Tag Archives: stillborn

My Wishful Response To: “I Can’t Imagine What You’re Going Through.’

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‘I can’t imagine what you’re going through. If I ever lost my baby I wouldn’t know what I’d do with myself.’

What I say:

Losing him isn’t anything I ever expected to experience.

What I want to say:

Imagine walking into a room knowing it’s the last time you’ll ever come into contact with your child. It will be the last time you can see them, brush their hair, kiss their cheek, and tell them you love them in person. You don’t know whether if your brain is going to soak these moments up or just blur them out so it’s not so painful. As you walk out that door, you’re leaving everything you ever loved behind.

Imagine having to pick whether you want to bury your child six feet under the ground or if you want to cremate them. Before you do that, you’ll have to pick their lost outfit. Then when you’ve done that, you have to sign a paper, through tears, saying that you’re allowing your child’s body to be in a casket forever or be turned to ashes.

Imagine you have to attend your child’s funeral. The pastor reads his or her’s names and the dates they lived and died. They’re singing songs and telling you that we all have a season of mourning. You’re so numb in that moment that the only thing you can feel is the tears running down your face and how you’re gasping for a single breath. This time will be a whirlwind and utterly unbelievable.

Imagine now when you walk into your home. There’s an eerie silence that greets you and like an unwelcome guests, stays for entirely too long (it still hasn’t left my house). The house is too clean and there are flowers brought from the funeral. Flowers that will eventually die and all you can think about is how much you hate that things die. There will be plates upon plates of food in your fridge, but you’ll never remember eating them. You won’t remember because your body doesn’t allow you to get hungry right now. I mean, how can you be hungry when your child will never be able to eat again?

Imagine not knowing the days and weeks passing by because it all feels like a cloud. You literally feel dead on the inside and quite honestly, you feel like you want to die to be back with your child. Loneliness sets in and you don’t feel understood by anyone that did before.

Imagine the months that follow. It seems like everyone else has had their closure and are ready to get on with their days. They start to wonder when you’re going to ‘get back to normal.’ Some ever tell you they miss the old you and would do anything to get you back. They question why you’re so sad all the time, like they don’t see the absence that you feel so very heavy in your heart. But with all your questions you start to feel insecure and like you’re not grieving right.

Imagine having to live the rest of your life, never being able to see, hear, or talk to the little one you made. The little one that you gave life and cared for so very much.

Now imagine this… through all of these things, you’re being told you can have another child and that they’re in a better place. You’re told that you should be getting sleep because there’s no child to keep you up through the night. There are people who say they don’t know how anyone can keep going after their child could die (my only other choice is choosing to die). When you talk to others, they don’t understand why you’re still sad. To top it all off, they say they can’t imagine what you’re going through.

No. You can imagine it. It hurts like hell, but you can imagine it.

You just won’t.

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Picture from Saying Goodbye

Today marks forty-three weeks since Jensen has been born; Sunday will be ten whole months. There are days I wake up and I still don’t want to imagine my life being like this. Yet, this is my reality I’m forced to live with. I didn’t choose this and I would NEVER wish this pain and longing on another person.

Although I know people who say they couldn’t imagine living without their child would never mean to hurt me, it hurts me. Believe me, I know it’s literally the worst thing a mother could imagine, but so many moms are living it. It’s not that I want you to imagine the pain, but I want you to halfway understand what I’m going through. Instead of saying you can’t imagine, please just say you don’t want to.

Jensen Grey, you are so very loved. Thank you for giving me the strength every day to keep going on. Even during my hardest days, you send me signs to let me know you’re right here. With each of your cheers, I can hear them within my soul. This life isn’t want I expected, but I would ALWAYS choose you. I miss you. I love you.

Anxiety Adventures: Substitute Teacher Edition.

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One of my promises to Jensen was to become a teacher. It was my dream to be able to have a good job and spend the evenings with him after school. Of course I work from home and I’d be with him all the time, but I wanted to become the best version of myself for him (and me).

This past month I was able to make another step towards that dream and received my substitute teaching license. After a friend of mine got me into contact with her principal, I sent my paperwork in, interviewed, and was asked to start as soon as I could. Today was my first day.

At the end of last week, I was genuinely so excited. I couldn’t wait to be able to go into the classroom and help students learn. I know it’s not as impactful as a full blown teacher, but one day could change someone’s life forever. Plus, I was really excited to be able to begin this promise to Jensen. The excitement started slowly swaying to anxiety as Monday started getting closer.

I’m going to do terrible.

The kids are going to hate me.

What am I going to do if I have a mental breakdown?

If I start crying, how do I regain my strength? 

A hundred percent,  you’re going to fail.

Anxiety is not nice to me one bit. These thoughts kept coming to mind and the worst scenarios played out in my head. I could just see myself crying in front of all these children and I storm out of the room to hide away in my car.

Deep down, I know anxiety was the culprit to these thoughts, but I had to do something about it. Being productive helps me fight it off. So I did what any semi-sane person does in this situation: Pinterest ideas about how to be a successful substitute teacher.

Have a goodie bag full of treats for good students. Check.

Bring a clipboard to keep paperwork straight. Check and double checked for Jensen colored washi tape to keep me calm.

Always have pencils ready for you and students. Checked and sharpened.

Pack snacks, lunch, and headache medicine. Check, check, and check.

Wear comfortable clothes and shoes. Outfit planned and laid out, check.

Sounds silly, right?

I also set six alarms, had my makeup set out and in order, repainted my nails, and even had my cats’ food on the counter so I could quickly get it done in the morning. It would be a foolproof morning for me to get ready and have a successful day. I was still so nervous. Anxiety kept telling me that even when things are so perfectly planned that they can go up in flames. Would it be to the effect of losing Jensen? Of course not, but I just wanted it to go perfectly.

My last foolproof way to make the day go better was to go to sleep early, which we all know it a huge feat for me. I wrote my letter to Jensen and asked God to help me sleep well tonight and for strength to have a really good day for tomorrow. Sleep welcomed me right after I said goodnight to my sweet boy and blew his candle out.

What seemed like seconds after I fell asleep, a buzz awoken me.

We’re on a two hour delay. 

I thought, oh good. This short day will be a great first day of subbing for me. Then an hour later I heard another buzz…

Snow day!

The universe has a funny way of letting me know I shouldn’t always listen to my anxiety.

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PTSD: Part Four

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During the last few months, I’ve been talking about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) and how it affects me a loss mother. I am the type of person that has to make sense of everything that is going on with me. Probably a little controlling on my part, but that’s how I’m wired. Depression, anxiety, and grief have flooded my life the past (almost) ten months and I thought there was something more going on with different experiences I’ve had since Jensen was born. That’s when I started researching. I came across Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and rolled my eyes thinking only people who’ve went to war or are in horrible accidents have this disorder…

But the more I was researching, here, about PTSD, I found a lot of the symptoms I had were very similar to what was being described. Even when as I read the fourth one just now, it’s exactly how I am in certain situations. Again, I am not a therapist or psychologist. The symptoms I researched just made sense to me and my situation. It is a way I can understand my grief and what I’m feeling. Speaking to other loss moms, I know I’m not alone in feeling these different things. This little four post series is just letting you know that if you do have these feelings, there are others that are facing them as well. For a symptom refresher, here is the list one more time.

  1. Reliving the event.
  2. Avoiding situations that remind you of the event.
  3. Negative changes in beliefs and feelings.
  4. Feeling ‘keyed’ up or being on the lookout for danger.

With each on of these posts about another symptom, I find myself just marveling how I am facing each one when I’m writing. I pulled of the VA’s website again to really see what feeling ‘keyed’ up is like. Two things jumped out at me immediately, having a hard time sleeping and not being able to concentrate. This would make much more sense if you were sitting with me at this moment. Although this will be posted in the afternoon, I’m writing at 1:30 in the morning. I never sleep. It’s so hard for me to really settle down and relax. Honestly, I’m afraid of having horrible nightmares and I’m just on edge. There’s a fear that something bad is going to happen tomorrow. Because why wouldn’t it? The paragraph also talks about being jittery and always alert. This really distracts me from sleeping. I’m constantly moving while laying in bed. No wonder why I can’t peacefully fall asleep. Then comes the concentration… I can’t think long enough to make myself just sit still. Like me writing right now, there’s a hundred different places I want to go with this post. Yet, my train of thought gets cut off and something else jumps in its place. Which causes me to get angry and irritated myself; I guess that means ‘keyed’ up.

Maybe that just my severe anxiety?

But, another part of this symptom talks about outside triggers. They talk about being surprised by a loud noise or a surprise. For me, it’s babies crying and a rhythmic beeping. Although I am thankful there are babies crying out in the world and that another mom doesn’t have to deal with silence, it hurts. It sends me up the wall because all I want to know is what Jensen’s cries would sound like. I want to be able to pick those babies up and just cuddle them and make them feel better. But then I don’t. It sends me spiraling to all the what ifs and sadness. Then I get mad at myself because I want Jensen. Panic ensues and this is all triggered by one cry. The beeping noise is a little weirder. Let’s say when I’m at the grocery store and the cashier is scanning all the items, that beeping morphs into a heartbeat sound. Just thinking about those beeps and the silence of that last ultrasounds triggers me. It’s not something I’ll ever be able to prevent, but I can feel it coming. Sometimes they’re louder than the other, but that’s real.

It also talks about sitting with your back to the wall at a restaurant or anywhere you go. For me and my situation, I would say I’m hyper aware of where I sit or stand in public. I’m always scanning. In those moments, I’d be able to tell you how many babies are there and where they are. It’s almost like I’m trying to prepare for that cry. I want to have all my guards up so I don’t feel like I’m spiraling to a complete panic attack. It’s rough. I know it’s not really a lookout for danger, but it is a lookout for a trigger. A baby is harmless. They are innocent, sweet, and deserve all the love in the world. But for me, it’s more complicated than that. I see all those things in a child, but I also see the space Jensen should occupy. Feeling that loss every time you see a beautiful, little baby breaks my heart. I don’t want to see them and instantly go into a panic attack, but I can’t control it. Now that I’ve really thought about being keyed up in situations, it’s perfect to explain it.

Living with PTSD after loss is a part of my life now. I face almost every symptom every day. There are days where I can try to be so strong and only let a few get to me, but I’m working on it. Losing Jensen has a ton of different layers of pain and healing. These four symptoms of PTSD are four big ones. It’s impossible to tackle the realization that my life will never be what I planned, grief, anxiety, depression, PTSD, secondary losses, and so much more all at once. If you’re going through all of this, please know that you’re not alone in this. I know how overwhelming losing a child is and everything else that we have to face. Sometimes it feels that no one will ever understand all of this feeling, but there will be people (like me) that can relate and just listen.

If you’re reading this and you’re a support person… first of all, thank you. You have no idea how much it means to be there for a your loved one. Second, be patient. As I said above, we can’t tackle this all at once. No matter if its weeks, months, years, decades, or even a lifetime, the best thing is to just have someone listen. If you see your loved one is struggling and are being triggered, ask them what they need. Everyone is different in that way and sometimes they just need to escape that situation.

This concludes this four-part/symptom discussion about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. There’s a huge possibility that I come back to this or even symptoms of depression and anxiety in the future. I think it’s crucial for people to talk about mental health and how it’s normal for people to battle. It helps us know that these aren’t crazy thoughts, in the most crazy time of our lives.

The Places We’ll Go.

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“So be sure when you step, Step with care and great tact. And remember that life’s A Great Balancing Act. And will you succeed? Yes! You will, indeed! (98 and ¾ percent guaranteed) Kid, you’ll move mountains.”

Dr. Seuss 
Oh, the Places You’ll Go!

I don’t know what I want to say today. My mind is fuzzy and, quite honestly, I’m exhausted. Some Tuesdays make me feel like this. The past weekend, I haven’t felt like I have succeeded. My depression was telling me that I was worthless and no one could ever help me. That I was alone and feeling all of these emotions because I deserve it. I thought of Jensen and could only think how poorly he would be thinking of me. I wouldn’t be the role model I had always wanted to be for him. And there were moments this weekend that remind me of those first few days after getting back from the hospital. Ones where I didn’t feel good enough to keep fighting… to keep living.

It’s scary to feel like ‘A Great Balancing Act’ isn’t tipping in the right direction. Maybe I’ll be the unlucky percentage once again.

Then there are moments and decisions that bring the scale back with a great force. Ones that make you smile and feel so strong that you’ll actually move the biggest mountains. They’re the ones I feel I could hear Jensen cheering for me. I don’t have to watch my step carefully, I can blindly jump in these times and take the good feelings in. It’s when I actually feel like I’m doing my best for him and that these bright moments will always outshine the dark ones. Just like love overpowers grief.

Yesterday I had this moment. But instead of blindly jumping, I was intently focused on one little boy’s foot.

 

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At forty-two weeks, Jensen would most definitely be experimenting with standing and trying his very best to stumble walk. I would encourage him to keep standing and have him practice walking with me by putting him on my feet. We would take big steps together. He would learn to walk and I would beam with pride. Before, when I looked down, I saw my naked feet and the empty floor. I don’t have him looking up at more or I can’t help him learn to walk. It was empty just like everything else feels. Now, and forever, he’ll be walking with me through life.

I will always take the steps that he was never able to.

Just as he would be getting to a point where he would start learning how to walk, I’m at a point in this grief journey that I’m starting to get better with my stumbling. I never expected it to be a straight and narrow journey. In fact, I thought it would just go downhill from the second he was born. How would there ever be a way I could smile when my child died? I’m not saying I’m full of smiles all the time. Heck, I was just at a spot on Friday where I thought my life didn’t matter. But I will tell you, if there is anything that gives me strength it’s Jensen and knowing that I’ll forever be his mom.

Now, with this new tattoo (which is my third for Jensen), I feel that with each of my decisions that the scale judges, I can literally see him making them with me. I can see those steps. He’ll be on the upward hills and the downward spirals. Through each, he’ll be there with every step, cheering me on. Yesterday and today, I find myself just staring at my feet and marveling his footprint. Of course it makes me laugh because he had my feet. I can see my little mini-me mimicking my every move. But it’s heartwarming to know this is just another way I can honor him. It’s another way I can bring just a little more of him into this world and leave his footprint everywhere I go.

Cue all the feet pictures in the future.

Happy forty-second week in heaven, Baby J. You are beyond loved and missed every second of the day. All I wish I could do is pluck you from heaven and hold you in my arms. I hope with the big decisions I’ve made today that you are cheering me on. My soul feels you close to me and now I can see it with each step I take. And oh, the places we’ll go. I miss you. I love you.

Football Sunday.

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While I was growing up, Sundays always meant football. We would hang out on the couch, eat, and watch games all day. My dad taught me all the hand motions and what position did what. I learned when to cheer and when to yell at the screen. Football was a big part of our family. It’s even how I ‘officially’ announced to my whole family. Little football socks and a note exclaiming: We’ll be getting another little football fan in April.

Jensen’s life was pretty surrounded by football as well. The day I found out we went to a preseason game. On Friday nights we went to watch my high school play under the lights. We went to a few Steelers game throughout the winter. He kicked every time I cheered, but never an uncomfortable kick. I paced around watching the Steelers play the Bengals last year and yelled at the screen. His tapping of his feet calmed me down. I unintentionally picked the Super Bowl champs colors for his nursery, even after my dad said he should have had a Steelers room. But most importantly, every Sunday of last season, I sat and watched the games with him like I did growing up.

We talked about the game just like always and in my mind I hoped he was listening, getting all the answers early on.

There’s certain days throughout grief where you know it’s going to be hard; like Tuesdays and the fifth of every month for me. Then there are other days, where it pushes you on the ground. Days where you don’t think it will bother you as much and yet that hole in your heart seems to just scream out at you. Those are Sundays for me. The ones where I’m watching the game and my family is surrounding me. Yet, there isn’t a little boy dressed in black and yellow crawling all around. My dad will never be able to teach Jensen all the calls and let him know when to yell at the refs. I’ll never be asked to buy him so-and-so’s jersey. Heck, I don’t even know what team he’d really love (even though I think he’d like the Steelers as well).

When I woke up this morning, I was looking forward to tonight’s game. It’s given me something to focus on other than this intense grief I have each and every day. I went into his room and sat on the futon when I first woke up. Sitting there I realized how instead of just sitting there, I would be dressing him in a little sweat outfit. We’d do our daily routine and head over to my parents house. Then it’d be like all those Sundays I had always had. The Sundays I dreamed of Jensen having during football season.

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I think about how different this picture should be. How there should be a smiling (almost) ten month old in this picture or someone taking a picture of me holding him. We’d probably be matching. He’d probably roll his eyes at me when he would be older with all the pictures I’d have taken of him by then, even more if we were matching. In these little moments I never have, I can smile. I smile of knowing he was able to experience parts of this life I wanted him to while his was growing inside of me. Imagining his happiness makes me smile. Knowing he wants me to smile on these days full of grief, makes me want to smile for him.

Jensen, I hope you’re shouting ‘Go Steelers’ while waving a huge, bright yellow Terrible Towel today and that you come to sit beside me on their couch. I would do anything to have just one Sunday of football with you, but I know I’ll find moments today full of you. Those are the moments I live for.

The Birth Plan.

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This time last year, I told my OB-GYN my birth plan.

There was no way I was going to be induced. From thirty-seven to forty weeks, the ridges on the brains get deeps. Plus, I just wanted Jensen to come out when he wanted to. He was supposed to be safe inside my belly. I didn’t want an epidural, I felt like I need to be this strong woman and give birth naturally. His cord was not to be cut right away. In my birth research, I read when you delayed cord cutting the blood in the placenta would make its way back to the baby. They really needed that blood and I’m sure I could have given you the scientific reasonings while I was still pregnant. He was to be placed on me right after he was born. I wanted that skin to skin contact and him to know I was his mama. Those are crucial bonding moments I did not want to miss you on. Plus I wanted the first thing he heard to be me whispering, ‘you are so loved,’ in his ear. His eyes were not to be wiped with that goop stuff. There was nothing going to damage them and I didn’t want his eyesight to be even more blurry than it would have been. There was only to be a certain amount of people in the room when he was born and afterwards. I didn’t want to be bombarded and wanted Jensen to spend his first days of life relaxed. There was a few more on the list, but these were the really important ones.

He actually hadn’t been prepared for me to tell him all of this, but I needed to make sure he knew what I expected. I can remember the first thing I told him was the only thing I was scared of was bleeding out and dying… because then I wouldn’t see Jensen grow up. There was never even a little part of me that thought anything would go wrong with Jensen, just that I would mess up.

After I told him all of this, he laughed at me and said these things sometimes don’t go as planned…

Well, my birth plan didn’t go as I planned.

I’ve talked about flashbacks before, a lot actually. Mostly about the time between I found out he didn’t have a heartbeat until I went home from the hospital. In all, that time frame is about twenty-nine hours. Oh my gosh, that’s horrible. In just a little over a day, I had found out my child died, gave birth, was released from the hospital, and back home. Like it was just a routine day at the hospital.

To say my birth plan didn’t go as planned is an understatement. There’s only two things that went ‘as planned.’ One, I asked for the epidural too late. I only got the little test tube of it. Before she could put the whole dose in me, I was already pushing. So, I still felt everything and it didn’t even hurt. Maybe it did? But the pain of knowing my child was dead hurt a lot worse. The other thing? There were only three other people (besides me, the nurses, and my doctor) in the room with me for when he was born. Two of them left for chunks of time. Then I only had three other visitors. Three of those people I’ll never talk to again. One of them didn’t even speak to me at my son’s funeral.

Heck and here’s another kicker, the one thing I was so scared of didn’t happen. Man oh man, am I glad I didn’t hemorrhage and die so I couldn’t see Jensen grow up. How was that the only thing I was afraid of? Was I really that selfish of a person to only worry about myself dying?

The birth plan doesn’t matter. Worrying about all those little things mean nothing. How mad would I have been if he would have lived and not one of those things was done just as I wanted? And for what? Temporary blindness? Extra blood? Instant bonding? Feeling like a ‘strong’ woman?

Looking at it that way makes me want to cry, laugh, and scream at myself. God, my birth plan should have just been get him here alive. That’s it. It doesn’t seem like such a difficult plan. Women give birth to living, healthy babies every second of the day. They have their birth plans and they get followed perfectly and their baby is fine. Why I couldn’t have I been her? Can someone please just wake me up from this horrible nightmare and put Jensen in my arms.

I don’t want to be brave or strong anymore. I want to be the girl who had her screaming baby placed on her chest. I want to have made sure everyone followed what I needed to be done. I want to live the life I should have had. I don’t want to know this world that I have been so forcefully shoved in.

But these things don’t go as planned.

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As I tried to calm myself down after writing this post, I came across this picture. During Jensen’s baby shower I had my guests write ‘Advice for Mom’ and ‘Wishes for Baby.’ I took a picture of this one and the last line made me stop.

You are so loved.

Although, I didn’t get that part of my birth plan, I know Jensen knew how loved he was. He was surrounded by love for everyday in his thirty-eight weeks and two days. His life was beautiful and happy. It’s the one gift I was able to give him.

20,377.

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There’s a number I’d like to share with you all today:

Twenty-thousand three-hundred and seventy-seven

20,377 is a pretty big number to me and just a few hours ago, it seemed a whole lot bigger than before. Since Jensen was born forty-one weeks ago, twenty-thousand three-hundred and seventy-seven babies have been stillborn.

Let that really set it.

That’s 40,754 mothers and fathers that have lost their children and 163,016 grandparents who have lost their grandchildren. Just in forty-one weeks. 

The absolute crazy thing about that number is, it grows by 71 each and every day, in the United States alone. (I read this statistic today from stillbirthday.com.) Even more bizarre before Jensen was born, I didn’t even realize that stillbirths still happened. I honestly thought that is was just something that happened in the medieval period. That sounds very closed-minded and uneducated, but I literally did not know. I knew people who had miscarriages, but I only thought it happened within the first trimester or at the very latest twenty weeks. I didn’t realize babies died, until mine did and it completely flipped my whole entire world upside down.

Through my entire grief journey, I have wanted people to, one, know Jensen and how much he means to me. Which, by the way if you haven’t noticed, he means everything to me. But, I’ve also swore to myself and Jensen, that I would speak up about stillbirth. I want this taboo topic to be talked about. There is NO way seventy-one babies in the United States should be dying every day. I know that these parents have done nothing wrong to cause this, believe me. But there has to be something more we can do. People, like Danielle before Jensen, should know stillbirth happens.

Babies die.

Parents grieve, hard.

Lives change forever.

‘But Danielle, no one wants to talk about how babies die. It’s too sad.’

Yes. It is sad. Losing a child is a tragedy no one should ever go through, but I’ve lived forty-one weeks of this life after loss. There’s people that have lived this life for way longer than I have and there has been seventy-one sets of parents who have entered this new life. That’s the reality. Our world isn’t all rainbows and puppies. It sucks. Life is hard and although there is no way to prepare for giving birth to your lifeless child, it should at least be talked about. Those babies deserve to be talked about and much, much more.

I urge you to take one day and put your timer on for every twenty minutes. Each time you would press to shut that alarm off, another child has died. Another mother’s dreams have been shattered. Another father will try to comfort his partner. Another family effected by something some people don’t even know happens any more. The seventy-one times your phone would go off through the day would really set in. For every chime means another angel will get his or her wings.

This isn’t meant to make anyone feel extra sad or to make anyone feel bad. It’s the truth and the hard statistics. To be quite honest, it’s horrible to be on the wrong side of it. Being that one of seventy-one a day. It breaks your spirit. Just knowing those numbers, I don’t know how this world can absorb all that pain and heartbreak day after day.

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Happy forty-one weeks in heaven Baby J. You made it to St. Paul, Minnesota today to play in the snow. Make sure you send Kristyna a big thank you sign. I think you would have really liked the snow and would have eventually thrown snowballs at me every time we walked to the car. There’s no snow here today in Ohio, but I’m sure you’re getting whatever you would like in heaven. I wish you were physically here with me. I miss you. I love you.

The Difference of a Year.

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This is the first ‘bump’ picture I took with Jensen.

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It was taken one year ago. I was six months pregnant with him and going through a lot at this time. At this time I had already known for two months he was my little boy. But I had found out so much more on that November day. Less than a month before this picture was taken I learned Jensen had a 99% chance of having Down syndrome. This was hard for me at that time.

I questioned if I had done something wrong.

I was terrified of an extra, teeny, twenty-first chromosome.

I started researching and educating myself on how to better mother a child with Down syndrome.

I joined a support group.

I read and followed different blogs.

I worried I wouldn’t be enough for him.

I fought for him from the pressures of people who had no right to tell me what I needed to do with my baby.

It’s sort of crazy to think I waited six months to take a belly picture. Honestly, I just thought I’d have millions of pictures of him with all the years that we should have had. Plus, this is when I first started to like my pregnant body. I could see my bump and see when he’d move. Seeing me get bigger only meant Jensen was growing like he was supposed to. With every ultrasound his body grew bigger and heart beat stronger.

This time last year, everything was perfect; even with it not going as I planned. I was just so ecstatic to be his mommy. Every day I would wake up and tell him how loved he was. I dreamed of seeing him for the first time and wondering how he would look. My love grew deeper and deeper. I looked forward to checking my pregnancy app to see what new things he was doing and what I could be doing to better prepare. Then every night, he would be read to and sung a sweet lullaby before he kicked me until I slept on my left side. Those were the perfect days. I looked forward to seeing him twice a week and all the seconds in between. Even though I didn’t understand why he was given this diagnosis, I was blessed to have him. I was blissfully happy.

Crazy how much can change in one year.

I’ve been at a loss of words this week. There’s been a lot going on and the Jensen sized hole in my heart has been stinging. I keep thinking how today I would be dressing him up in a little Steelers outfit and going over to his grandparents house to cheer them on. I’d love to see him grow outside the womb physically and mentally. Deep down, I know he’d be so curious and smart. He’d want to learn, play, and make smile. Instead all I can do is cry and wonder why. Why I was so scared of not being enough for him. Why I didn’t take more pictures of my belly. Why I worried so much.

Why did he have to die.

Forty Weeks.

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Today I was asked to describe the last forty weeks in a couple of words. After only a second of thinking I could only say one thing, I’ve survived. Admittedly, I laughed after saying this. It seemed a little dramatic, even for me. I hurt every single day. Tears come and go, most of the time I don’t even notice they’re there. I scream in pain, questioning everything. And yet, I see the continuance to live. There’s been growth and relationships gained. I’ve laughed out loud in spite of everything. But, there really is no other way to describe what it’s like to lose a child. When I got home, I was curious to see how they defined this word that’s meaning seems so simple. There was two that jumped out at me.

sur·vive:

  1. continue to live or exist, especially in spite of danger or hardship
  2. remain alive after the death of (a particular person)

See, as a definition it seems so simple. Almost like we’ve always had an idea what this word means, but you don’t truly know it until you’ve been in survival mode. There have been times in this forty weeks where I have just simply existed, even when I tried the exact opposite. Grief, anxiety, and depression are hardships I live with everyday, on top of feeling Jensen’s absence. Yet, I remain and I have to continue on. So surviving really is the right word to describe all of this.

On top of it being Tuesday, the number forty has really been speaking to me. If we’re just talking about pregnancy, forty weeks is the week to get to. It’s the due date we all know. Jensen’s was April 17. Today there’s more to this number and my grief. Although I try to stay away from talking about faith and religion, I think it’s necessary for me today.

As always this is not to make anyone uncomfortable, just how I make the connection and sense of things.

In the Bible, the number forty is pretty significant. On the top of my head, I can think of at least ten times forty is mentioned. Each time it is, it’s always a period of testing. Just one example is Moses. I mean his life was split up into three forties full of trials and testing, I’m also watching the Prince of Egypt, so it’s all coming back to me. Anyways, the past forty weeks for me, have been full of those tests and trials. I mean I didn’t lead the Israelites from Egypt, but I’ve led myself this far. Every day there seems to be a new challenge for me. I test myself and question my purpose. As a collective, I never thought I’d make it to forty weeks in the beginning. It’s strange for me to think another child could have grown in this amount of time.

I test my motherhood each day. There are trials and errors of how to work on my grief. Honestly, everything since Jensen has been born has been a test. I’m still getting to know Danielle after Jensen. It’s hard living with a self you know nothing about. Anxiety. Heck, anxiety is always testing me and making me trust myself again. Even other people, unknowingly, test me. Maybe that’s more on myself and testing how I react now. Even Jensen has been testing me, in good ways. Testing me to see if I see his signs. Fun fact, my Netflix has randomly been turning on and changing to cartoons. Wonder who would want to watch that? He’s also led me to certain books, this time Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs. Who, in fact, named on of the characters in the books Robbie Jensen. So, Jensen ultimately rewards me after every test, but still.

Alright, so I’m guessing you’re wondering where I’m going with all of this. If you’d talk to me in person, I would be talking for hours. Anyways, through trials and testing, we see progress. Not necessarily results right now, maybe I’ll see some at the forty-year mark. Even though I describe this time as survival, there has been so much progress. I’m not healed completely, but I’m healing. There are parts of me I never knew before, but I do now. I don’t like the pain I feel, but I see what I’ve learned from it. Saying that, I don’t see Jensen’s death as a learning experience, but the way I’ve lived or survived or whatever this is, has taught me so much about me.

I’ve said this over and over, I NEVER THOUGHT I’D MAKE IT TO THIS POINT. When I was preparing for New Years Eve, I thought my heart would stop at midnight. I didn’t think it could take that hit. But I’m here. Jensen’s love for me has driven every step and it’s made me want to do better for him. Maybe that’s cliché, but I’ve survived these forty weeks of trials because of love. Because his light is so bright, that it leads me to the next test. His love has given me a deeper sense of faith and it’s shown me that I have to trust in this unknowing, to me, life plan.

What I do know today, at week forty, is that although I’m extremely uncomfortable with grief and not knowing where my life is going, I somehow feel I’m on the right track. I don’t feel pressure to move on from anything or to get to anywhere quickly. I’m not ready for another relationship or to even think of having another child. There’s nothing wrong with trying to figure out who I am again and what mothering Jensen is going to look like in this next forty weeks and beyond. I don’t think this is the end of my trials and testing. It’s going to be lifelong for me and maybe at forty months I can look back on this post to see how far I’ve come. No matter what, the love I have for my son will continue flowing through me through every step of my life.

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Jensen Grey, you are so loved. I hope the past forty weeks in heaven have been peaceful for you. Today wasn’t so bright here on earth, but I bet heaven is warm and bright where ever you dwell. I wish you were here, so my tests would be learning all about you. In some ways they are now and I know you’re helping me along the way. I miss you. I love you.

Nine Months.

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In my house there’s a room that remained empty for almost nine whole months. There are white squares on the wallpaper and one navy and orange wood wall. The curtains are drawn and frame a picturesque, snowy backyard. Its grey rug in the middle of the room calls out to be sat on. It yells for you to read all the books packed away in storage. Although it looks like any normal room, there should be a crib, a changing table, and bookshelves full of adventures. Instead, the only signs that it was anyone’s space is his name, weight, and birthdate written on the chalkboard paint right as you walk in.

For all this time I hated its emptiness, but there was no way I could take seeing his empty crib. It stayed waiting for Jensen and all his things. A nasty reminder of how life should have been.

Recently, I’ve gained the courage to actually use his room. The first step in this process has been putting up a big piece of furniture, a futon. In fact, it’s a grey futon with navy and orange pillows. My mom and dad came over to help me put it up. We decided the best place for it to sit was where Jensen’s crib would have welcomed his dreams every night. I truly believed that seeing his room being used would help heal my heart. That it wasn’t just a room that held stillness. As we assembled and centered it on the wall, the room started closing in on me. This just wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

I took a huge deep breath and tried once again to accept my reality.

Yes, I had to accept Jensen wouldn’t be using this room. At nine months old, Jensen isn’t in there standing on his crib mattress, waiting for me to pick him up. Instead of him crying to wake me up, there’s nothing but silence. There would be no bedtime stories or a room full of toys. I wouldn’t hear him jump out of his bed as he grew older. He wouldn’t race to his window to see if the snow had covered the street beside us, hoping school would be canceled. There would be no slamming of his door or sneaking out of it. None of these dreams will ever become memories. The futon in his room would always remind me of that.

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Today when I walked in and seen the image above, I smiled and then cried. No matter how much this futon reminds me of all things I don’t have with him, he is so present in this home. In the navy and orange, I see the color of crayons he would pick. The squares on the wall could only help grow his imagination, maybe he’d even become a better drawer than me. Who knows, maybe when he would have been older, he would have wanted this very futon in his room. He probably would think it was cool to have some place to hang out and play video games. I cried today because I wish I knew him at nine months and everyday of his life. His room would’ve become such a huge part of his childhood and now it’s up to me to use it.

I can’t bear to use see any other colors than the ones I picked out for him. It will always be Jensen’s room. My hope is to use his space to be close to him and do what I can in his honor. It took nine months for me to put a futon in there, so it might take nine more for me to actually sit there for a while. Everyday I’m doing my best for him and for me. Even if that means accepting what shouldn’t be.

Happy nine months in heaven, Jensen Grey. You are loved and missed beyond what words could ever describe. I hope you like the futon that occupies your room. It really is comfortable and I could really see me sitting there and watching you play. I hope you have your big nine month sticker on and sending me a most special snowflake. I miss you. I love you.