The Smallest Light in the Darkest Year: Happy Birthday Jace

It feels odd buying a birthday cake. Lighting the candle feels more like a somber vigil than a celebration of any sorts; it's a tiny light in a dark, silent room. Instead of singing, there are only tears. It’s been a year since Jace died and was born, and it feels strange calling it his birthday but it feels wrong to call it the anniversary of his death. All I know is that I should have been planning my son’s first birthday party after a year of wonderful milestones and memories, and instead I planned a trip to a family vacation spot to spread his ashes into the sea after a year of trials and tribulations and missing my baby.

Catalina is a favorite spot, one my family has frequented since I was 18 months old, and an annual tradition we have observed since, first for vacations, then for Father’s days. We have many traditions that we have passed on to my brother’s kids and I had hoped to begin them with Jace this year, from collecting golf balls to buying him a small stuffed buffalo, and a million other things jammed pack with nostalgia. I had been pregnant during our trip last year, and I was dreading our trip this time around with his absence, but I was saved by the pandemic and our trip was cancelled. The only downside was that I had planned to spread some of his ashes in the dive park there during the holiday. An avid scuba diver, I had hoped Jace would love the ocean and eventually want to dive like his mommy, so it seemed perfect to leave a piece of him there. With COVID changing everyone’s plans, I tentatively moved the trip to his birthday, and on September 8^th, we disembarked on the island with his teddy bear urn in my backpack. Not the way I envisioned bringing my son here for the first time.

My mom and I went to our family breakfast haunt, The Sandtrap for some drinks, and while we sat on the patio near the planter, I spotted a lone golf ball sitting amongst the succulents. As kids we would cross the street to the golf course after breakfast and hunt for lost balls in the bushes. My brother’s kids do the same every year, but now most balls are secretly planted by grandpa to ensure everyone has a successful search. This time, though, it was a genuine find, and it was almost as if it was waiting there for Jace. After, we went to the dive park. I opened a birthday card my mom had brought for him with a small paper butterfly fluttering out of it upon opening. I removed the glass heart I had carried his ashes in, then reluctantly scattered some of his ashes into the waters crashing on the rocks; I still had the ashes in his urn, these were overflow ashes that hadn’t fit inside the small container, but it was hard to let any piece of him go. We sat by the water and cried. Later, I went and filled the heart with sand, hoping to find some shells to add. The beach is not known for its shell production, but I found a single, perfect white shell to add, just for him. We then gravitated toward a small toy shop. One tradition I had started for my brother’s kids is on their first trip to the island, they would get a small stuffed buffalo (for those unaware, buffalo are common on the island, practically their official island mascot). I almost felt odd buying one for Jace, but technically it was his first trip to the island and he deserved one just as much as any of the other kids, right? My mom purchased the toy for him and I tucked it into my pack with his bear. We sailed home after lots of tears and broken hearted, but also with some closure as we reflected on the last year.

Things of course have gotten easier with time, though the cloud of devastation hovering over me at the moment is thick with the heartache that Jace’s birthday brings, heartache of what should have been and the trauma of every single thing that happened in these few days one year ago. The flashbacks have gotten worse, I’ve been crying for the past two weeks, and some days can hardly manage to function at work or through basic life tasks. The triad of my friends’ healthy babies born this time last year are preparing for their real first birthdays, and it stings that we are and will always be the ones left behind them. But there were good days in the last year too.

For the most part, being around baby stuff is easier. I can walk by the baby section of Target without tears welling in my eyes (though a sharp pang may still sling through my heart suddenly from time to time). I have unmuted most of my friends with new babies on social media (though the occasional baby announcement still stings and I’ve avoided gender reveal parties). I’ve bonded better with my youngest niece, whom I mentioned in my previous post was a bittersweet shadow of what my year should have been, and I survived her first birthday party, save a few tears and plenty of wine. We play more, cuddle more, and laugh more together in spite of it all.

As life goes, however, there were obstacles and pitfalls in my road to recovery. I had been healing with the help of time, working through my darkest days with my amazing family and friends, and my therapist, and I had been gradually preparing myself emotionally and physically to get pregnant again. I grappled with feelings of guilt for trying again so soon, as if it was disrespectful to Jace’s memory. I lived in fear of revisiting failed IUI treatments and even more fear of getting pregnant and living the next nine months in pure anxiety of losing another child. I recalled the daily anxiety I felt after learning Jace was sick, overanalyzing every time he stopped moving, every little pain in my side, holding my breath when he didn’t stir the moment I awoke in the morning, terrified he had died in the night. How could I live through that again? But I was determined to go through it all, I wanted to be a mother that badly.

Navigating my process around COVID, I met with a new fertility doctor via telephone, and we ordered preliminary bloodwork. A week later she called with the results, slight hesitation in her voice as she ran through the basic tests first, then sighed and paused when she got to my hormone levels before ending my dreams of biological motherhood in one fell swoop. Her words came in small fragments from what I can recall now: hormones levels abnormal; egg production too low; egg quality poor; no IUI. She suggested IVF, again far too expensive for a procedure so unsure and never covered by insurance. Egg donor? Embryo donor? Still too expensive and why go through the financial and emotional strain for someone else’s baby? No genetic connection, no mini-me with my eyes or smile, not even a little funky toe like Jace had. I steeled myself for a second opinion and returned to the doctor that had helped me get pregnant with Jace. He was more optimistic about my prospects and believed trying again was worth it, but even then he could only offer a 5-15% chance of success. The first doctor was covered by my insurance, but my wallet was barely stretching for one round of IUI if I used this clinic. Ultimately I decided it wouldn’t be worth it, and I should save my money for the guarantee of adoption.

But before we parted ways on the phone, my doctor lowered another boom on my already crumbling walls. He asked, “for the sake of science” about my failed pregnancy with Jace. As I shared the circumstances, he pointed out additional concerns with my treatment for IUGR, asking what the doctor had done and why she hadn’t done other things. He asked about the diet they placed me on. I told him there was no special diet, the doctor had said it wouldn’t change anything; I had placed myself on high protein and high vegetable diet, for whatever it was worth, which ended up not being much. He asked about medications. I was told there were none that could help. He inquired after bed rest. I recalled that I asked about bed rest early on, but she had told me it wouldn’t make a difference. I recounted how when things were taking a turn for the worse, one Friday I had told my boss to prepare for my absence because I was going back to the doctor the following Monday and demanding that she place me on bed rest. The next day I learned that Jace had died, and realized he was probably already dead when my boss and I made plans for my leave. The doctor, maintaining careful professionalism in his constructive criticism for my young perinatal specialist, shared that though he was not a specialist, he would have implemented more treatments for my child if he had been in charge of his care (and no, staying with him was not an option as the fertility clinic only monitors pregnancies up to 12 weeks). He shared that special diets, newly developed medications, and bed rest were all shown to have helped with IUGR. Though these treatments may not have saved Jace, at least we would’ve known that we had done everything possible. I wouldn’t be plagued with the constant what ifs I face now, if the specialist had only bothered to try and save my son.

It was then that my one biggest complaint about my treatment shot to the forefront of my mind and joined these new painful revelations. My blood pressure. Once I had found out that Jace was sick, as stressed and fearful as a new mom would be, my blood pressure skyrocketed during my pregnancy. Every time I went in for check-ups, the nurses had to take my blood pressure multiple times before they could get an acceptable reading; one time the nurse gave up and just sent me in to see the doctor, then tried another 6 times after the appointment before I could go home. And in all these times, riddled with cuff marks on my arms, my doctor never once mentioned my blood pressure to me. Being naïve and ignorant in pregnancy issues, I figured if she hadn’t brought it up, perhaps it wasn’t a significant concern at this point. However, in the few days before his death, a circulation issue was identified in one of the arteries of Jace’s umbilical cord. It wasn’t until after he died and I researched it that I found this was not caused by IUGR, but likely by my high blood pressure. And I think it ultimately killed him, not the growth restriction.

A week after Jace died my mom and I sat in the doctor’s office for a final appointment, a debriefing of sorts, and this woman said verbatim: “I am kicking myself because I wish we would have monitored your blood pressure more closely.” This was the first time she had spoken of my blood pressure. Now. After I had already cremated my child. I was too grief stricken, too numb to respond with the rage that would eventually hit me and boil over and continue boiling as every doctor I met following my delivery noted the same: concerns with my blood pressure. Not the IUGR, that didn’t seem to register with most, probably because it’s actually extremely rare for a baby to die from growth restriction. Even at his final appointment, though he was still behind in his size, Jace was still growing. And then he was gone. And now she is kicking herself.

Yes I had thought of lawsuits, but it would have been too financially and emotionally strenuous to battle it out with a conglomerate like Kaiser Permanente in the courtroom, especially with a pre-existing diagnosis that could easily be made the fall guy in our war of blame. But after finding out that I would never have another biological child, and this woman is likely responsible for the loss of the only child I would ever carry, I would be lying if I said I had never thought to kick her too. It's not uncommon for practitioners to play a role in the loss of a baby, as I learned in my support groups. They often dismissed the concerns of mothers who instinctively knew something was wrong, or like me, preyed on the ignorance and naivety of new mothers-to-be, perhaps due to ego, or perhaps their own inexperience. I'm not sure which category my doctor fell into. Partially for cathartic purposes, partially to slap her via written word, I wrote her a polite but emotional letter about my experience with her. I’ve yet to send it, I’m not sure I ever will, but I continue to hope that in her own self-flagellation for her negligence, she has learned something that might help her save someone else’s child. No lawsuit in the world is going to bring back mine.

Finding I could no longer carry a baby came with a twisting, churning sea of conflicting emotions. A storm with one day finding myself literally heaving and struggling to breathe between the sobs, and the next day calm and collected, both in anguish at the loss of my dream and in relief that there would be no IUI battle, no 9 months of crippling anxiety. I had moments of clarity that adoption would be best, I had moments of irrationality where I toyed with the idea of begging my family for funds to blow on fertility treatments that would likely end in heartbreak anyway. A few people have put in their two cents on my options, but none have offered to pay the steep costs of IVF as of yet, none have volunteered to shoulder the fear of losing another child, so it would seem their opinions hold little understanding of the challenges I would face.

So adoption has been decided. Foster to adopt, to be precise. And I am making strides in the approval process. To be fair, as I had mentioned in previous posts, adoption was in the plan all along, and was going to happen for any children after Jace was born. Now my timeline has just been pushed up with an important component of the equation missing. Most people think it’s a breeze compared to the difficulties of conception and pregnancy. But in spite of the all too easy “why don’t you just adopt?” response most women with infertility face, adoption is no easier emotionally and there are several other obstacles to work around. Though financials are non-existent issues in the foster to adopt world, there are more challenges and ultimately no guarantees that the child placed with you will end up yours. They could be returned to their family and it’s another loss to endure for an already broken hearted parent. But this is the risk we take to be moms, and it’s the only option I’m left. There is no easy answer in the world of infertile women, and at times even fewer answers for single, gay women who want a family.

So the healing continues. More mountains to climb, more work to be done in the therapy office, more tears to be cried on the couch when I’m alone at home. And still, in this all, missing Jace every second of every day. There are still a few days of complete darkness, guttural sobs, silent screams in the shower, and a deep loneliness. But now there are more days of calm and peace, laughter, and hope. I don’t think the darkness will ever go away completely, it never does when a parent loses their child, but hopefully it will shrink away, sit quietly in the corners of my mind, and only pop up on occasions like Jace’s birthday, or Mother’s Day. Not enough pain to consume me, but just enough to hold a standing testament of how much Jace was loved, and how much he is missed. And I never want to lose the ache of being his mother. His birthday was hard, the candle on his cake was the smallest light in the darkest year, but stands testament to the fact that we survived this first year. It's a flicker of hope for what may come, in the midst of heartache and healing. 

I love you Jace, happy birthday my sweet boy.

Forever on the Frontlines

These past few months have shone a spotlight on our health workers and their level of dedication and commitment to caring for others. I have been fortunate that neither me nor any family members have needed that care during this devastating time, but I did need it once before, and my nurses were the unsung heroes long before this pandemic took the world by storm. They really always have been.

When I lost Jace, I had a few incredible nurses on hand to walk me through the darkest day of my life, and while there was little they could do to ease my pain or reduce the trauma, they made my time at the hospital bearable, survivable.

I went in to deliver Jace on a Sunday, which meant the L&D of Kaiser Permanente was on skeleton crew with a shortage of most staff. There was only one doctor on duty, and I only saw her four times throughout the 15 hour stay at the hospital. She was a bit cold given the circumstances, and wasted little bedside manner on me. She rattled off the plan to bring my dead child forth and went about her daily routine. I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt, as it had sounded like she had already worked a lengthy shift before I sulked into her delivery room. My mom argued that doctors just tend to be distant like this because it’s an emotional defense mechanism. “They have a hard job to do, if they get emotionally involved it can become too much for them.” While I certainly understood this argument, I couldn’t bring myself to agree with it. As a therapist who has worked with extremely difficult cases, I know how bad I would be at my job if I turned off my heart completely and worked only with my head in spite of the emotional effect. My clients would see the disconnect in me as much as I saw it in my doctor. But luckily for me, nurses have gone to a different school of care.

A small group of nurses came and went as their shifts changed, a few I only saw once or twice, others may have been there for the delivery I couldn’t really recall, but one was stationed with me for the majority of the day, and showed such immense care for me I had to wonder if she were a therapist in another lifetime. Amanda tag-teamed it with another nurse whose shift was up at the beginning of my visit and she was truly a blessing throughout the day. She performed her standard duties, taking vitals, helping me go to the bathroom, administering the meds, fetching ice chips, but the extra duties made the difference. She always took a moment to sit with me after the blood pressure and temps were taken, and asked how I was doing. She offered to listen if I needed someone to talk to; she often held my hand, tried to reassure me, and appeared genuinely stricken by my tragedy. During one of her many visits, she sat with me for several minutes and gently encouraged me to allow a photographer to come take pictures of my son once he was born. She provided grief booklets to me and my family and explained to me the resources available. She provided absolutely no pressure in the decision to see or hold my baby after he was born. She took the time to ask his name and she wrote it on the dry erase board to be sure any staff member who came in knew who they were delivering.

When the delivery came, I hardly recall how the nurses and doctor came into the room so quickly, and in the panic, pain, and grief and don’t remember any of the faces of the medical staff that surrounded me. I don’t know who cleaned him, who handed him to me, and I don’t remember anyone leaving the room. I just remember the sudden silence, the tiny baby in my arms, and Amanda sitting next to me, typing some key information into my chart.

I cried quietly as I cradled Jace and whispered all my love to him, followed by an abundance of tearful apologies for not being able to keep him safe, for not being enough to keep him alive. Amanda suddenly reached out and touched my arm. “This was not your fault. You don’t need to apologize for anything. You didn’t do anything wrong.” I sobbed harder, nodding in agreement, but deep inside still believing that I could have done something, anything else while he was alive and it could have made all the difference.

Eventually Amanda stepped out to allow me time with Jace, and then I called my family back in. It was late when she returned and I asked her to contact the photographer. A slight look of concern passed over her face, and she said she would try to call the agency because their office closed in less than an hour. She assured me if they couldn’t get the agency, they would take photos for me, and rushed off to get them on the phone. She returned to share she left a message and hoped they would call back soon. I imagine she frequently checked for calls and messages, and while she was sitting with me, the call came through and she returned once more to happily share that the photographer was on her way. Amanda and the other nurses rushed to gather a blanket for him and went off in search of a knit cap that would fit his tiny head for his photos.

Throughout the night she returned trying to encourage me to eat, offering to get me a variety of snacks or juices. I hadn’t been able to eat anything that day, but I had no appetite, and she seemed concerned every time I turned it down.  She sat again with me for several minutes to explain the details of the mortuaries available to me for stillborn services and arrangements, and guided me toward the most affordable one as I knew these arrangements would be costly in addition to a significant hospital bill.

Other nurses came to take Jace’s weight and height as well as his footprints. They returned with a beautiful shadow box they had made with his name and footprints, as well as a hand-made bead bracelet with his name. They gave me a beautiful book for grieving mothers.

Amanda assured me I could spend as much time with my baby as I wanted; I could stay the night at the hospital if needed, but as hard as I knew it would be to leave my son, I didn’t want to remain with the death that hovered in that room any longer. I had said my goodbyes to Jace in the several hours I opted to stay with him, and I knew it was time to go. Amanda gathered Jace from my arms and gently set him in his delivery bassinet as I settled into the wheelchair, and she painstakingly removed his knit cap and blanket so I could carry them home with me. As she wheeled me down the empty hallways taking me further and further away from my son, I sobbed, and she rubbed my shoulder.

My mom’s car sat waiting for me at the hospital entrance, and as I lifted myself from the chair, I turned to thank her. Though she had been a solid rock for the last 11 hours with me, tears started to fill her eyes. I hugged her, and we broke down together in each others’ arms. “This was the worst day of my life,” I told her, “but I couldn’t have gotten through it without you.” I hugged her just a moment longer, then my mom said her thank yous and goodbyes, and we left the hospital in silence. I found myself wondering many times if Amanada was okay, knowing the experience must’ve been truly unpleasant and possibly traumatic for everyone involved, especially for those who refuse to disconnect and be present with their patients. But it made all the difference for me. The photo above was a picture of a nurse posted to the internet months ago who had worked an extremely long shift and ended it with a stillbirth before returning home to her sister's for a quick dinner and emotional moment. When I saw it for the first time and many times after I became emotional myself and I thought of Amanda. 

I have heard from some women in my support groups that they were not as fortunate as I was with the medical staff that accompanied them through their losses. I’ve heard from others they had experiences similar to mine. Whatever the case, I am grateful for the staff that carried me through this. Their care and support of me will never be forgotten, and a part of me hopes that if I get pregnant again, they may still be there so we can close this circle of grief together. One woman in the group reported that she had read an article that some nurses believe that most of us don’t even remember their names. I admit I struggle to remember the name of the nurse who came in once to take my temperature, or the nurse who came to take Jace’s footprints, but I remember when Lori cleaned me up after my water broke, and when she gave me my medication. I remember Penny taking charge when Amanda went on break. And I will never forget Amanda.

Whenever you’ve needed a nurse or will need one, remember it’s often a thankless job with long hours, tough tasks, difficult patients, and trauma, and they still come back to work the next day to do it all over again.

Thank you.

Having a Million Moments

It’s been six months since the worst day of my life. I’m still alive, though at times I’m not sure how I’ve survived this long. There have been so many desolate, heart-rending moments that it has become my mantra whenever someone randomly came upon me in tears: “I’m just having a moment.” So many moments; my life has been redefined by grief, surrounds this grief, and each and every day it looms over me like a cloud, ready to strike without warning. Somehow I navigate through each small storm, but every raindrop represents a thousand tears of missing my son.

In the first month or two, after returning to work too soon following my loss, I hadn’t even bothered to put on make-up. More often than not, on the few days I had ventured to try, my make-up had been cried away before even arriving to the office; other times it may have lasted to lunch, but behind my closed office door it wouldn’t keep much longer than that. Many mornings I was late to work (I’m still often late) because I could not stop crying while getting dressed, or because I had cried so much the night before, my eyes were swollen beyond recognition and I couldn’t traipse into work flaunting bee-sting swells. Other days there were no tears, but also no motivation, and I struggled to drag myself out of bed to perform the mundane task of pretending I wanted to be at work or anywhere other than the dark recesses of my empty and silent apartment. I had moments wondering if I should have stayed home from one day to the next, but truth be told, if I stayed home every time I cried, I would have been MIA from work for the better part of a year. Eventually I realized this was my new norm and people would have to accept me as such: I was going to cry, I could cry at any moment without warning, and I would likely be in a down-trodden, fuck my life mood on the daily. So if you knocked on my door with a question needing an answer, you would know that you would likely find me teary-eyed, snotty nosed, red-faced, with a simple “I’m just having a moment” as an explanation for it all. And it would have to suffice.

These moments could be sudden and random thunder claps of grief; at times they came when I least expected them, even in the middle of bursts of laughter I could shift seamlessly into hysterical heaves of sobs and tears, but other times they were brought on by very obvious triggers, usually baby stuff. My electronic devices drew from cookies of search history during my pregnant days and spewed out suggestions for baby clothes, gadgets, diapers, and newborn posts. Clients came into the office with my son’s name, a name that had never been popular, which no one had bore in my six years of working at this clinic, but suddenly following his death I was bombarded with three Jaces reverberating off the walls of my empty heart. But nothing hurt more than the babies around me and those who were blessed with healthy pregnancies.

I struggled to be around my niece, who was only 6 months old when I lost Jace; I struggled sometimes to hold her, to peer into her cherubic face, knowing I would never cuddle my son the same way, he would never reach the milestones she would conquer like laughing, crawling, walking. At times I was desperate to hold her, other times I couldn’t bear to be in the same room as her without breaking down. A triad of friends were pregnant with me, all of us due just a few months apart from one another, and it was earth shattering to watch as each of them brought their healthy, beautiful babies into the world while I wore the ashes of mine around my neck. We had once shared our pregnancy woes and excitements, we had bubbled over future playdates and being new moms together, and now they had moved forward on this wonderful road of motherhood without me. Two of the trio had already suffered their own losses previously, and I recall thinking how dreadful it would be if one of us lost our babies, how hard it would be for her to bear witness to the rest of us having our kids. Truth be told, I didn’t count myself as being the one at risk; the others had a history of difficulties, and they were the ones I feared for. With 20 weeks of healthy tests and good ultrasounds, I never thought it would be me. But one in four women suffer from a pregnancy or infant loss, and of the four of us, statistics rang true: it was simply my turn.

The biggest challenge with this came the balance of self-preservation and my glaring absence from the living. Always having built a strong bond with my older nieces, I realized a gap was forming between my youngest and me because of my difficulty in being around her, and I worried we wouldn’t be as close. Her first birthday party is around the corner, and I’m trying to build the strength to go. It will be a heartbreaking reminder that my son will never reach his first birthday, but I don’t want my niece looking back on photos years from now, wondering where I was. With the triad, I’ve had to mute social media posts and I struggle to ask about how they and their children are doing because I can’t talk about their babies without the painful reminder that I don’t have mine. I should be sharing in their joy, this momentous occasion of their lives, planning visits, gushing over their babies, stealing another minute holding them. But I can’t even see a photo of them without crying. I feel like a lousy friend. I feel like a distant aunt.

Everyone of course has been incredibly understanding and respectful of my process, but the guilt is there nonetheless. With grief comes an immense amount of guilt for various things, but mostly I felt guilt for being unavailable to mostly everyone in my life. I stopped interacting with most friends and family because social interactions were so draining, most times I didn’t feel like leaving the house. Other times I refused invitations because I feared bursting into tears at any moment and ruining the fun for everyone else. It was easier to stay home knowing I had the freedom to cry when I pleased, that I didn’t have to put on a mask of joy, that I could just be a grieving mom. I forgot birthdays and important events, and I struggled to be present as a bridesmaid for my best friend’s wedding and all the gatherings leading up to it. With a bridal shower and wedding ceremony attended by two of the triad, and a bachelorette attended by a pregnant woman and the chatter of her upcoming baby shower, it was challenging keeping myself together so I wouldn’t take the focus off the bride. I made it through most of the events unscathed, save an emotional moment when one of the triad brought her newborn to the bridal shower and when I had too much to drink at the wedding, drunkenly insisting that another one of the triad to show me photos of her babies. This was more so I could feel like a good friend asking about her little ones than actually thinking I could handle seeing her blessings. It ended with a tearful “I’m happy for you” and a jaunt back over to the open bar.

I had joined support groups, one online and one face to face, mostly in hopes of finding other mothers struggling through the same. The face to face group was short-lived and mostly unsuccessful as the faces all changed from one group to another, and after I was three sessions in, the group facilitator quit. The online group was a mosaic of freshly bereaved mothers, anxiety-inducing stories of failed pregnancies and potential hazards I had never heard of, irrational emotions, and worst of all, a never-ending storm of grief. The resounding message from most women in this group was it doesn’t get better. Some were years into their loss and still lamented that their grief was as powerful as the day their child died. And it scared me. I didn’t want to fall into that bottomless pit. I had once lived in a 12 year depression and I didn’t want to feel that weighted darkness on my shoulders again.

My friends and family did their best to raise me above the clouds, checking in with me, trying to drag me out of the house, sending me small thoughtful gifts. My mom was at my beck and call whenever I needed a shoulder to cry on. My staff at work, usually the anti-social types tried their best to stay festive for the holidays to keep my spirits up. My best friend found the time to send daily funny memes and videos on Instagram in the midst of the chaos preparing for her own wedding. My dad, who has never been great with emotions, took it a step further in an effort to fix my sadness by finding me a project. A new home, in fact. The plan had always been to buy a home after Jace was born, when my apartment lease expired. But with Jace gone and mortgage interest rates at an all time low, my dad determined this was the time to buy. He was helping me with the down payment and left me with little choice, though I fought tooth and nail against this plot, knowing such a huge life decision should not be made a month after losing a child, knowing I hardly had the energy for it. A rushed escrow and a move in date fit snugly between Thanksgiving and Christmas was an emotionally draining whirlwind of distraction, but when the dust settled, although I loved my new little home, it was no cure for this level of heartache.

Some things were not so helpful, such as comments that were made but not thought through. Having people tell me I can “just try again” like Jace was so easily replaced. Others telling me “something better is coming” as if he wasn’t the something better I’ve been waiting for all my life. At a family gathering, in the midst of hyperactive sugar-fueled children tearing around the house, one family member asked me if I was grateful I didn’t have to deal with the chaos of children once I returned to my home. Yes, I am grateful my son died so I don’t have to deal with an ecstatic, giggly squealing, slightly crazy toddler that I paid thousands of dollars to have. Asshole. Others were well-intentioned but misaligned religious comments. I’m not religious, but I could appreciate the vigils, the spiritual-themed gifts and condolences; I even allowed people to hold my hands and pray for me. But I could not abide the religious justifications of my loss, the chorus of “it’s God’s plan”, “a test of strength”, “heaven needed another angel”, and “he’s in heaven waiting for you.” If it was a plan, it is the most fucked up plan since the slaying of Egyptian first-borns. If it was a test, my whole life has been a test, I didn’t need another. Heaven did not need my angel, I did. I don’t believe I will see my son again. It’s painful, but less painful understanding this was some biological failing than trying to understand some distant deity sitting on a cloud watching his plan of inflicting immense suffering play out. And the suffering is still playing out.

The remnants of PTSD are fading: the dreams of ongoing pregnancy loss, the anxiety of driving the same street that I had taken to the hospital that day, the heart-stopping stomach flutters that were mistaken for his kicking are slowly dissipating. I've nearly forgiven my body for what I've believed to be the worst betrayal of me by letting my son die. I;m trying to give myself the space to grieve when I need to. The tears have subsided to a few times a week versus a few times a day. I’m slowly finding my way through this storm and I’ve had to live through very difficult moments of honoring and remembering my son to get there. I painstakingly filled out Jace’s baby book the best that I could, noting the information I could about his conception and prenatal growth, sugarcoating the story of his delivery, and pasting his ultrasound photos into the pages that were meant for pictures taken after he was born. I tattooed his tiny footprints on my forearm above his name. My due date was marked by a tear-filled hike to my favorite place in the mountains and a balloon release, little latex pockets of air with messages of love to my son scrawled on them. His teddy bear urn still sits on the shelf shown in my last post with a candle lit for him each and every night. I still sleep with his blanket and travel with it wherever I may be going for overnight stays. I write him letters professing my undying love for him. I wear his ashes around my neck in an engraved urn necklace.

I am doing better day by day, however. I'm seeing more friends, getting out of the house. I'm crying less, laughing more, slowly coming back to life. I know I’m forever changed, that grief will always be a part of me and a daily challenge to combat, but I can’t let it stop my life. I’m trying to prepare myself emotionally, physically, and financially to try for a baby again as living motherhood is still a dream of mine, but he will always be my firstborn son, and big brother to any little ones following in his tiny footsteps. Until then, I’m going to keep having my moments, so thank you for your patience.