The Reinvented Mom

March. This month gives me anxiety and I’m looking forward to it being over. This is the month when my life and the way I view the world was forever altered. Not once, but twice in this month I was traumatized so deeply that I’m still digging myself out of the wreckage. The first horror was losing Ben in 2016. The second was a bad car accident in 2019, which only served to damage me further. Now, here I am with many lingering side effects and a sometimes cynical outlook on the world.

As the years pass my emotional and mental responses to this month have become gradually less intense (I still don’t like it, though). I’ve spent a plethora of time discovering more about myself and learning how to heal while forever harboring grief. The reality is I’ll never not hurt. I’ll never fully be healed. I’ll always miss Ben and wish he was here. I’ll forever ask the unanswerable questions: “Why?”, “What if…?” But, when I reflect upon my tragedy, I realize two joyful things. One, that I’m not alone. And two, that I’m blessed.

I’m not alone. Losing Ben didn’t just affect me. His father feels his absence just as significantly and his grandparents hurt for the joy they’ll never experience with one of their grandchildren. We all carry the unspoken understanding that each of us has been changed in unique ways by losing Ben. I’m also not alone because I have other loss parents. Beyond Ben, there are so many babies who have gained their wings, too. Because of that, there is a community of moms and dads who, like me, all wish they didn’t belong, but steadfastly cling to each other for the kind of love and support that others just aren’t equipped to provide. We’re forever connected by shared loss and at any given moment I can reach out to these people knowing they truly GET me.

I’m blessed. Somewhere in between anguish, grief, cynicism, depression, and anxiety are these warm rays of light that have been lovingly filling in all the ugly space around my broken pieces. My family and friends have been constant comfort. There’s a few individuals who have never stopped reaching out or offering support; and they remember Ben every single year on March 25th. My healing journey would absolutely not be as far along without these champions, nor would it be without the living kids God has blessed me with. These kids, two biological and one bonus, have brought me more joy than my heart can hold. When I’m the most down, I think of them first and I become enveloped into all the beauty that motherhood brings; and I take time to appreciate each of them for exactly who they are.

There are many more blessings in my life ranging from minuscule to grandiose, I just named the most significant ones to me, otherwise you’ll be reading a book instead of a blog. Plus, they’re the easiest to lean into when I’m most in need. But, the more I look, the more I uncover. I make a point of remembering each blessing regularly, which keeps my healing moving forward at a steady pace.

These two affirmations; “I am not alone” and “I am blessed”; have become the reasons my body, mind, and spirit are able to continue making space for joy alongside grief. Seven years later, and I can finally carry them both with ease. And even though I’m still working through the effects of trauma, I know that I’m being repaired in the best ways possible.

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It’s damn near traumatic being pregnant after enduring loss. You’ve gone through the gamut of emotions and feelings… mostly negative… and MAYBE finally got to a headspace where there’s even a remote hope that another baby is in your future. Then, at a time when we’re supposed to be loving and appreciating our bodies most, we’re once again riddled with anxiety, doubt, and downright fear for nine months.

When I took the initial pregnancy test for Tabetha I went into the moment believing that I was once again crazy and that my body was deceiving me like it always did. My brain braced my heart for more failure and disappointment, but I still stared at the result panel almost willing that little second line to appear.

There’s this instant but fleeting euphoria when you’ve waited and prayed and begged for a positive test, and it finally happens. The result showed and suddenly I was IN that moment! I pictured my new future with a baby. I started to think about the things I’d have to add to my to-do list such as prenatal vitamins and doctor appointments. With trepidation I told Aaron. Not because I was afraid he’d be upset, but because the last two times I delivered this news our tiny treasures didn’t survive.

I’d managed to maintain my emotional composure right up until the day of my eight week appointment. Once the realization hit me that this pregnancy could end in the same fate as the last three I panicked… no… I completely broke down. I laid on the couch and sobbed hard. What went through my head was all of this: “Little baby, you’re so loved and wanted”, “Please stick around and I promise I’ll take very good care of you”, “God, please let this be our keeper baby”, “I have to be ok if this isn’t going to be good news”, “If this is my last shot I have to accept it”, “How can I move on if this isn’t meant to be?!”

All of these thoughts (and more) circled my mind repeatedly as I continued to cry. Fuck, I wanted this so much! And I knew that my chances would be depleted if this pregnancy didn’t last. Aaron and I talked a lot about having a baby at our age and we agreed that we didn’t want to be chasing a tot around in our late forties or beyond. This was a now-or-never situation and it shook me.

Heading into the appointment that afternoon, my heart was racing as I tried to keep my breathing slow and steady. I managed to contain my tears just long enough to hear the most beautiful noise coming from the ultrasound machine. A healthy heartbeat! And seeing that tiny peanut looking figure on the screen brought an overwhelming wave of relief! It’s quite euphoric to see and hear your baby and I’ve always enjoyed the sense of peace that ultrasound appointments offered. But with this pregnancy that feeling was always quickly thwarted by an awful fear of “the other shoe dropping”.

I spent the entire first trimester on pins and needles, praying constantly that baby was ok, stressed that something would mess this up, and hoping that once we made it to the second, my anxiety would subside. But, on the very morning that my pregnancy tracker told me I’d entered trimester two, I woke up feeling “different”. My ongoing symptoms seemed to have just faded into the previous night’s sky and I panicked. I also thought my belly looked smaller, which happened with Ben and I just thought he was hiding, so that renewed terror didn’t help at all. I don’t recall if I’d started feeling baby kick at that point, but not feeling it also kept me on high alert. I also don’t remember how long I waited to call the doctor’s office, but I know I did call… and then felt stupid for calling… and then told myself that they’re there to help and they understand… and then figured better safe than sorry… and then repeated all of those thoughts until I’d worked myself into an all day anxiety fest. Finally, the doctor called back (you have to leave a message with a nurse first) and mercifully offered for me to come in for a quick heartbeat check.

Everyone I had spoken to that day was incredibly understanding and supportive, which helped immensely as I shed tears during every interaction. I cried while on that call to confirm I’d be there. I cried to the receptionist when I arrived at the office. And I cried even harder to the doctor, explaining how foolish I felt for needing to be here. Then, as we shared our personal loss stories, we heard that beautiful heartbeat coming from baby. She was just fine! Relief and gratitude flowed through my entire body and I, of course, cried again. Ok, I bawled. The tears of joy were even more forceful than those of anxiety and by the time I headed to my car I was exhausted. That day was so impactful I’m welling up recalling and typing. It’s one I’ll never forget because it could have turned out so differently.

The remainder of my pregnancy was actually quite nice because I made a point of finding joy in the journey. It was an intentional effort that took focus and determination. There were still many moments of fear and I never truly found a way to combat that dark shadow, but I also knew if I’d let my anxiety keep the wheel I would’ve regretted it. When I was carrying Ben I was miserable and negative and if I could do it over (even if it meant the same outcome) I would, just to cherish him more. This time I did receive an at-home heartbeat Doppler, which came in handy A LOT as baby grew. This is what I clung to when I needed reassurance and peace in between appointments. It was proof of life and it meant everything.

When it was Tabby’s time to be born, we headed to the hospital for the c section. The last step had finally arrived! But rather than feeling overjoyed, I was incredibly apprehensive. I said many quick prayers that day. We live about ten minutes away and the mid-January weather was only slightly wintery but I felt panicked in the passenger seat. I imagined some horrific freak accident derailing my entire pregnancy, which was rather unlikely since it was like five in the morning and no one was even around. Once we arrived my nerves settled a bit until I was on the operating table and freak accidents bombarded my brain again. “What if” this, “what if” that. Why was this so difficult to just freakin’ enjoy?! It wasn’t until she was safe in my arms that I finally stepped back into this precious moment in time and cherished it. She was (and still is!) so beautiful! Our perfect littlest princess made it into the world. The beacon of hope and light that this momma prayed hard for was cuddled close to me and every ounce of doting that I couldn’t give her angel brother was bestowed upon her. This part of our journey had come to a close. Tabby helped fill a massive void; she was and still is part of my healing. She’ll know she has a brother in heaven and she’ll know that he’s watching over her and Sam.

No one warned me what pregnancy after loss would look like. It’s a wild ride, but Tabby and I were both triumphant. We were blessed and my prayers now are that we remain that way.

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The other night I caught the episode of Friends where Rachel has her baby. Now, it’s no secret that this show is my comfort and happy place, so I’ve seen all of them at least a thousand times. Usually it’s on in the background or as I sleep so I don’t really sit and watch many episodes all the way through anymore. On this particular evening I was feeding Tabby and had the capacity to tune in.

One of my very original blogs from 2016 is about this exact Friends episode, detailing that it was difficult for me to watch because Ben didn’t make it into the world. For so long this was a real trigger for me and elicited a range of negative emotion. Eventually my pain dulled and it became less difficult to endure Rachel giving birth to Emma, but what remained was a constant ache inside of me; a longing that lingered like a thick fog surrounding my body as time ticked on and I got older.

What I hadn’t elaborated on in the last post was that age 40 was my cut off for trying to have another baby. I told Aaron that if it hadn’t happened by then I’d give it up. But 40 snuck up on me too quickly, especially after my last two pregnancy losses in 2019. Like a chokehold, time was squeezing the opportunity out of me so hard that I couldn’t breathe.

With every fiber of my being I wanted to just accept that I’d only birth one living child. That, despite Sam’s sporadic requests to have a sibling and reminiscent comments about his angel brother, I’d finally be strong enough to give up the dream. And every month I’d tell myself that it wasn’t going to happen. I fought the overwhelming temptation to run out and buy pregnancy tests the day my period was due. Some months I lost that fight (thank God for the Dollar Store) and I let myself envision the positive sign on the stick, only to be met with crushing disappointment. This awesome torturous roller coaster ride held me captive until around Mother’s Day 2021.

May. Another month where I couldn’t resist the increasingly ridiculous urge to pee on a stick and most likely derail an otherwise good day for myself. Like almost all previous months there weren’t significant early pregnancy symptoms. Once in a while I thought I’d been slightly queasy and my period was a day or so late but mostly I started to believe it was just my body showing it’s hatred (you know, like it always did). I recall feeling cold over the days prior to this fateful one. Not just chilly, but cold to my bones, no matter how much I bundled myself up or layered my clothes. Honestly I hadn’t equated that to pregnancy but then I succumbed to curiosity and looked up “chills early pregnancy symptom” and it made the list! If you’ve ever been pregnant or remotely close to someone who has you probably know that every generic symptom on the planet is listed under early pregnancy, but this was one of the months I just needed to believe was THE month. So, out came the pregnancy test.

This month, though, was different. It happened finally! A POSITIVE TEST! We were embarking on the coveted journey that I’d been praying so hard for. Joy, worry, anxiety, questions, all flooded my brain in an instant. Nonetheless, I was ready for my Rainbow and I prayed some more; this time for a healthy pregnancy and a live baby.

Now, I can’t keep you on pins and needles wondering how the pregnancy turned out because the rainbow nugget is in about 95% of my social media posts, but I CAN pause here and share my full pregnancy experience in the next post so keep tuning in!

Today would’ve been Ben’s birthday. He was scheduled as a c section on July 11, 2016. He’d be 6. When the doctor gave me the date I remember thinking “ooh that’s some kind of lucky Vegas numbers…” Honestly to this day I don’t know if that’s correct but regardless, it wasn’t so lucky for us.

Each year on this day I take a few moments to wonder what Ben would be like. Would he be funny and happy-go-lucky like his big brother? Would he be serious and introverted? Shy? Adventurous? Feisty like his baby sis? What birthday party theme would he have wanted? How would his features have changed from the year before?

This day isn’t quite as impactful as 3/25, the day we lost him; and I honor it much more quietly; but each year I’m still compelled to sit with my heartache for just a few moments. I need to feel it and to remember what should have been for my youngest baby boy.

Ben Ben, momma loves you forever and will make sure your memory lives on even after I’m holding you in heaven.

What does life for parents look like a year after loss? A few years? Many? Well, it LOOKS pretty much like life prior, honestly. They saying “life goes on” is incredibly harsh to say to a loss parent but it doesn’t make the notion untrue. For a time, our worlds stop. For a time, we feel like everything and everyone is moving forward around us; kind of like a slow motion scene in a movie. Eventually, though, we just start moving with them again.

Returning to work often becomes inevitable. Reinvesting in our living children gets easier. Talking to and seeing friends and family seems commonplace again. Shopping, social activities, chores, smiling, laughing… living… all make their way back into our daily lives. Some of us finally begin to make plans to try for more children, or at least fathom the idea.

How long does all of this take? I can’t answer that for the masses. One breath at a time is the best advice I have. At first each one will be more painful than anything you can imagine. And you may even wish to actually stop breathing sometimes. Hell, I still do now and again when I’m deep in my feelings. But it gets more and more manageable. Even though there’s no going back to being the same person as before, there’s a new being that gradually emerges from the dust. One tbt is able to carry on with life.

We’re not who we once were, yet are still here, going on. The loss hurts forever, that won’t change. We never fully recover from that dull ache in the recesses of our souls, but we do learn to hold it there in its sacred place, and go forth in honor of our angel babies.

There’s so many beautiful and perfect ways to remember your angel baby. Or to help someone remember theirs.

In no particular order, here’s a list of just ten. Do you have any others that you’ve thought of? Or perhaps you’ve utilized something yourself… Feel free to help a loss parent and add them in the comments! Don’t forget to share ❤️

1. Plant a tree/grow a plant in their honor

2. Frame an artistic rendering of their name

3. Journal/blog your thoughts and memories… and talk about them as often as you need to

4. Jewelry with their angel day stone

5. Memory box

6. Wall or desktop collage of pics

7. Buy a book and write a personal message to them inside (something like Love You Forever or Guess How Much I Love You)

8. Make a song playlist

9. Paint/draw/sketch a unique picture

10. Angel statue or commemorative rock

We might want to file this under “The unexpected part 3 to my grief story” because this is the aftermath of tragedy and it came with its very own baggage for me to unpack.

Have you ever felt like something or someone was intentionally and specifically working against you? Like, sabotaging your dreams and messing with your whole life almost maliciously?

Any faith based individual will tell you that God doesn’t make mistakes and we’re all made perfectly. I think this is where my faith was most tested throughout my life, but most especially during the latter part of my reproductive years. It felt like my body was out to get me, rejecting almost all the things it was supposed to be doing. Before pregnancy my period was extra painful. No doctor ever diagnosed me with endometriosis or anything, but most months I’d be curled up in a ball and needing to go to sleep to stop enduring the cramps. Heavy flow or not; because it varied each month; I’d feel that wrath and wish I could reach inside and squeeze my uterus out like a sponge just to get it over with quicker. Yes, I know that menstruation is SUPPOSED to happen, so why would I think my body hates me when it’s doing it’s job? Because why does it have to do it with such anger?! Also, I didn’t really start to believe my body hated me until just after my first pregnancy. This period part turned out to be more of a realization after that belief was established. As in, “oh look at that, my body’s actually hated me all along, I just didn’t notice until now”. Maybe it was a lead-in for all things yet to occur.

When I was pregnant with Sam things went almost perfectly. I did have gestational diabetes but it was diet controlled and my sugar levels stayed in normal range through the entirety. He grew perfectly and cooked until 39 weeks. Here’s where I believe things took a nosedive. Long story short, I went in for a non stress test and Sam wasn’t making enough movements so the doctor sent me up to labor & delivery to be induced. 28 hours of Pitocin later and I reached 10cm. But my dear little peanut wasn’t making enough progress down the birth canal so I was told to stop pushing and I’d be taken in for a c section. All’s well that ends well which I’m grateful for all the time, but afterwards Sam was in the NICU for a week. Even though I was able to spend time with him and try nursing everyday, I couldn’t produce enough milk and had to supplement with formula. That lasted his first five months and I finally threw in the towel. It was chaotic and frustrating at best and I felt like a complete failure as a first-time mom not being able to give my baby the most nutritious food that came directly from me. Adding insult to injury, Sam had acid reflux so we made him what I refer to as a bottle cocktail, consisting of breast milk, formula, rice cereal, and karo (to keep him regular). I swear to this day that all of these issues began with his induction and my body’s inability to adapt. I hated myself for that.

As the years passed I struggled to get pregnant again. With every negative test; month after month, cycle after cycle; I grew more and more discouraged and distrustful of my body. Somewhere along the way I became convinced that Sam was an anomaly. What do they call it these days… the glitch in the matrix? Was the ability to carry and care for one child a glitch in my body’s matrix? I was honestly thinking it was a miracle I was even able to have him! But lo and behold in 2015 I finally got pregnant again and a glimmer of hope formed as I considered that maybe I’d been dramatic and it wasn’t my body, but just timing, that delayed a second pregnancy. Even if that was true I stopped believing it when the pregnancy ended at 26 weeks. Once again this vessel of skin and bone that was supposed to nurture life had failed, not just me, but my child. Ben got wrapped in the umbilical cord and stopped living. A cord provided by me to GIVE life, not to fucking end it. And to add insult to injury my worthless body hadn’t even alerted me something was wrong like it was supposed to. Instead it forced me to deliver my stillborn baby after not catching the problem in time to even attempt to save him. I felt so angry and confused on top of the immense guilt I was carrying. More self hate.

It became a pattern. Every time something went wrong with my body I’d say “of course, my body hates me”. I lived with that for a long time; my body just hates me. And in return I didn’t love my body. I stopped caring, but not in a love-yourself-as-is kind of way, rather in an I’m-letting-myself-go manner. It wasn’t good, and I didn’t feel good about it. I felt crappy and ugly and unworthy. And hopeless… I felt hopeless that those feelings would ever change and as more years passed I continued to blame my body for anything that went wrong; most especially the two additional pregnancy losses I endured in 2019. Thirteen weeks and six weeks respectively and both times, once again, my body didn’t do what it was supposed to. It killed two more of my desperately longed for babies and (probably somehow evilly laughing and pointing) didn’t naturally pass either of them. I had to take a pill to cause these babies to come out and the experience was nothing short of a nightmare. I’m going to spare you the horror story-like details, but the outcome remained the same: no babies and 100% self-resentment.

My heartfelt desire to have a second child had been pummeled over and over again. As I approached the scary age of 40 I felt my time was running out as quickly and steadily as sand in an hourglass. The almost ten years of begging God “just one more, please” were to no avail and my window was closing. The feeling was heavy. Negative pregnancy tests, baby losses, endless heartache… and all because my body hated me.

There’s no resolute end to this story because I’m still a work in progress, but I will say that somewhere more recently along my journey I finally began to shift. I started taking better care of myself just a little, became slightly more peaceful in my headspace, tried to accept myself for who and what I was. Maybe it was the ripe old age of forty looming but I realized I needed to find a way to love myself, especially the body I was in. And I needed to at least begin to accept that Sam would be my only living birth child. So once I let all of this sink in I truly started to heal. There were glimmers of true inner peace and self acceptance, and I believed I could love myself just as I was. I carried deep scars on my heart and battle wounds on my skin but my journey would be sprinkled with at least a little self love from then on. Yep, I’d finally start to be alright.