Should-Be Birthday

Today was my estimated due date. I am 40 full weeks not pregnant. 

Mason should have been born today. Or yesterday. Or last week, or tomorrow, or two weeks from now. I know babies always come on their due dates, right?

I know it shouldn't be a huge deal that today is today but my heart feels the heaviest it has since the last time I held his little body. It's almost like my body knows it, too. I am tired, achey, and irritable. My arms hurt- they feel so very empty. I didn't plan to remember today, but mamas just don't forget things like this.

I don't really have much to say- I am just so sad. But I did want to write a little about him for his day. 

This surprising boy. I didn't think it was even possible that I could be pregnant with him when I found out I was. Then, we truly believed he was a girl from the beginning. His pregnancy was so much like his sister's. 

I was sick and I could only enjoy a few foods. My middle was growing fast. I was feeling him move sometimes. And it felt good. He brought with him feelings of expectation and security. I was believing that we would bring a baby home this month. 

But then I was laying there on the table, trying to erase what I had seen out of my mind: a still heart. My baby was not moving on his own accord. And there was no longer life inside me. 

So I called my husband before I even sat up and I told him what I saw and he told me he'd be home soon. (Thank you Red Cross & U.S. Army for getting him home THAT night). 

Two days later on May 19th, I was induced. At 9:50 p.m. we were shocked when this little boy was born to us. He weighed only one ounce. He was 4 3/4 inches long. His fingernails had already reached his fingertips. His nose was his dad's. Ryan's only words were "Mason Gregory" and then he was blessed by the chaplain. I'll never be able to replicate the sounds I have made when I've held my children, realizing they had died.

We spent time with our son until the next morning. We got fingerprints and footprints. We held him close, and then after meeting with the geneticist, allowed him to be taken from us. We went home shortly after that where we were loved on by our friends and family with meals and cards and flowers and scripture and prayers. And somehow, we lived. Somehow, I'm still alive. Looking back on these moments it's such a wonder to me. How I can go on living when my children don't get to is just beyond me. It isn't fair. It IS more than I can handle. God has handed me more than I can bear. I am so thankful that He bears it for me. 

Today we'll be going to see the movie, "Trolls" because Mason's size was closer to the troll doll comparison on my fourteenth week of pregnancy than the canary comparison on my fifteenth. Again, the bird is always a symbol for me that my children are safe and he was winking at me before I even knew. 

We'll eat some spicy food- I'm thinking buffalo wings since that was his favorite flavor. 

We'll be picking up a quilt made by a sweet woman using his baby blankets. 

We'll light his candle and take out his pictures. And we will remember all the joy he brought us, even if he only stayed a little while.

I wish I were holding him today- a big fat baby that filled my arms. I wish I were singing "You Are My Sunshine" to him again. I wish I could feed him, rock him, and be up all night with his cries instead of the nightmares that remind me that I can't do any of this. 

Today should have been his birthday every year for a very long life. Instead it is another missed due date for me and another day to honor a baby that isn't here. I can't explain how much I miss him and can't wait to hold him again.

Thoughts on a Missed Due Date

Our second child was lost at five weeks.

We learned I was pregnant on New Years Day.

I tried to celebrate this baby, and I did with an early announcement and a "big sister" book for Eden. But the sight of the positive test was ominous for me. I told Ryan immediately, "he's a boy, and he isn't ours to keep either". We prayed that I was wrong, but I knew.

Four days later we found ourselves in the emergency room receiving the news I expected.

I was two days into the miscarriage when I was called by the CHERUBS president and informed that someone had stolen pictures of Eden to pass off as her own deceased fake baby. Enter the hell and drama that was my baby girl's identity theft... and exit the opportunity to truly grieve for the baby we were presently losing.
It wasn't until I was at the Hope Mommies Retreat the next month that I realized that I had not absorbed what had happened- I had not recognized that I lost another child until I saw only one name beside mine.

So when I came home I told Ryan I felt he needed a name, and a few days later he suggested "Errol". It means 'to wander', and it fit because that is what he did. By the time I knew he was here, he was on his way back Home. From then on our second child became known as Baby Errol. It got past me that Errol was also the Weasley's owl in Harry Potter, until my best friend reminded me and it comforted me as HP will always be my favorite story (I mean, who doesn't like HP?).

But I still did not fully grieve that loss even with giving him a name, because at the end of February I found myself pregnant with our third child. It happened so quickly and surprisingly that I just had to move forward and press into the good feelings that this pregnancy brought. When Mason also died at 15 weeks in May, Eden's birthday followed shortly after...

Baby Errol was almost ignored through it all (in true middle child fashion), until suddenly it was July and someone said the word "September" and my heart immediately dropped- I should have a newborn baby in September. On September 7th, to be exact. And that unexpected punch to the gut- "It'll be September soon," is when I really started to grieve that loss.

Today I am reflecting on what that grief looks like- it is so different from that which I carry for Eden and for Mason. I had no chance to get to know him. I am missing what might have been rather than what actually was. Does that make sense? The pain of early miscarriage is so ambiguous- so much possibility, just disappeared.
I have nothing for Errol. Not a footprint or a picture. His body is not in a plot or an urn.  The pregnancy test is in my drawer and that is all I have to show for his brief existence. When I miss my daughter I can hold her weighted bear. When I miss my son I can snuggle his blankie. I can grab things from their time with me and cling a little to the past. I can recall their personalities. I don't have things like this for Baby Errol. So missing Errol is purely missing the future. There's nothing left behind, just this gaping hole where this child I never knew should have been.

He's not less meaningful to us because of all this. He is my child. This baby came to us after we thought we could never even imagine having another. He made it real to me that I am not exempt from loss after loss- no free passes for anyone. It is just far more complicated to be intentional with so much unanswered grief.

The summer weekend for the Mara Hope Project sessions just passed. As he was helping me set up the studio, I told Ryan I really wanted a complete family portrait. He asked how we would include Errol and neither of us could find an answer. So we didn't participate this time. And that made me really sad. But it also rustled in me the desire to purposely honor his life as we approached his due date.

I felt lost and still do... but for this tiny little being and his tiny life, small and simple things seem appropriate.
We cuddled and loved on the little boy that would have been his best friend.
We went to the fair this week and Ryan won me a small owl, one that caught my eye just for Errol.
We went out this morning and brought home a plant to nurture.
I'll finally linger again in the room of unused baby supplies. Perhaps I'll even clean it.
I'll write my photography proposal for the charity interested.

And suddenly it'll be tomorrow, but I'm not sure I'll feel any less lost than I do today.
And that's okay. Two years ago last month we began praying for a child and now we have three in Heaven. It's a tough pill to swallow and one that I can admit I have a hard time accepting, as anyone would.

But oh, I bet this kid is just smiling at me. I know this all seems so trivial to those babies. The joke is on me, because every day is a happy one for them, even if it's a sad one for me. There's the only peace. I know he's glad, healthy, and whole and just waiting there for me with his (yes, or her) brother and sister.
So, happy due date to you, Baby Errol. Your Mama is missing all that should be today.

Manila Envelope

My last post was about my son who was meant for November but came to us much earlier. Today is his three month birthday.
He was the third baby we've lost. So we got the ticket nobody wants to get- the one where they screen us for everything that could be wrong.

We asked the geneticist to run every possible test on Mason and on us. He did. He ran every test and sent them off to the big lab. We waited a month and a half to get the results and I just knew that something was going to come out of them. It had to.


I was believing that Mason's purpose for dying would be that Ryan and I would get answers, would get some direction on how to prevent another loss. I was believing that something was definitely wrong somewhere or else we would not have had to say goodbye to all of our children. Mason, I thought, came to make a way for answers. If we hadn't lost him, there would have never been the open door to every test under the sun.

So while we waited for these results I was most impatient. I emailed my doctor every day. I knew she was checking every morning and the afternoon reply would come, "nothing yet".

All through this time, my inbox kept filling up with the same questions: Have you gotten the results back? Did you test for xyz? What did the doctor say? Any news yet?


When you're transparent about your life, pain and grief included, even people you aren't close with begin feeling entitled to you. It's not bad or wrong of them, they just begin to relate to you and they grow familiar with your life and feel as though your answers are their answers too. It isn't bad, but it is extra hard on you.

There was enough pressure from the expectations Ryan and I had for these tests. I quickly recognized that others were relying on these results too. Other people are banking on a happy ending for us and that was a lot of extra pressure even at the same time it was encouraging. The part that goes over the line though, was when people began assuming they knew the answers.


Listen, I know how it looks.
It looks like I can't produce a healthy baby.

I know what is being said behind my back.
Hell, sometimes it's even said to my face. I was told to get find someone else to carry a child for me.

I know that everyone is wondering what I did wrong.
Let me tell you, I have been wondering myself.

But I was careful. I got the green light from doctors before conceiving. I ate well and supplemented the protein I was missing out on. I limited my caffeine and I did follow every single healthy guideline because no one on earth wanted our children to have the best chance more than we did. And I had healthy, textbook pregnancies- one of them to term. But my pregnancies did not produce healthy babies. My babies died. I know of many unhealthy pregnancies that produce healthy, thriving babies. These things are out of our control! Still, you don't know the guilt and fear that's carried with a pregnancy after loss.

We knew we would eventually share the results with you all. I choose to be open about these things because its healing for me and it might be healing for someone else that I don't even know.
But we have not been ready to open ourselves up again to all of the speculation.
We've been grieving deeply. We've been trying to not remember how many weeks pregnant I would be. We have been packing away baby items. We have been surviving. That's what we've been doing for the past year since we arrived in WA. We are still very much grieving all three of our children, not just the most recent one, because time has no power over grief or the love that causes it.

When we got the results back, do you want to know one of the first things I said to Ryan? In the middle of the grief and confusion and the pain and while the concrete around our loss was still drying, I asked, "What will people say?"
And that's when we realized I needed to take a break from being so public.

I know everyone wanted answers, including us. I can understand the eagerness. And you have all been doing your very best to support us. We are supported. We are loved. And we are thankful.

But I also want everyone to understand that we need time to process things before letting others process them too. We are not obligated to share everything, and especially not before we are ready.

Instead of the questions concerning medical records, here are some helpful ones to ask in case you all find yourselves seeking to comfort newly grieving parents:

-How can I pray for you?

-Have you been eating?

-Do you have any errands that need running?

-Will you tell me about your child?

-Would you like me to sit with you?

-Would you like to get out for a while?

-Would you like to be alone?

I'm sorry for nagging. I just really want to set the tone for how we expect to be treated in light of this news that we are now ready to share.

We were on the way to the beach in S.C., the last leg of our visit home which was meant to be relaxing and fun. But, my phone rang and I saw the Tacoma number. It was my doctor.
Ryan turned the radio down but she was still very quiet when she said, "He was positively a little boy, and he was positively perfect. Everything came back normal."
We talked for a few more minutes and I could hear her crying with me. We made an appointment for when we came back to WA. and I hung up.

It made the end of our vacation a lot more sober than it already was. The day before was Eden's first birthday. One year after losing our first child, we are told that we just had really bad luck with all three of them.

So we came home and a few days later went into her office so that she could hand me a big yellow manila envelope of test results. It was heavy. "Lots of medical, cold terminology in there... you don't want to read it. It's just for future doctors' reference."
Sitting in the pharmacy I took it out and began to read it anyway. Pages and pages and pages with the words 'normal' and 'unremarkable' typed on them.


I sat there in disbelief and just cried and cried. I was so hurt. I am still hurt. I am still confused. I am still afraid.


My whole life I have been concerned with why things happen. I used to believe that everything had a reason. My world has been rocked by these kids. Everything I believed before has been challenged and altered. After Eden passed, I began to let go of asking why. After Errol passed, I touched it but quickly retreated. This time, I demanded that God make it known to me. And initially, because I had invested so much hope in the contents of that envelope, I thought Mason had died in vain.

I did not necessarily want to be told something was wrong with me or with Ryan or with our child, but I did want to know WHY. I kept opening that envelope for weeks, thinking maybe we missed something. I even went back in it today. It's the same. Same words. Same paper. Normal. Unremarkable.

I have to put this envelope away and put this energy into honoring my son. I'm beginning to think Mason came to make a way that I could tear down the "why" wall for good. That I could maybe one day toss reservations and guilt and shame and worry to pick up only the bare necessities: love and grief. I'm still working on that. But I think he finally broke me for good of the innate need to be given a reason.

I repeat it over and over in this blog and in my home and to other loss moms: there's no reason that our babies die, not a good enough one anyway (if you think you have one, I'm not interested in hearing it). I fell back into the trap of believing that everything had a reason. But Mason did not have a "purpose for dying" like I was foolishly believing he did, contrary to everything that I already knew.

There are a lot of reasons that our babies come to us, though. One of them because we are the only ones that can build legacies for people who were here for such a short time. He chose me. Thank God He chose me for them. They are mine and I am theirs and there's so much painful good in that. I will love them and do good things where they could have if they had lived.

Today is also the International Day of Hope for bereaved families. It is a day to share about our children and remind others that they are still very loved people, not just sad events in our lives. I did not create a prayer flag this year but I am spending so much time reflecting on what a miracle really is. My babies died, but they are still miracles. I asked for them and they were given to me. Ryan and I still being here and living an abundant life is a miracle. The promise of being a complete family again one day is the ultimate miracle. How amazing is the thought that I'll be as innocent as my children when I finally hold them again in front of the Father?

I wish I had answers for you all. I really do. It's been a long year that we are thankful you have supported and loved us through. I want a happy ending pretty ribbon tied around this story for you all as much almost as much as for myself. But life is messy. It's not fair and it's not pretty all the time. That doesn't make it any less miraculous.


I know that there are more questions after this, the most pressing one being what we do next.
We. Don't. Freakin'. Know.
Right now, we are recuperating. We are full of grief and my body is drained. We are so tired. So we are resting. And I am sealing this envelope and putting it in the safe.
Please don't recommend we grow our family by way of another pregnancy, or surrogacy (BTW, that's super rude- if you think I'm a dud, just say it behind my back), or adoption, or fostering. And when we are ready to grow our family, please don't discourage us from being brave enough to pursue a living child-whatever avenue we are led down.

We're praying for peace to sleep and patience to complete simple tasks and grace enough to get through every moment missing our babies. For now, we just ask that you encourage us to rest. And go to the throne on our behalf and intervene, send your vibes, give us thoughts... whatever it is you do. And remember who we are when you want to complain about your kids directly to us. And be patient when we tell you certain events are hard. And give us grace when we bail. And join us in letting go of the need to know why this happened.

May Baby Mason

I'm going to write the fluffiest introduction here to be sure I make the point: I'm going to tell you what I'm going to be writing about. I'm going to write about my baby son dying.
My child died for the third time and that is what I'm going to write about. I'm going to write about it because I need to and I want to and he deserves to be talked about. I want to shout him from the rooftops.
This may make you uncomfortable, so that is why I'm telling you that I'm writing about it. I will be including pictures in which my dead child resides. I don't worry about making you uncomfortable because I am going to be uncomfortable for literally the rest of my life, but if you worry about being uncomfortable over babies dying you can stop reading now and go back to your cat videos.



So anyway, yeah.

My son died. I am mourning once more. At a routine check up last month when I was 15 weeks pregnant, I could see as clear as day before the doctor could... my baby had no heartbeat. Again again again. I look back and there were no warning signs this time, no intuition or flashing signals. With Eden, I anticipated something was wrong before her diagnosis. With Baby Errol, I had a feeling he wasn't mine to keep. With this one, though, I believed so strongly that everything was all fine.

From the moment I even thought I was pregnant I just had a good feeling. A strong feeling. Heck, the hormone showed up on a pee stick when I was only three weeks along. The symptoms were immediate. They were so similar to those I had with Eden, only earlier and more intense. Everything looked great. They even gave me a five week stretch between appointments. I had a little bump by 8 weeks. I felt movements as early as 12 weeks. Everything about this pregnancy made me feel sure that this time we would bring a healthy child home in a car seat.

But alas, he came home in an urn. Because he died.
And so I switch gears from "pregnant" to "grieving" like I have done before.
Only I figured maybe I'm a pro by now, maybe I know how to do this kind of thing... but the God's honest truth about that is I am not and I do not. I am just as freaking lost this time as I was the first time. All I know to do is to keep being honest.

I'm trying to write well but I'm sure that I'll have to come back to edit later as I have not slept. And when I say that, I mean I have to take two prescription pills to achieve 4 hours in which I continuously sit up straight from the nightmares. There is nothing funny about sleep deprivation. There is nothing sexy about being tired. I don't know why people romanticize exhaustion.
(And speaking of things people romanticize, why are panic attacks also one of them? The internet is flooded with articles about how anxious women love differently, how we should be handled, etc and basically every person I know has posted them... We can't all have anxiety can we? Trust me when I say it's not cute, it's not fun, and seriously nobody wants it.)

So, yeah. I'm tired, I'm anxious. I'm worn down. And I'm waiting for the moment when I 'come to' and realize that this is all just in my sick and twisted imagination. I'm waiting for the moment when my therapist breaks the news to me that it's time to face the facts, none of this ever happened. That woman who stole Eden's pictures last year has made me jealous that she's just crazy and I sometimes find myself thinking seriously ugly things: if she wanted my life so bad, I'd be happy to trade her.
I will be so glad to wake up from this dream. Until then, I guess I will keep writing about it and the very realness that it is to me.

Death isn't something that I really had to deal with head on before my children, but I can still tell you that it is a different pain than losing anyone else. It's the ultimate backwards fate. Because mothers and fathers don't outlive their children. And I am learning that there isn't a single right way to be sane through that kind of pain, except the way that is right for me, and again...that changes every day.
Either you need to be out and around other people, or you need to be under the covers, or you need to go out and be under someone else's covers. And the non-grieving are so finicky when you're grieving anyway, they expect you to be well enough to come out and play or they just stop inviting you to play altogether... so you may as well do whatever feels good.

Today, to keep sane I just need to say that he died.
I am so sick of writing about this. I am so sick of this experience.
But I have to say it.
My boy, my sweet son. His name is Mason Gregory and he died.

And it's different from the first time and it's different from the second time, and it's true that every child is different. Weeks after losing my Eden there was a sweet sadness that settled in, a content grief very early on, knowing that it would be a lifetime of ebbing and flowing. Shortly after my early miscarriage I needed to be important and busy and pregnant with things to do rather than a baby. I channeled Errol into work and then my first two children's legacies became my ministry. This time (am I really saying "this time", have I really done this before?), I am so restless and I have a million responsibilities but the only one I want is to carry my child and grow him. I want to go backwards now and that's never been a place I was interested in. I'm missing him. I know I'm moving towards Heaven, but I fear there is much more time between now and then than there is between my babies and now. I am moving away from them and I don't want to hear about how soon I'll see them again. With each week that passes I ache a little more for him, for the sibling that made a way for him only two months before, for the sister that placed the mother heart in me first. All I've ever wanted to be was a mama, their mama. Not like this, but I still wouldn't trade.

So he died then he was born and we held his little body, and he barely took up the palm of Ryan's hand and Ryan's eyes were so sad as he wrapped his son in the tiniest baby blanket I've ever laid my own eyes on. My heart breaks because not only are my babies dead, his babies are dead too. So on top of my dreams, his have also been crushed. I've never been more in love with him than when he has a broken heart and still does all he can to make me smile. He is good. I am blessed that he is the father of my children and the grieving man beside me.

Still, we are wrecked. Stop asking about our family planning. No, we don't yet have answers. Stop suggesting we run out an adopt. Realize adoption is a plan for us and we will have a family with living children one day, but its not anyone's business right now that we just don't know what the heck is going on. We have no freaking clue. We haven't even thought about it, because our baby just died. And please, for the love of everything pure, get your nose out of everyone else's womb. I actually had someone comment on the last blog post I wrote: "get a surrogate".


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Here is the thing a lot of people don't get. Here is what they're missing out on. They think it is as simple as getting something fixed when a baby dies. In this case, it's me that needs fixing? Anyway. They're losing sight of what has to happen for someone to die.
My babies are dead. They died. The very first time any of them opened their eyes, they saw the face of the Lord.
I don't know what caused it the last two times.

But I do know this: in order for someone to die, they must live.

They must have once been alive.


And they were. Or else doctors wouldn't say, "I'm sorry, your baby has died."
A person's life can't end without it being life.

My babies were alive.
They lived. Their little hearts beat inside me. One of them, outside.

Where life is, there is also love.
Life and love begin in the same place.

My kids were loved from the moment they existed. Every baby is loved. Every child is wanted. All of them needed. Mine were cherished.

Did my love for them die when they did?

Did my adoration cease the moment I knew she wouldn't live?
Could I withhold devotion though I felt this one wouldn't stay?
Did the love that caused me to hope and dream diminish the moment I saw his still heart?

Obviously not. Life and love don't end in the same place. If they did, nobody would be walking around with a heart this broken.

Love doesn't end. It takes a new form and that is grief.

And so that's the reason I can't run out to the surrogate agency today, three weeks from picking out Mason's urn. That's the reason we're not rushing off to band-aid fix our loss with "another". Another baby doesn't heal the pain of losing mine. That's the reason we will just have to make people uncomfortable with our flavor of parenthood for a while. The reason is that he died but our love didn't. We are grieving instead. We will be grieving forever.
The day I fall out of love with my kids will be the day when it's okay for people to talk like that.


Besides their spirits (which are still very much alive, I'll have you know), I have to put this love into something tangible. Finding somewhere to put that love takes all the energy I have. Finding something to soothe the ache of the empty place my children left just drains me. Today it's this blog. Tomorrow it'll be myself: washing my hair and putting lotion on and eating a decent meal. Maybe soon it'll be that book idea I keep toying with. Anyway.

Mason died.
They all died.
But that is only because they lived. And because they lived, I loved them.

And because I loved them, I'll love them endlessly.

To the Mama Expecting Bereavement

Dear Bereaved Mother-in-Waiting,

"Put one foot in front of the other."

That use to sound like something you'd say to encourage people, but now it is an order. It's a reminder.

Each of your organs are cinder blocks, making every step heavier and making it almost impossible to scoot without stumbling.

Your brain is pulling away from gravity- stretched far above treetops, "head in the clouds". Your heart is in your feet, appropriately broken to fit in the different sides. There's suddenly a mile between your vocal cords and your tongue- good luck saying what you need. 

How has your body become so rearranged? How come no one can see it from the outside?

I know where you are. You are in anticipatory grief for the child in your womb. You feel almost alone on this journey. And lost. Every moment is another that putting one foot in front of the other is an impossible request to make of you.

Waiting to lose is bad. I can't say that it is the worst. I've never truly lost before now. I've witnessed others' sudden and unexpected loss, I've witnessed others' peaceful letting-go. But I've never witnessed firsthand another getting prepared for the birth and death of someone they love until myself.

Have you? Are you no stranger to loss?

If you aren't, I'm afraid this will still be a bit different. Because every loss is different.
And my stumbling upon this new normal will look so much different from yours. We are creating together a beautiful community of different hurts that may only live until we are gone, so that there is room in the space for the next different hurts.


Call this space -baby loss- "Alaska". Imagine the dreams we'd had for our babies prior to learning about life-limiting or fatal diagnoses in another space called "Jamaica".

Some of us arrive to Alaska by taking the long way around- driving from peninsular Florida through the continental US and then through Canada. Perhaps we barely knew we were pregnant, the pee may still be wet on the stick when we learn that our babes have a different fate than we'd hoped. So starting from 8 weeks gestation, we begin to carry the burden of waiting on losing. And we carry it the whole way to birth. The climate changes every few hundred miles (some days are colder than others in anticipatory loss), and we have to stop often for gas (someone please pour encouragement into me). But when we finally arrive to Alaska, we've still got some sweet memories of the trip there.

Some of us get there by boat. We hop on our own glacier bound titanic midway through pregnancy. We had smooth sailing through the first and second trimester but waters became rough at a nerve-wrecking diagnosis appointment. We just gave our voyage a name we'd picked out dependent on its gender ultrasound... and now we must accept that the voyage will end in Alaska, when we arrive there. We still have a little time to make these next days (months) count, so immediately every sunset on the water becomes more precious.

Then some of us arrive by plane. In the home stretch of our pregnancies, we feel irregular kicking patterns and just think we have lazy babies. So we visit doctors and go to specialists and learn that something has gone terribly wrong and we are days away from loss. It only takes a few hours to fly to Alaska from where we are. We don't have time to pack, we don't have time to wait in line for a Cinnabon.. We check in and hop on for a turbulent ride, hoping for a moment to look out the window and gather that everything will change once we land, thankful for ignorance before this point.


We all get to the same Alaska, but it looks different to each of us because of the way we got there. I can't tell you exactly how Alaska is going to look to you. We can all agree on one thing though: it is cold and it isn't the place we wanted to be.


You are wishing for the days before you knew what you're carrying with your baby: before you knew all the uncertainty that you were oblivious to before this point. Certain Uncertainty? You wish you didn't have that.

You are wishing for the days where you were planning for Jamaica. When the biggest worries you had were over diaper brands, nursery themes, feeding options, parenting styles. You are watching all the other expectant mothers in Jamaica. You're glad for them, you're sad for you.


While you're on the way to and in Alaska, the mothers on the way to and in Jamaica are going to try to reach out to you. They may not be able to know what you're going through, but they can certainly empathize- easier than most can. It hits close to home when one is looking at her friends in Alaska while she's in Jamaica.
Let them, mama. Our small village waiting for you in Alaska is support, but you will never have enough. Don't push them away if they just want to love on you.

Sometimes a woman in Jamaica will assume that, being in Alaska, you can be nothing but jealous and bitter. You know better, though. Love that mother from a distance. Find comfort in praying that that mother will never TRULY know how you feel- pray she will never need to visit Alaska.

Sometimes a woman who looks like she's always been in Jamaica will surprise you, she's visited Alaska too. One day you may be in her shoes. One day you may not. Just know she's been in yours.

You're still expecting. You're still on the way to Alaska, and there will be so much struggle to enjoy the ride. If you are driving, you're carsick. If you're sailing, your boat is steadily sinking. If you're flying, its on a small plane and through thunderstorms. And on top of it all, there is no map to our Alaska. We are wandering, on a certain path.

It's going to be hard. But I urge you, mama... Rebuke the end of your trip until it comes. Speak life into your baby, speak life into your self.

Don't give up, don't have a passive trip. Tell people about your journey.

When you meet a stranger along the way, you don't have to let them think you're on your way to Jamaica just so they aren't uncomfortable.

And then, somedays, if you want to let the trip happen while you just rest, I urge you to do that too.
Stay in bed, cry, holler, and cuss.

Feel what you need to feel. Know that your feelings are OK.
If you are glad- don't let anyone make you think you should be sad.
If you are sad- don't let anyone make you think you should be glad.


You're expecting a baby. Your baby is a blessing! Your sick baby is a blessing! Your broken baby is a blessing! Your dying baby is a blessing!

You're expecting to be a bereaved mother. Grief, in its own way, is also a blessing. You do NOT have to view it that way. But waiting for it will give you a different outlook on yourself, on your baby, and on life.


When you get to Alaska, it's okay to be disappointed. It's okay to be angry. This is not the trip you planned. This is not Jamaica. And when you get here, that's when you'll realize you didn't pack a jacket.

You can't pack anything, actually. Nothing ample enough to protect yourself from the cold weather you're facing. Remember you were packing for Jamaica when this trip went the other way.
Though you are expecting it, you don't know exactly what kind of grief awaits you in Alaska.

In Alaska, you will be babylost. And I didn't know until I arrived here that the pain is a new one, different and more amplified. I want to warn you of that.

This post will not ease it, your family will not ease it, your friends will not ease it. They will love on you (yes, even more than they are right now) but they will never be able to put your baby back in your arms. And I'm sorry to know that.

I'm sorry that you are terrified. I'm sorry that you cannot turn around and just stay home. I'm sorry that we aren't going to Jamaica this time.

There will still be an element of beauty. Alaska is still a nice place to see. It is still a new place. You will still be a mother! Don't let anyone ever tell you any different. In your grief, you will be THE mother. How amazing you will be to parent a baby you can no longer see.

But I want you to know that once you arrive, you will long for the days when you were just waiting for it, just like you now long for the days when you knew you were going to certainly bring home a healthy and happy baby to protect and love.


I know you are heavy. I know that in addition to all you're carrying with your baby, your own self is becoming tough to pull. But you can do it. I believe our babies get to choose us. Your baby picked you, mama. Your baby knows you can finish the journey it was sent to you for. Your baby knows you can somehow get all the way to Alaska, no matter how far or close it seems.

Just put one foot in front of the other.

The Birth of My Marriage into Loss

For some reason when Ryan and I first learned of Eden's diagnosis and prognosis, one of the first things someone felt the need to point out to me was that the divorce rate for bereaved parents in America is about 80%. That means that 80 out of 100 couples who lose a child get divorced.

There isn't any accommodating information to be found. Nowhere says whether the child's death was an accident, whether it was a birth defect, whether it was a terminable disease, whether one or the other was at fault. Was the child grown? Was the child born yet?
You don't know if she became cold and angry, or if he became abusive. You don't know if it's within a year of the death or twenty years later. You don't know if they tried therapy. All I can find is that 4/5 bereaved couples let their marriages crumble.

I can't remember the person who gave me this statistic, but if you're reading this and it was you, I want you to know you quietly lit a fire in my heart that day to strive for my marriage and fight for it to the end, no matter what. I don't know your motives but I hope that was one of them.

There in the birthing suite, as I was delivering our daughter, I saw tears streaming all the way down my husband's face. Of course, I'd seen him cry before, but I'd never seen tears make it further than his cheeks. He was holding me-one hand grabbing my foot and the other supporting my swollen arm. He and my mother were working together to help me.

Eden was born and his tears kept flowing. I heard him keep saying, "thank you, thank you." I watched him cut her cord and feel her pulse. He talked to her the whole time through her dedication, we couldn't actually hear the prayer or the blessing. He took her from my chest and she hadn't been wiped off at all, he wrapped her against his shirt in a thin blanket and just held her there. She breathed there, and reached closer for him. He was in awe of her, and I was in awe of them together. I'd never seen such a beautiful sight, the two people I love most in the world just embracing each other.

I struggled to hum her the lullaby, and then he struggled to read her our bedtime story.
We told her that it was okay to go, and so she went a few minutes later. 

The time between our baby's birth and our baby's death was the shortest length of time I've ever experienced, though they say it was 40 minutes. However, it was all the time it took for me to love Ryan in a new way, a way I'd never thought possible. 

The time between our baby's death and now has been the longest length of time I've ever experienced, though its been two weeks and two days. The days have seemed to make one big one, and sleep won't come. At the same time, I wish that it would slow down and it didn't keep moving away from that day so fast.


Our love has evolved in this time, and it's changed thanks to the daughter it created.

We spent the rest of Friday and that night in the hospital room with Eden Olivia. Neither one of us ever left, and she was never put down. We took turns rocking her and talking to her, we laid down together in my bed and napped holding her. We kept admiring her beauty and crying over the perfection that she was. I was the one who held her to sleep that night, and Ryan held her all the next morning before our family came back to tell her goodbye.
Together we put her in the gown made from my wedding dress. She was wrapped in all the love we felt on our wedding day and all the love we felt for her. The funeral home came to pick her up, and we took her downstairs. My dad helped Ryan carry the bassinet, and we got to walk our baby out of the front door just like everyone else. We took turns kissing her and saying goodbye. 
Knowing this may be the last time I saw her face, I couldn't watch her being covered so I turned away. Ryan wanted to be the one to cover her, so he went up to the car and did that for her. This is where our difference in grief began.

We left he hospital after she did. I was brought nearly to my knees when we got to the car and I realized there was no carseat, because we didn't buy one, because we knew she wouldn't be coming home with us. That's when Ryan almost had to scrape me off the asphalt to put me in the passengers seat. He drove to get food, and we took it home where we were alone for a minute as everyone had stepped out for errands. Chick-fil-A (my favorite) tasted like plastic. We finished, I took a pill for pain and went to bed clenching a stuffed bear given to us "to ease the ache of empty arms". Ryan fixed a hole in the fence and did other things around the house before he joined me. I woke up and he was the one wrapped around the bear.

The rest of the weekend is a blur to me, as I mostly stayed in bed. We got our family to the airports Monday morning, then it was us, alone. I was ready to spend another day asleep, but my husband knew there was much we had to get done. So together we parented our daughter that day by making arrangements for flying her and us back to South Carolina, by going to offices to register her birth, by packing her letters and other things to send with her in a bag. 
We were at the airport Tuesday morning, able to watch from the window as they put the most precious cargo on the plane. I cried the whole ride in physical and emotional pain, just holding on tight to that bear. There was a baby girl in front of us who was extremely upset most of the way. Her cries were no bother to me, just a reminder that my little girl was also on the plane, in the wrong seat. I could tell from Ryan's face in the times that he wasn't smiling at her that he was jealous too. I was just thankful that the check-in counter was able to put our seats together since the airline couldn't guarantee it. I was just thankful I still had Ryan and he was holding my hand. Later we heard her mother tell the people beside her that the girl's name is Olivia, and I figured God wanted us in those seats all along.

The thing about my man's heart is that he loves by "doing". Once we landed at home, I wanted to immediately go lie down and hope all the arrangements would be made on their own. But instead we went to the cemetery and picked out Eden's plot. Then we went to the funeral home and decided on the program, finalized the viewing, and planned the funeral. Ryan contacted the Reverend and did all the talking, because my mouth was cotton balls and because it's how he loves. He was sure to ask me how I wanted everything, but more times than not just had to read my mind.
They told us that it would be more than appropriate to have an open casket for the viewing, and relief washed over me. Already, I had regrets about not watching her be covered. Already, I had resented Ryan a little bit for being the last one to hold her alive, and the last one to see her dead. 

The next morning we went to pay the cemetery. Together we decided on a stone and I decided what it would say. I think he was growing weary of all the decision making by this time. We had breakfast and ordered some white roses for our daughter. We went to buy her a pearl bracelet, but it was gifted to us. We took it to the funeral home and there we were finally able to see Eden again. Holding my hand, Ryan walked me up to the casket in the visitation room. I expected to see an unrecognizable face, a cold looking body. Instead, she looked just as beautiful as when we last saw her. I was afraid, but I touched her hand. That's when he was able to touch her too. I wonder how afraid he was, because neither of us had mentioned fear and I know I felt it. I wanted to talk to him, but I just didn't know words. He noticed right away that her headband was missing, so he went to ask if they still had it. He came back with it and I placed the band on her head. I tried so hard to clasp the pearl bracelet on her wrist but I was shaking and tears were clouding my eyes. So he took the clasp and calmly fastened it, holding her tiny hand in his palm. He leaned down and kissed her forehead, then I did. Then we left the funeral home, knowing we could see her again later.

The next few hours are the most vivid to me. I kept watching the man I married try on suits appropriate for receiving visitors and burying his daughter. It broke my heart every time he came out of a dressing room, looking much older than he should have. It made me relieved that I picked out and bought dresses when I was 8 months pregnant, because I could not have handled the pain of needing to try on clothes for such an occasion. He chose shades of turquoise, for CDH awareness. His face was grim when he told attendants that the suit was for "a funeral". No parents should ever need to buy clothes to bury their children in.

Then, we were dressed and ready, heading to the funeral home with my family. I remember arguing with Ryan over something very trivial at the beginning, the guilt of letting anything outside bother me on a day like this one stabbing at me as we stood in the hall whisper-yelling. I don't know if he knew I knew better, but couldn't help it. It was our first argument since she'd passed. Then, we were thrown into the room where people kept pouring in to talk to us and see our daughter. We were separated and overwhelmed. Immediately, I missed him... but I was too prideful to stop people from talking to me so I could find and stand next to him for a long time. He eventually just ended up next to me, our hands finding each other as different people hugged us.

About 400 people came to pay their respects that night. Many of them had comforting things to say, and some of them had stupid things to say. But they all cared and we were shocked at just how many lives Eden affected. The evening wound down, and people stayed about 30 minutes over time.. then we were left alone in the room with our daughter. Standing over her again, I told him I was sorry, that I needed him and that I didn't want to fight. He just said, "Who's fighting? I love you." And we kissed our girl, then each other and headed back to my mom's house.

We woke early the next morning and went to pay the funeral home. This would be the last time we'd see her. We went in, afraid again. I put her letters at her feet, her book next to her side. Ryan placed her little stuffie next to her head and we stood there together touching her and talking to her. I kissed her one last time and told her that I love her. I walked away weeping. Ryan followed a few moments later. He was the last one of us to see her anyway. I wasn't bitter this time.

We drove away quietly to go get ready for the funeral. I saw a much older, but still handsome man in the suit he'd bought, and I felt much older in the dress I was wearing. "You look beautiful." He'd taken a single white rose from the two dozen we'd bought her and gave it to me so I could place it on her casket.

The family car arrived at my mom's at 1:15. All of Eden's grandparents rode with us to the cemetery. Though it was a cloudy morning, the sun came out and it was beautiful and breezy few hours. I remember a blur for a funeral. Though it was private the only ones in attendance were family and close friends, those people were too many for just under the tent. I looked back behind me once but I didn't recognize a single face.
I remember they sang, "You are my sunshine". They sang, "Farther Along". They sang "When We All Get to Heaven". I couldn't sing. I heard voices all around me, but not Ryan's, so I didn't feel so alone.
He clenched my hand the whole time. Once he turned my face to his and wiped it, though the tears kept coming. I felt so selfish, needing him so badly. I wondered if I was stopping him from needing me.
We were each given a red rose, in addition to the one Ryan gave me. We walked up to the casket and I remember wondering "are my breasts leaking?" and I was reminded that it hadn't even been one week since I gave birth to this child and thats when my legs gave out from under me. I was using him for support, I was moaning through my cries. The cemetery was silent, and it was as though the only other person there was the one next to me. We took a single petal from the white rose to save. I handed it to Ryan and somehow found my way back to the chair between our parents. A final prayer and then it was over, all of the people coming through to hug us. 

We were leaving to go eat at my best friend's church, and I looked beside me to realize Ryan wasn't walking there. I turned around and saw him lifting a bit of the rug covering the grave, harvesting the dirt that she'd be covered in. He put it in a vial like the one we would later put the rose petal in, like the ones that hold a lock of her hair, a cut of a blanket that was around her, and the oil used for her dedication. I was watching him be intentional in fathering our child, even in his pain.

Later on that night we were making rounds to visit family before leaving, and it had begun to storm. The clouds held off and gave us a beautiful funeral, but the weather was appropriately dreary for the rest of the day. We were fighting again. After a while, I wondered if that was to be our new normal, since we never really fought before. Thats when I remembered the ugly statistic given to me in the beginning. And I was finished with fighting. All I could say was that what it was would never be as important to me as us. And when he agreed, that was it. 

When we made it back to the cemetery after dark when the storming had stopped, and we walked to her grave holding hands. My heart was in literal pain as I just sat in the damp ground at the bottom of her flowered plot. I wept, and felt his hand on my back. He was kneeling down. I whispered to him that I could have just crawled up underneath her and stayed, and he told me that he knew. I believed him.

We flew home the next day, thankfully on seats next to each other again. Then we were in our bedroom, all the "doing" over and only "feeling" left. 


It was a long weekend of us trying very hard to get out of the house. We ended up going to the grocery store and I'll always be proud of us for making it there, even though it took talking about it for two days and going on Monday. That's when we'd paid the Colorado funeral home, and then Tuesday we registered her death. How unreal it was to receive both her birth and death certificates on the same day.

Ryan went back to work on Wednesday, and organized our upcoming move. I stayed in bed all day, glad for a minute to myself but also missing him. I was happy that he had tasks to fill his day. The rest of the week I tried to be productive too, while he tried to slow down. We've both had to respect the way one another is grieving- we're each dealing with this beautiful, awful thing in different ways and at different times. He said to me the other night, "We're going to feel and act differently, just know that however we are feeling and acting is perfectly okay."

These past few days, I'm feeling a mix of things. I feel insecure, I credit the birth process for that. I feel numb, like I just don't have the energy to handle all of my emotions. I feel guilty, thinking that if Ryan hadn't married me and picked me to carry his children, maybe none of this would have happened to him. I love him so much that I'm sorry to have given him this grief.

Last night as I was trying to voice these things but struggling to find the words (people keep saying how important communicating is right now but they don't seem to have any idea how difficult communication turns out to be), this man looked at me so intently and said, "I am so grateful you are my wife and the mother of my daughter. No one else could do what you've done." And then we went to sleep with that comfort bear between us.

I've forgotten now exactly what it was that we fought about those nights, but it has not stopped bothering me that we fought. Now my fears focus on if we can keep our marriage from crumbling, if we can keep from blaming each other for our hurt, if we can be the parents we'd hoped to be without hindering one another with bitterness. My fears were calmed when he said those things to me, because I know that he does not blame me in this immediate aftermath just as I do not blame him.
You see, CDH has no known cause (yet) and that may be our saving grace... But I like to believe that even if we knew what exactly was the explanation for our daughters severe birth defect and death, we would still not fault one or the other. I know that Eden's life taught us more about our love than her death can tear us apart.

When we asked for a baby, we prayed that if there was one that would be sick or one who's life would be short, it would be ours as we knew we could love this baby better than most. I didn't realize how drastically that would change our marriage, as it would definitely change us individually. I think we forgot to pray at that same time for grace and wisdom to see each other through the kind of situation we asked for, but it is coming to us gradually. Every day I am sorry that our marriage has been born into this grief, but more grateful that this is the man God gave me to grieve with. I pray that we will make our daughter proud.

"Two are better than one,

    because they have a good return for their labor: If either of them falls down,
    one can help the other up.
But pity anyone who falls
    and has no one to help them up.

Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm.
    But how can one keep warm alone?
 Though one may be overpowered,
    two can defend themselves.
A cord of three strands is not quickly broken."

Ecclesiastes 4:9-12