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.

An Update and a Note on Disabling Comments

In the past few weeks my open letter to Kristin Keel has resurfaced and made the rounds again, opening my blog up to many questions about the situation. I wanted to share with those of you curious what has come of the whole ordeal since January.
We pushed pretty hard down many different avenues to have her and her husband punished for, at the very least, identity theft of our child. Since there was no record of gifts and money they received as a result of their fake child's death, it has been impossible. There are, unfortunately, no proven laws broken against us personally. Maybe one day we will have the energy to initiate a bill that would make sure that online identity theft of a deceased person is a crime. We don't have that energy right now.

We've done what we can. I wrote the truth and published it here and it made its way to the eyes of all the people who grieved for a child that didn't exist. It helped loss support groups kick Kristin out so that she could not also prey on their children. It gave a name to the face that has tried to keep scamming so many more people. I said my piece. So, really, I've done my part.
It has been a really hard 18 months and it's just time for us to try and regain some kind of normalcy. The anger and bitterness that Satan tried to plant using Kristin really have no room here in the grief we are trying to tend to. Ryan and I consciously stepped back from the drama in an effort to keep a hold of our sanity and we have decided that forgiveness is the only way to free us from the hurt she caused. And we are also praying genuinely for a change in the hearts of Kristin and Troy. We are super grateful for the kindness and love and support we have received from the whole new wave of strangers brought into our lives by this and that's what we have to focus on.

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.

An Open Letter to the Woman Using My Daughter's Pictures Online

Kristin Keel Of Minot;

I keep blinking to make sure this is not a nightmare. I have refused to believe that people like you and situations like this actually exist in the world. But I have to admit the truth to myself- you do. You are real. As real as my daughter is, though you have attempted to make her un-real. Shame on you.

I was lying on the couch and resting on Wednesday. I had spent all of Tuesday in an ER testing for a miscarriage and would be going back for a last test on Thursday to be sure that is what was happening. A miscarriage of pregnancy, that is. It was my first since loosing my daughter. I was emotionally drained and physically exhausted. Then Dawn called. I didn’t know what a CHERUBS coordinator could be calling me for, but I was eager to take the call and talk about the daughter that they had helped me prepare for and say goodbye to.

MY daughter, Eden Olivia Coker. We learned we were expecting her on October 15, 2014. We learned she was a girl in February 2015. She was diagnosed with a severe and fatal Bilateral Congenital Diaphragmatic Hernia in March 2015. I carried her to induction on June 25 2015 and birth on June 26 2015 at Fort Carson, Colorado. She was born at 10:40 am and died at 11:20 am. She took a few breaths, her last one in my husband’s arms. She never cried. She never opened her eyes. She saved every bit of her energy for those breaths. She went peacefully and quietly into the arms of Jesus. She smelled so good. And she looked like her father, her real father. If you'd like to know more about her actual birth story, you can click this. My little Cherub, that raised awareness to thousands of people about CDH. Over 300 people attended her viewing and saw her body in the casket. She was buried on July 2, 2015 in Sumter South Carolina. Her real Nana goes to visit her body there every day. She resides in Heaven with Jesus, her great-nana, and her cousins. She also resides in the air I breathe and the birds that visit and the faces of every other loss mama I have met on this journey. 

You know who’s face she isn’t in? Yours. Not at all, not one bit.

Dawn said, “I have some disturbing news...” and the rest was a blur. She cried with me and we sat in amazement at this development: someone in Minot, North Dakota had apparently faked a pregnancy and a stillbirth and was using Eden’s pictures to pass the baby in them off as their fake daughter, “Parker Ann Marie Keel”.

I hung up with Dawn when I became hysterical and I called my husband, my mother, and my photographer (by the way- Kahva Photography owns ALL of the rights to all of the images you printed and many of the photographs in this blog post). They joined me in tears. I sobbed so hard- how could the world just keep heaping all this crap on me? Who would do such a thing?

Not wanting to be hasty, Ryan and I waited and let this sink in before we decided we would be taking whatever actions possible against you. So I told Dawn that I would like to know who you are. She sent me screenshots of my baby’s face in your life. Printed and put up on your wall, printed and taken to sit in a Santa’s lap at Christmas (or photoshopped?). Google images for your ultrasound picture and another bad edit job. The memory of my very real Eden Olivia defiled to be fake “Parker”. A nursery prepared and posted on your mother’s facebook. My thoughts went to your poor mother, Kristin. Has she been grieving a granddaughter that isn’t even hers, or does she help you with this façade?

I don’t know if Troy is in on your game. But what made my stomach twist in knots was the video Troy posted of you two sprinting out to a “grave” to make snow angels, smiling and laughing and jumping around. The cherub with this name “Parker” engraved onto it. The wreath made to look like a turkey.  Nothing but toothy grins plastered all over Facebook. Lies. All of the sickest types of lies.

Your smiles are wicked. And my heart breaks for every person who believed this charade.

It’s been suggested that you could have had many different motives for using my daughter’s pictures… for stealing the identity of a deceased baby. Maybe you did loose a child and could not get any pictures for whatever reason… I don’t believe you lost a child. Because if you had, you couldn’t have done such a thing. I know too many people living after they have lost their babies to believe that after going through such pain, you would be able to make a mockery of it by using another parent’s pictures of their child.

I dug, but I did not have to dig far. The people around you had been keeping tabs on your lie ever since it began.

After adding up more information and learning about you, your past plagued with fraud, theft, and many other offenses to include suspected poisoning and taking advantage of those with disabilities… I can say that I know in my heart that you were never pregnant and there was never a baby.

I’ve heard multiple versions of your story- showing up to the ER, sending your husband home for clean clothes, birthing this baby and then leaving the hospital, walking down the street before he could even return to pick you up, then telling him that a hospital employee took your baby’s body from you, dug up her own son’s grave and put your baby in with him (all while neither one of you calls the cops) is outrageous enough….  Then I’ve heard the one where you claim the baby’s body was donated to science… Then I’ve heard there is a grave with a baby in it and then I’ve heard there is a grave with a casket of toys in it, then I’ve heard there is no actual grave. None of it adds up. Nope, you are a liar and I don’t believe there ever was a baby.

Other offerings of motives came. Maybe you were never pregnant but needed Troy to marry you and locked him in with pregnancy and solidified it with loss? Maybe you were both looking for money so you told all of your town your situation and started a Caring Bridge campaign to exploit the hearts of people around you over the saddest situation on earth. All of these possible reasons sounding like plots from a Lifetime movie.

Then, when asked in a personal message from me, all Troy could say was “we immediately questioned the amount of hair”(yet you kept using the pictures?)… and “the pictures were given to us by a local nonprofit”… so when I spoke with the local NILMDTS photographer and the only photographer the hospital calls in the case of stillbirth and infant mortality and she told me she’d never taken the pictures I showed her… well. You know. But I was told by Troy “there’s no need for you to be involved anymore, as I’m sure my wife has already messaged you, we now know we were given the wrong pictures.”

No, Kristin (and I never did receive a message from you). You weren’t given the wrong pictures. You took the pictures. Not only that, but you sought out the story behind the pictures and you made that true story your tall tale. You took advantage of the CHERUBS community, of your community, of every babylost parent that ever reached out to you in solidarity, and of my sweet, precious, innocent girl.

You are a morally bankrupt woman and if your husband was aware, he is just as bad. There is all the need for me to be involved. I will stay involved.

Do you know what you’ve done to me? To my husband?

In the middle of loosing our second child, your actions have broken our hearts. And for what?

We have never done anything to you. I had to make sure I haven’t lost my own mind… that this all really happened to us and not you. I have had to check my own crazy a few times this week.

Did you ever stop to think that there was a real person behind the story you have been scheming? That a very real little girl existed for those photographs? That her true mother and father have spent all this time in agony living without her and then they have to see you playing pretend with her? I’m sure you didn’t stop to think of the people Eden belongs to- her parents, her family, our friends, and every person her little life touched.

But you have messed with the wrong mama.

I prayed so hard that the Lord would show us what to do about this. So he sent these sources- people that know you and the havoc you leave in your wake. We are so grateful for them for encouraging us to do what we feel led to do, for them telling us exactly what type of person you are.

If the only thing I can nail you on is pain and suffering, I won’t. I don’t want your money. There’s no amount of money that could make what you’ve done right. But I won’t stop.  I will read every law every concerning identity theft. I want you put away. I want you unable to reproduce. If you can kill off a fake child, what would you do with a real child?

Some might say that taking legal action is going too far, that it is tainting my daughter’s memory. I say that I must do all I can to protect it fiercely. Her memory is all I have left! I’m not sorry for pursuing those avenues.

Some might also say that exposing your name publicly is going to far, that it is ruining your reputation. I say that you did that to yourself when you decided to do this to us. I’m not sorry for putting you out there or any embarrassment this causes you. When I finish writing this, I'm going to snitch everywhere. 

There are some things I am sorry for. I am so sorry that my beautiful daughter isn’t here living and breathing and growing. I am sorry that she died. It’s not fair.

I’m sorry that any babies die. And I’m sorry that people like you exist to exploit how unbearable and unthinkable that experience is.

I’m very sorry for your family and friends and coworkers, the ones who unknowingly ate your crow and mourned your fake daughter in very real ways. They do not deserve this any more than I do.

You are a sick, despicable human being. Really. I mean that. You owe my baby girl an apology.  You owe Ryan, and I (her actual parents) an apology. You owe my family and friends an apology. You owe your family and friends an apology.

And I hope that you get some mental help. That’s what you owe yourself.

I will choose forgiveness. Not today, Lord knows it. I’m not ready.

I have accepted that I will probably never receive an apology from you, but I know that unless I forgive you, your awful actions will only eat me alive. They will consume parts of me that exist solely to honor my Eden girl. And I will not allow that.

Her life was too damn beautiful for me to allow her death to be hijacked by you. She raised so much awareness about CDH and child loss, and she even raised a little awareness about that as “Parker”, but that isn’t her name. Her name is Eden and she was not a baby doll or the play-thing you tried to make her into. She lived, she was real, and she was OURS.

   

Anyone who attempts to water down her lasting impact in the world by claiming her as his or her own will receive the full wrath of our everlasting love for her.

Eden’s Mama,

Megan Coker



**UPDATE**
THANK YOU all for sharing this post and making sure it gets out there. I will not stop until I'm sure she is kept from being able to do this to another family, and I appreciate you joining me in that quest.

Please also note that I am extending forgiveness as well as I can. This is a very hard situation that Ryan and I have prayed over and we just need time to work through these very human feelings. Thanks for the encouragement. However, we will never "forget" what she has done. And we don't believe that forgiveness requires forgetting under any definition of grace. We will remember. 

I initially turned all of Eden's album to "private", then to "friends only". But after thinking about it, I decided that I would not let one crazy stop me from sharing Eden's story with the world. I will not let fear win, because Eden still has a purpose and raises so much awareness that would be stifled if I just hid it all away. I encourage you all to be vigilant about who can see your baby's pictures, but I also urge you not to let these twisted few individuals have the last word. 
Please, please do not drag family, exes, or employers into this. It's hard enough to learn you've been duped or used, and it's even harder when all these strangers are confronting you about it. Also, I knew there would be a select few who would stand by this couple and their story, and that is fine. I don't want to believe people can be so deceptive and sick either. Let those people be.


One extra sassy thing:
In the United States, there are approximately four home burglaries per minute (that's one every 15 seconds). Does that stop you from living in a house, apartment, dorm, whatever you live in? No? Oh, because you still like shelter and a place to put your things, rest your head, and be with people you love. I see. It definitely wouldn't be your fault if someone broke into your home and took something of yours.

Then why would the remote possibility of a crazy person stealing my kid's pictures stop me from sharing her and her story with anyone that would look or listen? It wouldn't. Because she is worth sharing and I can't begin to imagine the number of people's lives she touched that wouldn't have been touched if we kept her to ourselves.

Please stop saying "what you're going through right now is exactly the reason why I don't post my kid's pictures online." It makes you sound paranoid and ridiculous, and it also places blame on me for what this woman has done.

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.

Carrying the Weight of Eden

When someone tells you their unborn child has a fatal diagnosis and will not live outside their womb for long at all, but then tells you of plans to carry the child as far as they can... you can guess some of the pain they will face.

You can guess on your own that there's something particularly hard about carrying a baby but not setting up a nursery.

You can guess that the doctor's appointments would get really old, really fast.

You can guess that all the expectant mother will do is worry every minute that it may be her last one pregnant, and then it will hit her how limited her time with her child really is.

You can guess that the expectant father begins putting away his dreams and expectations for that particular child, hopeful for another to dream for one day.

You can conclude that it must all be very difficult, and you'd be right.
On D-Day (Diagnosis Day), I knew that I would be facing those hard things.

But there are some things you just can't guess.
She was 6 lbs and 15 oz. But I carried a lot more to birth than just the little girl in my womb. I carried so many feelings, too. I wonder every day if they made the load heavier, or if allowing myself to feel them made the weight I carried a little lighter.

And it's still different case to case, so even someone who's been through the same situation could still not have guessed what I would walk through. Someone who's been through the same situation could have guessed, too, but may have not been bothered by the same trials. That's why I changed the name of this post from "Unexpected Hardships of Carrying to Birth" to be more personal.. My experience is unique because my daughter is unique.

Feelings I felt and didn't expect to feel were:

Hurt when the conversation turned to how large I was getting. I always thought that when the time came for me to receive comments on my super huge belly, I would take them so proudly. But, when I started retaining amniotic fluid since Eden couldn't swallow it well...the comments weren't received as graciously. Who even ever had the idea to comment on a pregnant girl's size anyway? I knew that the reason for such a big belly was that there was something wrong and it made me super sensitive. At 30 weeks, a clerk asked me how far along I was and I just told her 38 weeks.

Panic when a stranger asked about the due date, made comments about life after babies, etc. To begin with, I would just pretend to be normal and talk about her due date and say that pregnancy is fun. Then I started lying to these strangers when their questions turned from pregnancy to preparation. "Oh yes, her nursery is already finished and we've got the carseat ready to go." Near the end, I gave up on trying not to make people uncomfortable and just gave them the truth.

Confusion as I danced between attachment and detachment to my baby. Here's a raw truth: The first few months of my pregnancy, I went through a short "pre-partum" depression and afterwards had a very hard time attaching to my unborn baby. Of course I loved her, but I felt funny talking to her or singing to her, and with Ryan being gone for I just wasn't in the mood to celebrate what was happening in my body. I didn't want to do anything baby related until Christmas time when we decided to go ahead and register. I finally started attaching to her when he came home and we went to find out that she was a girl. She had a name I could keep saying, and her kicks were getting to be visible instead of just tangible. D-Day was just a few weeks later, and every day after that was a tug-of-war between getting to know her and stepping away from her. Why would I want to get attached to a baby I'd have to let go? Honestly, there was no stopping it even though I tried. She will always be a part of me.

Rage from seeing other women ignore healthy pregnancy guidelines. From the moment I even suspected I was pregnant I was stepping away from any alcohol. I never ate lunch meat without it being heated and I was very wary of my California rolls. I stayed away from soft cheeses, dropped caffeine altogether for the entire first trimester. I wouldn't stand around anyone smoking, and I was careful with my physical activity. I triple-checked before taking any medication, even if it was prescribed to me. None of this was hard to do, nor was it super stressful, and I don't need a pat on the back for it. Putting my unborn child first was never an inconvenience. CDH has no known cause and there is no cure yet. There is absolutely nothing I knowingly did to give my baby a birth defect- and nothing I could have done to stop it. Naturally, I continued this way for my whole pregnancy, even knowing I couldn't save her. So it made (makes) me kind of super angry to see other women not striving for the healthiest pregnancies and therefore knowingly putting babies at risk for so much more than what can happen out of the blue. I know way too many women struggling to get pregnant, struggling to stay pregnant, and struggling after losing children to be ok with it. Sorry (not really) for the rant. *If you are unsure about guidelines for a healthy pregnancy, you can click this link to WebMD.

Sadness passing infant sections in stores. Sometimes I would wander in just to touch the baby dresses. Then I'd leave without getting whatever I came for, afraid someone might see me ugly cry.

Fear when I had to be alone. Every day I'd spend hours with Jenae until it looked like Ryan would be home for the evening. I'd try to strategically have something planned to do when he wanted to go for a hike. I'd go shopping just to be around people! When my mom finally came to stay in early May, I could finally breathe. The whole time she was here, I was never alone with my thoughts... and she even enjoyed time with my friends and shopping too.

Anger as I tried to plan a funeral for a baby that was still kicking my insides. "I wrote an obituary and left spaces for the dates and times", "I really like this poem for the program", and "Let's finish squaring away the funeral homes this week" turned into "I should not be doing this", "This is so freaking backwards", and "We can just take care of it when it happens because we aren't being fair to her obvious presence or ourselves". It seemed that every time we tried to plan something or even talk about it, she knew and would commence a fit of hiccups or begin a soccer game. We eventually just had a basic outline and left everything for after her birth.

Alarm at every. single. thing. I went to L&D about seven times. I believed my water was leaking, that I had a blood clot in my lungs, that she wasn't moving enough, that her heart stopped beating. Every time I experienced a little heartburn, I thought that something was terribly wrong. I don't know if I'm glad I did this or if I wish I would have relaxed a little. I just kept saying to myself as I left the hospital feeling like an idiot, "better to go and nothing be wrong than to not go and it all be wrong."

Uncertainty when we'd have a discussion about family planning. I have a heart for adoption and Ryan's certainly not against it, but knowing that we can create life makes us want to create more. Except there's the part where the only life we've created had a horrible birth defect. What's next? Then, we'd always said three was enough (I actually always said seven was enough but three seemed to please my husband for the time being), but did we mean three altogether? Three to raise? What we ended up saying is that we'll just cross bridges as they come, we don't need a itinerary for parenthood.

Doubt when people encouraged me. I heard "you are so strong" about ten times a week, but I kept thinking that if they really knew how I felt, they wouldn't say it.

Alienation when receiving *PREP FOR BABY* emails and coupons. (Like, c'mon post carrier. I think you're delivering my share and the share for every other parent's house in the neighborhood. I heard those diapers suck anyway.) The emails are the worst- especially when it came time for the gestation to focus completely on the lungs- things were supposed to be happening that I knew were not.

Annoyance at the comments made by those who meant well. I had quite a few people tell me, "There can still be a miracle, don't just give up on your child", and that always bothered me. Was it not miraculous enough to be pregnant? Was it not miraculous enough to carry Eden just one more minute? She was and always will be the miracle of the whole situation. God didn't not show up just because she wasn't healed. And while we never lost sight of hope for her healing, we couldn't actively pray for God to change His already perfect creation. At the same time, I know that people just need something to believe in during such trying times. It's just that when you know things are going to be a certain way, its time to stop praying to change them and start praying for the peace to deal with them.

Guilt when I said "I can't breathe". Before she started to drop, she was so high in my ribcage and crowding my lungs that I never could catch a good breath. I would automatically complain, then I'd start wondering if her entire short life would feel like that. Then I'd hate myself and start having a panic attack, during which I really couldn't breathe. I tried to have a sobering perspective on whatever discomfort I felt while it was all for her.

Overwhelming LOVE with each reminder of her existence. I knew as I tried to detach from her that I loved her, but I grew to love her in ways I never could have imagined. I would bargain "Take me instead of her" over and over every day. Her kicks when I would sing or her punchy reaction to her dad's voice, my big belly as I tried to roll over out of bed, all the clothes that stopped fitting, the swelling, and the infinite number of stretch marks she placed on my stomach, hips, and thighs all gave me the warmest feeling of adoration. None of it will ever compare the the feelings I had when they placed her in my arms, though. Each day I loved her increasingly more. Every minute I got to spend with her (in and out of my body) was the best minute of my life!