Tag Archives: stillbirth

The Day Everything Changed.

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It was a Monday.

The weather was surprisingly nice being in April, but I felt off. Being thirty-eight weeks pregnant takes a toll on a person, yet this was a different feeling. I couldn’t quite tell what was wrong, but my body was telling me I needed to lay down. So Poe and I laid on the couch while Anthony left. I remember Poe laying super close to my belly and me talking to Jensen. A little part of me was wondering why he wasn’t moving as much as he normally did in the mornings. I kept pushing it out of my mind since I’d be going to the doctor at one.

On the ride to our appointment, I remember saying I thought something was wrong.

‘What would we do if he was still?’

Honestly, I thought it was just me worrying. Now when I look back, I think I knew. Anthony told me not to worry, Jensen is just fine.

He still hadn’t moved when we were in the waiting room. I was talking to him and remember walking into the bathroom three times while waiting. Finally we were taken back to the room, it felt like another appointment. She had me lay down on the table and put the jelly on my belly. I distinctly remember making a joke that there wasn’t much room left in there. She nervously chuckled and told me she’d be back.

I was worried at that moment, but everything was going to be alright. He was moving and passed his ultrasound less than five days ago. My comforting thoughts calmed the worrisome ones until my doctor came in.

It didn’t take him anytime at all to see that Jensen’s heart had stopped beating.

‘I’m sorry there’s no heartbeat. Do you understand what I’m saying?’ 

The world has come crashing down around me. I understood exactly what he was saying, but I didn’t know what happened next. He was talking, but I couldn’t hear any sound coming out. Just that we needed to go to the hospital to double-check and they would let me know what to do there.

When we walked out of that room, I felt Jensen’s weight just hanging there. I felt numb and in shock. As soon as I sat in the car, I cried and just kept saying the doctor was wrong. That they would tell me this was all a joke when we got there. After gaining somewhat of a composure, I called my mom. I needed her there with me. I don’t know what ran through her mind when I told her Jensen was gone. He doesn’t have a heartbeat. But she was there at the hospital way sooner than she typically drives.

At the hospital, they ushered me into a room I never been in before. They had the portable ultrasound in my room, three times, just to make sure. Each time I had my hopes up that his heart would start back up again. That I would see my boy’s heart flickering as it normally did.

It didn’t feel real.

When my mom got in there and they explained everything to her, I knew by her face that this wasn’t some sort of elaborate prank. The heaviness of the day crashed down on me. My blood pressure, which had been perfect before finding out, skyrocketed. I could only see huge black dots and my arms were numb. Everyone was quiet and giving me options at the same time. This isn’t what I had read in the baby books and it’s definitely not a situation they warned me about in baby class.

I don’t remember breathing, seeing, or feeling anything until they told me I needed to go back to the delivery room. Before I blacked out, the decision was made that I would be induced that night to deliver him when he came. I begged for a c-section. I was adamant on not seeing Jensen. I couldn’t believe that death had stolen the one person who meant more than anything to me. My mind couldn’t wrap itself around seeing him born lifeless. Yet, I still had to walk to my room.

At that time I needed to be alone, so I walked ahead with my nurse. I can remember taking a deep breath then. The next time I walked those halls, I wouldn’t be taking Jensen home with me. He’d be left there and it hurt.

She told me she was going to ask uncomfortable questions, but they had to be answered. I just kept nodding my head. It had to be done. I can remember her asking me about where his funeral was going to be, who could pick up his body, what his name on the death certificate would be, who I wanted in the room, if and when I wanted an epidural, and the most important at that time, if she could write his name on the white board. It was information overload all at once. I literally was going through the motions and my parents had to answer most of her questions.

I’ll never forget the room I gave birth to my son in. The bed was on the left side and the couch in the back left corner pulled out to a full bed. A bathroom was located in the back right and along that wall had the TV and whiteboard where she wrote Jensen’s name. To the right of the bed the hospital brought in snacks for the family. I thought it was ridiculous at that time. They ate and read the pamphlets about losing a grandchild. When I got my bag, I remember telling them to get it away from me.

Deep down inside me, I still thought there was hope. I thought somehow through labor and birth he would jolt back. That death didn’t creep inside me and take my son.

They decided to induce me at eleven at night. The doctor and nurse told me I would probably have him the next evening or longer. I was scared and I thought I had time. Not that you can ever prepare for a silent birth. Everyone kept telling me to try to sleep. That I would need my energy for the next day. They dimmed the lights and played Game of Thrones for me.

I’m not sure exactly what time it was, but my parents had gone home to take care of their dogs. Anthony had been sleeping and I was awaken by strong contractions. My whole stomach felt like it was violently vibrating and clenching all at one. So I went to the bathroom to scream, cry, and try to keep breathing. I called my mom to tell her she needed to get back to the hospital. For some reason, I felt like he was going to come a lot sooner than twenty-four hours. The nurses must have heard me or Anthony went and got them. They frantically knocked on the bathroom door and I told them I was in pain.

When I was checked in to my room I was only one centimeter dilated. Only a few hours after I was induced, I was fully dilated and contracting every one to two minutes.

Somehow my mom and dad got to the hospital just in time. It felt like as soon as they came in, Jensen was right there. The nurses kept telling me and my mom that it couldn’t be time yet. It hasn’t been that long at all for her first birth. But I felt him, he was right there and I kept telling my mom. After she yelled at them to check, I was right.

‘He has a head full of blond hair.’

Within a few hard pushes, he was born. My hopes that he would somehow come back to life were gone. I can remember them calling out his time of birth, 4:25. Then nervously I asked if he had ten fingers and toes.

I wanted nothing more to wake up from that nightmare. The nurses kept telling me how good I did. That I should be proud of myself for the ‘easy’ birth I had. But my son… he was gone and was never coming back.

Nothing in the world could ever make that right again.

Tomorrow, at 4:25am, Jensen turns one.

I’m planning on sharing something extremely personal with you all. Although I’m still questioning myself with it, I know you all will be here to support Jensen and I’s journey. Thank you all for reading my story once again. It is so healing to be able to share.

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My Complied List of Fears at the One Year Mark of Loss.

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I’m afraid…

for tomorrow and how it holds the worst sentence I ever heard in my life.

that of the fact I have to live without him forever.

one day no one will ever say his name, besides me.

that after this year mark people will wonder why I haven’t started ‘moving on.’

I’ll never be able to give Jensen a sibling.

that if Jensen does have a sibling that I won’t love him or her as much as I love Jensen.

of breaking down in front of everyone on his birthday or any day at all.

that this pain will always be here.

that this pain I feel will go away.

of all the silent birthdays I’ll spend celebrating his life.

stillbirth, miscarriage, and baby loss are still taboo topics.

to welcome a whole new year of babies that don’t go home.

the earth will eventually shatter for holding this much.

of the flashbacks that I know I’ll be facing the next two days.

that I haven’t done enough for Jensen and I’ll never be able to.

to be alone tomorrow and the day after his birthday.

that this is my life.

because I will always try to figure out where it all went wrong.

there will be a day where I stop feeling anything at all.

that my motherhood isn’t valid.

of always living through my worst nightmare.

I’ll never be able to save myself because I couldn’t even do that for him.

for year two.

I’m not ready for any of this, but I know it’s coming.

that he’s seeing me at my weakest, but I hope he’s cheering me on.

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The Way Loss Damages the Before. 

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Life after loss is divided by the before and the after. 

When reflecting on the before, one sees innocence, happiness, and wholeness. Losing a child would never happen to them, or that’s what they believed. Each week and scan brought unmeasurable happiness. Motherhood felt so right. The baby that grew so perfectly inside made them feel whole. A person’s whole life felt like it was going just as planned. Nothing imaginable could take those feelings away. Of course there were scary moments, but the worst never actively entered their thoughts. 

The before is filled with dreams and hopes for the future. Whether it’s preparing the baby’s nursery or packing their hospital bag everything felt just right. A mom plans, not only for those immediately after birth moments, but for the rest of their lives. They think of preschool, vacations, graduation, marriage, and even becoming a grandparent. These hopes and dreams shine so brightly, nothing feels like it could dim it. 

Until a person reaches the turning point. 

All of these feelings become numbed, sone even lost. The dreams a parent had for the future gonblank. Darkness sets in and seems to make itself comfortable for a very long time, maybe forever. 

Life is different. The after completely changes the person, but always in bad ways but in ways a person never wish existed. The death of a child doesn’t just change a person’s being, it impacts the outlook of the world. Those happy moments they wished so very deeply would happen to them, never will with their child. This loss isn’t just one single moment, it’s in an infinite number of moments in the after. 

No one would ever wish the after on a person. It breaks the people who live in it everyday. They are exhausted, but know they have to keep fighting. To keep taking those steps their child never will. This time is mentally draining. Although there are certain parts of the after that begin to feel lighter at times, it can change and be heavier at a moments notice. A person who loses their child will forever be in the after. It’s not fixable, nor is there anything ‘bad’ about them being there. 

There’s also moments in the after where a loss parent looks back to the before. These reflections are bittersweet. On one hand, knowing they had these moments and happiness is peaceful. Their life hasn’t always been this way. They can look back and smile that their child was here. No one can take that away either. On the other hand, a person wants to rip the darkness off of them and someone travel back in time. They want to scream at their past selves to get help. To warn them about the storm that’s about to happen. They want to someone change their past when they are lost in these memories. It’s not everyday this happens, been when a grief trigger happens they have to play out. 

Today these grief triggers are playing out for me. 

On this day last year was the last big movements I felt from Jensen. I can remember sitting on my grandfathers couch after feeling like my little babe dropped even more. I was there to get an antique bassinet to keep Jensen in for my room. That day I was on my feet a lot. He felt like he always did though, just a little lower. When I actually sat on the couch he rolled and kicked his feet. A full term baby rolling in your belly definitely gets your attention. 

I remember just sitting back and rubbing where I felt him turn. This moment was peaceful. I was ready to have him in my arms and watch him move while he slept. My arms just laid across my belly, resting where he would be. Almost silently, I sung a lullaby. He seemed to calm when he heard me. I got one more swift kick and felt some small movements afterwards. 

This moment seems sweet to others. It really was at that time, but it’s the last roll I ever felt. The next day he moved. I felt him. My belly didn’t feel like it did on the fourth. He didn’t feel like he was just floating like he did on that morning. 

But the after… it really messes with your mind. 

The weeks following his silent birth I wondered if those last, big movements were are warning to me. Was he telling me to get to the hospital? My mind has forced me to think this was a sign. I hope it wasn’t. If it was, does this make me a bad mom? 

I will always question if I could have saved him. Just like I’ll always wonder who he was and remember the hopes I had for him in the before. 

The Love Letter I Never Read Out Loud to My Son.

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April 1, 2016

Jensen,

After months of waiting, I’m finally going to meet you in sixteen days (supposedly). I wish I could explain to you all my emotions, but I think you will have to feel them for yourself one day. Even though I haven’t met you, just yet, I already know I’ll love you more than anything.

At this moment, I’m sitting at your grandparent’s house, feeling you move in my belly, and watching Finnick be a bad boy. I wanted to write to you just to say how much I love you already. I’m scared I won’t be a good enough mom to you , but I know you’ll help me learn to be the best I can be.

Right now, in my life, I’m twenty-two years old. Last May I graduated college and want to go back to be a teacher. Mostly because it would give\allow me the most time with you. Our house is still under construction, I’m hoping it will be done before your arrival. Your dad and I love each other very much and are always talking about you. Your nursery is almost done and I wish\hope you grow up and love your room as much as I do.

I wish I had more exciting stories to tell you that has happened in the past few months. But I’m trying to stay nice and healthy just for you! I make sure to read the Bible or a children’s book to you everyday. I hope you love to read and write as much as your dad and I do.

Jensen, if I could let you know anything or want you to remember one thing it is: no matter what you do or want to do in your life, I will support you. Growing up is so hard and you will make mistakes. Just know I have made mistakes too and understand. There is nothing you can do for me to stop loving and supporting you. I know your dad feels the same.

I am so excited to finally be able to hold you and kiss your face. I want to see you grow and become the best, little boy you can. I can’t wait to hear you laugh and see you smile. I know you’ll break my heart a few times, but you’ve already made up for it by just being in my life. I can’t wait for you to come home from school and tell me all about your day. I want to know all your likes and dislikes. I can’t wait to travel with you and show you what the world holds. I want you to realize how much everyone cares about you and how much you care right back. I know you have been made with love and care. I am so excited you are my son.

No matter what, I will always be on your side, encouraging, comforting, and loving you. In sixteen days I’ll meet my favorite person and start the best part of my life. And I cannot wait.

I love you very much!

Your Mommy

Remembering the Last Time I Saw My Son Alive.

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It was an early morning, like all my other Thursday scans. My mom and Jensen’s dad had to work, so I had to get Jensen and I to the hospital before ten. Which might not seem like a huge feat, but, remember, he wouldn’t let me eat before ten; even at thirty-seven weeks pregnant. The doctors wanted me to eat before the scans though. Thankfully I quickly found out Jensen had a thing for McDonald’s breakfast. He’d allow orange juice, an egg and cheese bagel, and a hash brown on our early mornings. This morning wasn’t any different.

While eating breakfast and driving to the hospital, he kicked and danced around to Usher. He absolutely loved listening to his songs. Of course I sung to him and was engrossed in our mommy and Jensen time. Smiles and laughs came so freely then. Those were my favorite moments in my life.

The appointment seemed really ordinary. I was noticeably the most pregnant person waiting to go back for the scan. Walking at that point to the wind right out of me, so sitting there waiting was a relief. All the moms in the waiting area talked and shared about their pregnancies. I swear Jensen kicked every time he heard his name. I felt so normal. I took it for granted. My whole life felt like it was falling into place and I was perfectly happy. It just only crossed my mind that it was the last time I talked to people, outside my family and friends about Jensen and motherhood before he was gone.

Our conversation ended when the technician called out my name. I had never had him before, but I saw my bulky folder. Twice a week appointments call for a lot of papers. It took me a minute or two to finally stand, but I made my way towards him. He sprinted walked a whole lot faster to the room than I could waddle, but eventually I got there.

Everything was already set up and he didn’t even warm the ultrasound goo before it went on my belly. I can remember trying to joke with him, but he was trying to get the scan done quickly. All the images were really choppy because of how fast he was moving the wand. The screen showed Jensen moving his hands to his mouth and moving his legs all around. His heart was beating strongly at 132 bpm. He was practicing his breathing and I remember seeing his nose. In all, it last about ten minutes; which was quick considering the past few weeks college students had been observing scans. But he said Jensen looked perfect and didn’t seem at all concerned.

‘You have no worries.’

I’ll never forget him looking right at me and saying that. All my worries went away when I exhaled. My baby was perfectly fine and obviously I had ‘no worries.’

Then I began my trek back to the car. My hands literally had to cradle my belly to carry his weight. Jensen seemed to have gained a pound a day. Well that’s what it felt like in those last weeks. I remember just holding him and humming. When I got out to the parking garage, I felt like he had dropped even lower. I rubbed where I knew he was laying and I whispered as I walked an assuring statement to him.

‘The next time we’re in this hospital, you’ll be born.’

For some reason, I was SO sure he was coming in that next week. I wasn’t being induced or anything like that, but I felt it in my bones. He seemed to be okay with this statement because he nudged me in a way I hadn’t felt before.

I knew my life was going to be forever changed… just not in the way it did.

This day last year was the last time I ever saw my son alive. It’s the beginning of the five days that constantly replay in my head. I’ve talked about flashbacks and reliving the moments before, but on the big, grief days they play out so much more vividly. I can attest, they hurt. Those moments of seeing him move and watching him do everything that he was supposed to do made me so proud.

Being told he was going to be just fine pushed out any bad thoughts I may have had. I was in a blissful state anyways, but it just made me float higher. When I look back and realize how quick the scan actually was, I wish he would have taken more time out for me. Would he have caught something that was wrong? Was there something there that he missed

How does a baby who passed all the tests die in four short days?

The other haunting part of this day was me knowing he’d be born soon. Why couldn’t I have just been induced right then and there? If I had a feeling he’d be coming soon, why didn’t I just go to the hospital? No one knows the answer to what would have happened if one thing had been different. There’s a huge possibility that even if he was taken out early, he still would have died.

It hurts and my brain is still trying to figure out what went wrong.

Until Wednesday, I’ll be writing a lot. There are raw emotions coming to the surface that I need to sort through. All of your support through this year has been amazing. Thank you for bearing with me and allowing me to talk about Jensen and facing (again) the worst moments of my life.

The Do’s and Don’ts of Supporting Loss Parents During Important Grief Dates.

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Jensen is turning one in eight days.

This is how I always pictured Jensen and I near his birthday…

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Encouraging him to keep putting one foot in front of the other. I never imagined he’d be teaching me how to do the same.

How time passed so quickly completely eludes me. It feels like just yesterday I saw him dancing across the ultrasound screen just five days before. In another sense, it feels like forever since I’ve been able to catch my breath. From the moment I found out his heart had stopped beating to this one right now, and all the moments for the rest of my life, I will never fully grasp that this is my reality. That I will forever be physically without Jensen. The fact that I have to face his big day is overwhelming.

but…

With almost a full year of grief under my belt, I have an understanding of what I need during these huge grief and trigger days. This list is compiled from what has helped me and my support group during the last year. It hasn’t been an easy process to find out what worked and what didn’t, but I am so thankful for my support circle that have been so willing to learn and swim through the waves with me. Although I can’t speak for every loss parent, these do’s and don’ts are with the bereaved hearts and their support in mind.

Do…

Offer support/ask how you can help.

Honestly, this one is a little tricky. Most of the time I don’t know what I want or need in terms of support. It’s frustrating because I know there has to be something. Whether that be someone to listen to me or to sit with, to actually helping with events or plans concerning that day. Big grief days are exhausting. On top of not knowing, (for me) reaching out seems difficult because I’m exhausted and deep down, I know this is the only way I can mother Jensen.

A big thing I’m going through with his birthday party is telling people I have everything planned. In my mind, that’s true. As of today, there is a lot I need help with and my family and friends have asked and I said no. Deep down though, I know those people want to help me and will if I ask. Like I said, this is in my experience, planning his birthday is how I’m able to parent Jensen and heal my heart.

Even if there isn’t any way you can help, just by asking if a person needs support or help, they know you’re there for them. You’ve opened up a doorway that will positively impact that next moment and interaction.

Listen to their stories, feelings, and emotions.

Even if it’s the same story you’ve heard a thousand times, this is all we have. It could be about the first kick or their birth story. Of course there’s sadness, confusion, and anger towards loss. On the other hand, there is so much beauty in their son or daughter’s life. Their lives, although short, were full of love and happiness. For most of us, having them grow and finding out we were parents was the best time of our lives.

This is another form of support. To me, it’s so important to be able to share Jensen’s story. and not just his death. In fact, his birthday will be a celebration of his life. There will be cake, laughter, and his lifetime of memories. Now, I’m not going to lie to you all, the day before will be a day of mourning. On each day, I hope and know that my support circle will be there to listen to it all.

Say their child’s name.

Always. Even if you’re miles away, write their child’s name down and send them a picture of it. This seems way simpler than the others, but it means the entire world to a loss parent. It lets us know that our child is not being forgotten. For me, it is one of the greatest gifts anyone can give.

Embrace their child(ren)’s life and memory.

Sort of like some of the previous ones, but it goes a little deeper. When you’re listening to their stories about being pregnant or other memories they have, tell them something you remember. Maybe it was the day they told you they were going to be parents or a memory you have of feeling the baby move. Don’t be shy to bring these moments up. We haven’t forgotten.

Also, if there’s something they want you to do, try your best to do it. Usually it won’t be anything too huge, but something like lighting a candle on their hard days. Do a random act of kindness in their child’s name. This embraces and keeps their memory alive.

Don’t…

Be afraid to ask questions.

This can be different for everyone depending on where they are in their journeys. It is hard to talk about certain parts, for both parties. But, if you want to see pictures of their child or know what time they were born, just ask. Don’t be afraid to ask about those memories. I know for a lot of moms (sorry dads) facts and moments are constantly playing through their minds. It helps get the information out and, again, it helps to know you want to be there to support us even through the messy part.

Personally, I’ve always been one to tell people to ask me questions. I would rather them know from me and the truth about it all. Like I said though, this is completely different for other loss parents.

Get angry if the plans for the day change.

If you get a text a few hours before you’re supposed to meet up for a lunch or self-care day on one of these grief days, don’t be mad. No one really knows how they’re going to be until the day comes. It could be they woke up that morning and the waves are crashing down. This isn’t anything personal against you, this is a way they’re helping their heart.

Downplay their pain, even when it makes you feel uncomfortable.

Grief and loss hurt like hell. There hasn’t been a moment of comfort I’ve had since April 4, 2016. Believe me, I know it’s hard to hear your loved one is hurting, but that’s why they’re talking about their grief. Please, please, please don’t downplay or cut someone off. They’re talking to you about the hardest and most tragic event that they will ever go through in their life. Opening up to another person about these raw feelings is extremely brave for a person to do. It is terrifying to start talking about emotional times to only be told that what their feeling isn’t really that intense.

We live in a society who do not really know how to grieve. I’m thankful that not every person in the world knows what it’s like to lose a child. But I am telling you, that releasing these emotions to the outside world is so healing. Yes, it’s uncomfortable. Imagine how that would be like every day.

Tell them that it’s time to stop grieving OR any hurtful comments.

Just please don’t do it.

Anxiety Advenutes: Tax Edition. 

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They say every person in your life is sent to you for a purpose. Since Jensen has been born, I’ve met all kinds of beautiful souls that I would never have known if he had lived. Of course if I could have my way, he’d be here, but I know he guides me in the paths of others. No matter if the experience is good or bad, I have learned about my motherhood, self, and grief. With the positive ones, I know he’s looking out for me and I’m so thankful for that. 

A couple weeks ago I wrote a post talking about the anxiety of tax season. It’s one of those unexpected, grief trials a person doesn’t think about until it happens to them. In short, since Jensen did not take a single breath outside my womb, his birth and death are not considered real. I can’t claim that he died, even with a death certificate, and I can’t claim he was born because he doesn’t have a social security number.  When I file, I can’t say I technically, in the eyes of the government, say I have a son. In the mind of a bereaved mother, it’s absolute torture. One of my biggest fears is people forgetting about Jensen, so this feels a lot like that. Going through thirty-eight weeks of pregnancy, labor, and birth to tell me he was never born? Or telling me he didn’t die even though I had to attend my own child’s funeral? 

Yeah, I’m pretty sure all of that happened. 

Just one other thing before I jump into this story… how is it that in a lawmaker’s mind a baby is person at so many weeks. If a person gets an abortion it could be called murder, but since my son died, unexpectedly, that he doesn’t count anymore? That question or thought has been bothering me so much lately. Where is it defined that he is living and if it is at a certain week in pregnancy, then why can’t I claim him? Another reminder, it’s not the fact I want to claim Jensen for money or anything. It’s more of a validation from the outside world that he mattered and he lived. 

Anyways, back to my story. After I set up my appointment, I had a few weeks to get everything gathered up to take. With my anxiety, I kept pushing it off. I didn’t want to see 2016 in a pile of papers when I know how much pain it held. There was so much more that had happened in those twelve months then just what I made and what I spent money on. So, I waited… until the last minute. And when I say last minute I mean literally the morning of. Part of me think it was a good decision because I didn’t have to see the stack of papers, but the rush and hustle of getting them all last minute made the day feel even more high pressure. I even contemplated whether I should go or not. 

Alas, I made it there four minutes late.

They took me to the back right hand office. When I first got in there, I felt like the walls were closing in on me. The lady, I’ll call Kay, was extremely nice and jumped into everything right away. She asked for all my papers and identification. I complied, obviously. All the basic information was answered and then she asked the question. 

“Do you have any kids, dependents, or are you single?”
I took a deep breath before I answered. She had seen Jensen’s name on the insurance paperwork, with one lone box checked in April. So, I just said it. “My only son was stillborn last April, his first birthday is coming up on the fifth.”

It felt like a sigh of relief for me to just say it and have it out in the air. I know he existed and that’s all that mattered. My anxiety released when I said it, until I saw her face. 

She looked at me with deep sorrow and, surprisingly to me, understanding. The first words out of her mouth was, I’m so sorry. Then she told me the story of her daughter and granddaughter. Turns out, her granddaughter was stillborn years ago and she saw the grief her daughter went through afterwards. The years following she watched her daughter and how big this loss feels. Then she told me that daughter ended up passing away too. Another bereaved mother was sitting across the desk from me. Someone who understands the pain of losing a child.

The rest of my anxiety disappeared. 

Throughout the rest of my appointment, she did her very best and looked through all the rules to get me to be able to claim Jensen. Unfortunately we couldn’t claim him, which I knew that would happen. But we were able to freely talk and had this general grief understandment with each other. It made the whole appointment easier for me and I’m sure her. We got done early with our hour and just talked about Jensen, her daughter, and granddaughter. There was no judgement and at the end we just hugged. 

We were just moms, who have been through the worst, but there for each other. 

I really do believe people are sent to us for a purpose. Jensen constantly is watching out for his mom and making sure I’m protected. Even during the situations where anxiety just fills me. There are people who hold the most precious people in their hearts all around us. I’m thankful to be able to share Jensen, my grief, and healing with others. 

We never know who we can help next. 

Owning This Past Year of Motherhood.

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“What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?”

With trying to meet new people I hear this question a lot. Most of the time I answer with studying abroad and traveling all by myself. Or buying a house and completely redoing it. Both have been pretty crazy for me to do. Traveling alone has taught me so much about myself and how I handle being lost in a completely different culture. My house, on the other hand, has taught me patience. With ripping from the ceiling to the floor down, then building it all back together taught me patience. Just these two experiences are life changing. They bring about crazy emotions and you do unexpected things you hadn’t planned on before.

This is a sufficient answer. Most people can relate and agree that they’re ‘crazy’ experiences a person can go through. But it wasn’t until the last time someone asked me that I realized I was completely lying each time I answered them. Every time those answers cross my lips, I know I’ve been through something ‘crazier.’ They’re just answers that make me feel like pre-loss, ‘normal’ Danielle.

I should probably clear this up here. Whenever I meet someone new, I’ll let them know about Jensen. But I’m very protective over him. I don’t just throw this whole grief journey at someone, that wouldn’t be fair at all. For the simplicity of conversation though, my go to answers are those two…

Until the last time I answered the question.

As soon as I said my normal response, I blurted out, ‘I just lied to you.’ Which I did. Those aren’t the craziest things I had ever done in my life. The whole last year of having Jensen safe with me for the month of March, the earth-shattering loss of him in April, and then this grief that will stay with me for the rest of my life just flooded my body. I felt like I was going to turn into a puddle and be soaked up by the earth.

Of course while all of that was happening inside of my head, they stood their, quizzically looking at me. I don’t know if they knew what was coming out of them, but I know they could feel my anxiety.

Then I just said it, the truth. The craziest thing I have ever done in my life was knowing I had to give birth to my son that had already passed, then leave him at the hospital while I was realized home. It was the next day when I had to go to the funeral home and plan what I wanted done with his little boy that I had grown and protected for thirty-eight weeks and two days. It was seeing his tiny, blue urn and its flickering flame on the table as the pastor prayed over his soul. Then it’s been every single day of living without him. I wake up each morning and wonder when this is madness is going to finally end.

This past year has been the craziest journey of my life.

From now on, I’m not going to lie when asked this question. I’m going to own this year, Jensen’s first year. My first year of motherhood.

I recognize the good and the bad in every aspect of this grief journey. Each month I go back through and see what challenges I’ve faced and even write down what made me smile. This month isn’t even over yet and I’m telling you it has been the hardest one I’ve faced. The lead up to Christmas and the New Year for me was rough, but nothing compared to this. His upcoming birthday is on my mind every second of the day. It’s the last time I felt him. It’ll be the last time I can say my son was alive last year. I don’t want to forget his weight in my stomach or how it felt when he would get comfortable.

I just wish I could go back.


Today marks fifty whole weeks since Jensen has been gone, but it also marks a special day: World Down Syndrome Day. In honor of today, Jensen bear and I have our crazy socks on and have been thinking of all what Down syndrome meant to me during Jensen’s diagnosis. I met so many amazing mothers and their children that didn’t make me afraid of what I thought my future was going to hold.

 

The Eclectic Pineapple.

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Fun fact, when I was pregnant I thought Jensen would grow up to be someone who builds and plans houses. Mostly because the majority of my pregnancy I was working getting my house completely done before he arrived. Each time I would use the hammer or paint, I could feel his kicks going in motion with the hammer and him stretching when I painted the wall.

Another fun fact, I bought my house only three months before I found out I was pregnant with Jensen. What I thought was going to be a home just for me, turned out to be a home for a small family. Originally Jensen’s room was going to be a guest bedroom that I had all planned out. Instead it became a blue and orange boys room that I absolutely love. His room is the only room in my entire house that has bright colors in it. The rest is very neutral with black, grey, and wood. No matter the room, I loved to decorate and make it feel comfy.

Even with everything that happened, his room is still my favorite to get decorations and furniture for. Besides that pesky futon…BUT I’m constantly on the search for buying things that make my home even more cozy for Jensen and I.

One day, while I was scrolling through social media, I saw these beautiful, bright, watercolor ultrasounds by The Eclectic Pineapple. The babies face profile was perfectly drawn and the pink background was spot on. Something that really stuck out to me was this print was done for one of my loss mom friends. She wrote how comforting and reassuring the shop owners, Abigail and Lana, were to her. In my mind, I knew if she felt comfortable sharing her daughter with them, I would feel comfortable sharing Jensen. I instantly knew I needed one for my home. It would be a fun way I could display one of his ultrasounds in one of his colors.

Of course I contacted them… and admittedly creeped on their Instagram and Facebook page.

I shared Jensen’s story with them and they were exactly how my friend described them. They treated Jensen’s ultrasound with respect and asked about him and me. Although I loved the profile ultrasounds they had done, the ultrasound that was calling out to be drawn is the one on top of this blog, and every blog. To top it off, I asked for the one watercolor they hadn’t done before: orange. Of course it would be me and Jensen to go against the flow right?

They assured me it would come out amazing and then started working hard on his print. When I got the message it was being mailed out to me, I was SO giddy. I had hoped and prayed it would be done before Jensen’s birthday so I could have it for his party.

Each day I went to the post office to check for it and Thursday it arrived. When I got in the car, I ripped it open and marveled with how they captured him in his ultrasound. I wanted to share it the moment I opened it with you all, but I knew I had to wait to frame it. In my mind, I thought of how perfectly it would go with a frame I saw at the store the other day. I went, bought it, and framed it as soon as I got home.

It’s even more perfect than I imagined…

I absolutely love how it’s him. His little, button nose is highlighted and honestly, those cheeks. One day when I share Jensen’s picture with you guys, you will fall in love with his cheeks. The bright orange is breathtaking and the detail in his face is exactly how it is in his ultrasound. Then the silver of his name just puts it over the top and makes it feel so personal. Honestly, I just love how it looks and it is perfect in his room. Jensen would love seeing himself like this.

The Eclectic Pineapple‘s shop has these watercolor prints and ultrasound canvases that are as breathtaking as Jensen’s. At this time, the girls are on vacation and so is their shop. I’m sure they’ll have their shop open soon, but their Instagram and Facebook page has a lot of their work and you can really tell how much care they put into all of their work. Thank you Lana and Abigail for Jensen’s beautiful watercolor, ultrasound print. I will forever cherish it in my heart and home.

How Guilt Can Manifest Over One Year.

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It was like any other typical appointment.

Of course at this time, I was going in twice a week for ultrasounds. During these appointments they monitored his movements and made sure he was practicing his breathing. I remember watching his heart rate, usually 132 beats per minute. Jensen would dance and wiggle around, letting me see his profile and front of his face. Usually he passed within five minutes. Sometimes it took him ten and a little coaxing from his mama. Every time he got a 100% and the doctor would tell me how good was doing. But this time was a little different.

Jensen had made big movements and his heart rate was great, but he didn’t practice his breathing. He had hiccups instead. So they couldn’t technically pass him on. I remember being tired from the baby shower and organizing the presents. He had moved all weekend and I made sure to put my feet up every night to relax. With all my protesting with seeing Jensen like he always had been, they still sent us for a Non-Stress Test or NST for short.

I had never had an NST before and I was angry. Honestly, I didn’t think Jensen was in danger and he had passed everything else. It was nice outside and I wanted to have a picnic and take bump pictures. Instead we went to the hospital into triage for them to hook me up. Not only did they hook my belly up to monitors, they tested my fluids and checked my blood pressure. The whole entire time I was pregnant my blood pressure was perfect except two times. This was one of them.

Like I said above, I was not especially happy about going to the hospital. It spiked my blood pressure and I, not Jensen, had to have extra monitoring.

NST ‘bump’ picture.

His heartbeat was monitored and the beeping calmed me. I saw every time he made a movement and he did end up practicing his breathing. When the resident doctor came in, I asked him questions about the Panorama test and asked about babies with Down syndrome. He ended up getting ultrasounds of Jensen that were taken at the hospital and looked them over with me. I got to show my baby off to another person, which made me smile. He kept telling me not to worry about Jensen. That he looked perfect and he’s passed all his tests but this last one and that I shouldn’t have even got sent to triage anyways. It made me feel better, which lowered my blood pressure.

In all, that day, we were there for around four hours. It was a long one, but I felt reassured because I knew the both of us were great.

I was so exhausted that night. When we went back, I remember thinking about the next few weeks. Jensen was due on April 17. My doctor wanted me to be induced at thirty-seven weeks and I though he was trying to scare me with the NST to be able to get induced then. I was adamant that Jensen would come whenever he needed to. “He’ll come when he’s ready,” I would tell the doctor. There wasn’t any reason to take him out early…

Today I woke up and remembered that appointment and the thoughts I had after it was all done. It stung. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I would have just complied and been induced at thirty-seven weeks. My mind told me after he was born that he would have lived if I would have just listened, but my stubbornness killed him. Those thoughts haunted me in those early weeks. Honestly, they subsided, until I woke up and theese flashbacks came.

Guilt.

It’s the one thing I’ve been afraid of with his birthday coming up. Would the memories and flashback show me something I missed? Something that would have saved him? If I would have just been scared enough and let them induce me, would he still be alive? Instead of writing this now, would I be chasing him around the house?

Let me tell you, these thoughts crush my chest and take my breath. I would have and would do anything to have saved him, to have him right here with me.

I hate feeling like I failed him.