.

A Week of Tears, Silence, and Heartbreak. 

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My world changed again, even when I thought it’d be impossible to do so. In the blink of an eye my optimistic dreams of the future, for the little life inside me changed to despair and disbelief. Once again I came tumbling down the rabbit hole of grief and empty arms.

The hope draining out of me is as painful as an animal who is left to bleed out; lonely and slowly turning cold. I feel like I’m hanging here upside down, the world is making sure all the hope is out of me before it turns me right-side up again. This is how I felt after Jensen was born, but with this loss there isn’t a cloud of grief numbing me. The sting of the cut is so fresh and right through the wound of where I was originally cut with Jensen.

This past (little over a) week, I found out Jensen’s sibling has died, had to wait in fear of miscarrying naturally so the doctor wouldn’t be able to get a tissue sample, and had to undergo a surgery. Somehow just saying surgery or a D&C doesn’t give the justification of what it actually felt like, but maybe I’ll get to that another day. I’ve slept, a lot, trying to escape my reality. In my dreams I’m able to see Jensen and to forget that this heartbreak actually happened.

I haven’t wanted to talk to anyone, maybe besides my mom, dad, and brother. There are unread messages and emails on my phone that I don’t know when I’ll get to read. Just seeing people say ‘I’m sorry’ is so triggering right now. I’m sorry for myself. Sorry that I couldn’t help bring another child in my arms.

My motherhood feels like a failure.

When I went to the hospital last Wednesday, I walked in the room and saw this beautiful gift bag from my sweet friend, Jessica at Lettered Hope. I remember not being able to go through anything before I went into surgery, it hurt too much. The only thing I read was the prayer she wrote. Those words repeated in my mind before I went under. I kept thinking of Jensen and his little sibling too.

It’s moments like those where I realize I’m not a failure and neither is my motherhood. I didn’t ask for any of this to happen; no one would ever ask for pregnancy loss. Yet in her words of letting me know I’m not alone, God is with me, and thinking of how Jensen is always with me calmed me. The calmness stayed with me until they doctor put the anesthesia into my IV.

I dreamt of Jensen when I was under. We were on the beach and playing in the sand. In that dream I was so aware of what was happening, he was right there in front of my smiling and laughing. I was happy and the weight of anxiety and grief vanished.

When I woke up, I was sobbing. Tears flooded my face and I couldn’t catch my breath. The nurses probably thought I was crazy. I kept saying Jensen’s name wishing I could go back to my dream or wishing that was somehow my reality. That sobbing and feeling of emptiness has stayed with me and I’m not sure when it’ll go away.

The only thing that has helped hold me together was the contents in Jessica’s gift to me, Jensen bear, and my family including Leo and Poe. Seeing the immense support I’ve gotten online from the loss community has been so helpful. Even when I feel lonely, I know there’s other people who are cheering me on and sending me positive vibes. There have been times this past week I have felt so selfish for not responding, but I really don’t know what to say. I’m not okay, but I’m trying my best to pick up the pieces.

The ‘Best Mother Ever!’ mug with tea has helped calm me and helps with my throat after it being irritated during surgery. Of course Jensen bear has been close to me, mostly in my lap.

Flowers my mom brought me before surgery.

I don’t know what’s going to be happening with me in the immediate future. Obviously I’m focusing on my body’s recovery and trying to get a handle on my grief. My next appointment will hopefully give me some answers as to what happened or if there’s anything wrong with me. With Jensen I had a ton of testing on me and there was nothing that popped up. I’m really just at a loss mentally as to what happened, even though I know sometimes babies just die.

For now, I just want to say thank you again for all your support. There’s a few things I want to blog about with this experience, but I wanted to update with how I’m doing first. If there’s anything I could tell someone though is miscarriage, stillbirth, and loss in general sucks. It hurts and no matter what.

One of the Hardest Posts I’ll Ever Write. 

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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. 

Fourteen Months and I’m Not ‘Better.’

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‘You seem better…’

This statement shocks me every time. What is better? Especially when you’re talking about child loss. Is it being able to get out of the house and do more productive things? It’s definitely not how I feel inside. If anything, I (somehow) long for him more than I did in the beginning. I’ve never seen a progression checklist after losing Jensen, so I’m really out of the ‘getting better’ loop.

With as transparent as I am, concerning my grief journey, there’s a lot I hold back from the world. A lot.

If anyone saw me this weekend, they would have been worried. Maybe even thought I was worse or backtracked in the generic stages of grief. As we all know, those are crap. On Saturday, I had no windows open, the blinds blocked any light from coming in, and there I was, paralyzed by grief on the couch. My eyes were red with deep, dark circles under them. I’m not even sure if my hair was brushed.

I was laying there watching every sad movie I could find on Netflix. My arms ached and my heart felt like it was being squeezed. How could Jensen already be fourteen months old in heaven? Why couldn’t he stay with me? What am I supposed to do with the rest of my life without him? These questions went unanswered, but were asked in my mind over and over. I manically laughed through my tears at the fact I’d live a long life. Yes, you read that right. A life full of grief and longing for the person I’ll never be able to get back.

Truthfully, I know I shouldn’t think that and most days I’m thankful for every day I’m alive. Today and the day after and so on are days I get to live for Jensen and myself. The days he’d want me to embrace and keep going.

BUT THIS IS GRIEF.

It is a constant battle and it’s exhausting. Days like Saturday is when I have no strength to keep fighting those thoughts. I succumb to them. It hurts.

You’re probably thinking, why didn’t you call for help? Reach out? Something?

My mother came over after an x amount of texts and phone calls. She came in my front door and saw me. I couldn’t even talk, sobs escaped. What I could muster to her was, I need to be alone. I didn’t want this grief and sadness to attach to her and bring her to this level. My self-worth told me I deserved to feel this way. Deserved to face this life without my son.  I couldn’t put that on my mom and I think it was the first time she’s really seen in the last few months, that I’m not really doing better.

Even at fourteen months post loss. 

When I hear that ‘I seem to be doing better,’ I want to laugh in their faces or at the very least, let them live with me for a few days to see how many tears I produce. I’d like to say better is made up. Have I gotten stronger? Of course. Nothing will make me feel any better. My son is gone. There are things I’ve found joy in after, but it doesn’t even come close to the joy he brought me in his little infinity with me. Maybe that makes me a pessimist. I say it makes me a realist.

Instead of saying all of that, I think I have the perfect answer for the world…

No. I’ve just learned how to fake it better. 

June’s Name Project

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It’s no secret, the statistics about pregnancy and infant loss are incredibly high. Every twenty minutes a baby is stillborn. One in four pregnancies result in loss. One in one-hundred and sixty babies are stillborn. I wish I knew all the statistics, but those are the ones I remember on the top of my head. Either way, that is a lot of babies, a lot of parents, and a lot of families experiencing this tragedy.

Even more outrageous, there are so many people who don’t even know this still happens. I know I didn’t and I feel horrible for not ever recognizing this beautiful community of grieving mothers.

A few days ago, I shared that I wanted to do a name project this month. Usually I like to do name wreathes and in December I wrote names on the beach. Well, the last two times I went to the beach, I wasn’t able to write names. So, I’ve been brainstorming on how I can write baby names creatively around me.

Every June, the community I live in does garage sales. It’s sort of a big event for our small town, but it brings in a ton of people and it’s pretty fun. Usually, everyone walks to each sale and, honestly, it really is just a good way to bring neighbors closer together.

With knowing this event is coming up (next weekend!) and having all the pregnancy and infant loss statistics flying in my head lately, I wanted to incorporate the two. But how am I going to do this? I’ve thought of handouts or writing on rocks, but I didn’t feel right. Then, I thought of writing names in chalk on the ground.I’m hoping it will be a way to provide healing to parents by seeing their child’s name written out AND bring some awareness to others.

Sometimes it’s hard to see so many names… I wish the names would only fill up a small part of the sidewalk, but in reality it could fill up the whole entire street. That’s the reality of loss though. It can happen to anyone.

I’m going to stop taking names on Wednesday night, since the garage sales start on Thursday. The plan is, I’ll write names down and take pictures of each baby name and then send them to their parents. Then I’ll post a big picture of how many names there were written on the sidewalk.

To submit your child’s name, (first and/or middle please) you can comment on where I share this post on Jensen’s Facebook page, on the picture that’s on here on Instagram, or you can comment below on this blog. If you do comment on here, please leave your email address so I can make sure the picture gets to you. Please feel free to share to your loss mom friends. It means the world to me when you all reshare and tag others because it really shows me how tight this community really is.

Thank you all for participating and reading along. I’m excited to be able to do this project to help others and myself on our healing journeys.

May We All Heal | Future

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We’ve made it to the end of this May journey. I can’t believe the month’s already over, it feels like it just started! Another month of loss and love down and a whole lifetime to go.

Today’s prompt is ‘future,’ but I’ll get to that in a little bit. I want to reflect on the May We All Heal Project and talk about what I took from it. It is so beautiful every time there’s an opportunity to come together as a community and share parts of our journeys. We’re able to learn so much more about each other, our different paths of grief and healing, and (my favorite part) about our children.

For me, there were prompts I loved to write about and others I dreaded the day I saw the prompt list. Even though I spill my heart every time I write, there are still parts I’m afraid to talk about. Hmm, I guess afraid would be the wrong word. Sometimes I’m afraid of opening up a part of my grief that I didn’t know was there. Which sounds absolutely ridiculous, but that’s how it is.

There are always talks about triggers.

I find myself battling a wide range of triggers every day. It was no different this month. Coming off Jensen’s birthday and all the emotions that came with his day, May was hard. I’m exhausted by the grief and really making myself think hard about each prompt helped, but it was draining. In truth, I keep comparing this to Capture Your Grief in October. I loved that project, but I remember right around halfway, I was beat. So many emotions going into the holiday season and being at the sixth month mark, it was hard. For some reason I thought May We All Heal would be easier on me?

Altogether, I think this experience was helpful to me. I was able to connect with different moms than before, which was nice. It’s always heartbreaking to me to know there’s another mom that is in pain, but I’m glad we’re all here to help each other.

That’s kind of my take away for this month.

Now to the future…

As always, I like to plan for the upcoming month. It helps me keep track of where I am. I have a name project I want to do this next month, which will be fun for me. That’ll be here in a few days, so keep your eyes out. Father’s Day is this month, which is different for me since Jensen’s dad and I don’t really talk anymore. BUT I have my family and my dad to celebrate and I know Jensen would want to be there for his grandpa.

There’s also a big surprise I have for you all. I’m not sure when I’ll be filling you guys in on it, but maybe this next month? Very nervous about it, but I hope it’ll turn out well.

As always, I’ll be writing (not everyday) and sharing on Jensen’s page (everyday). No matter what happens in life, I’ll always share this journey with you guys. Jensen is the biggest part of me and I want to continue sharing him with the world. Everyday I live my life for him. I’ll continue taking the steps he’ll never take and that’s how it is.

He is mine and I am his, forever and always.