“A ship is safe in harbor, but that’s not what ships are for.” – William Shedd

There were times I was so terrified, and I wondered what in the world had I gotten myself into.  But I came to understand that this is what Hickory wanted me to do.  Not to have another baby, specifically, but to set sail again…to love like that again.

The Most Precious Gift

The pain when I saw that still heart was almost unbearable. A pain like I had never felt, over a being I never truly knew.  I carried him, and I had hopes and dreams for him, but who he was and would be, I never knew. Why was there such pain then? Some of it, was for the dreams that were lost in that instant, sure. That was certainly painful, but, really, that wasn’t the hardest part.

The reason it hurt so terribly to lose him…you see, I loved that baby boy who I knew nothing about, my Hickory, and I loved him unconditionally and wholeheartedly. And while I love my living children that way as well, to feel that way for a baby who never lived in my arms, well, that is interesting, isn’t it?

And then, in the days and weeks and months following, from those around me, well, I felt them love me unconditionally and wholeheartedly. My husband who held me morning after morning as I awoke to this harsh reality and cried, and cried. Our parents who dropped everything and rushed over to be there for us. A friend who, in an instant, pledged her time to be there for me that day and beyond. While I was in the hospital, the nurses, doctors, meal servers even, who sent love to me through there actions, and just as powerfully, with their eyes. Other friends who brought us food, offered to help sort out baby things no longer needed, and who checked in on me to make sure I was holding on in the following weeks. Old high school friends, and distant family who I hadn’t seen in years, but who shared with me what I had previously thought of as such an artificial connection on Facebook. My neighbor’s mother who I’ve never met, an old co-worker I hadn’t seen in years, through their words in sympathy cards they sent. Strangers in the support group, who certainly knew quite acutely of what I had been through, but otherwise knew nothing else about me.

Sometimes it was just for a moment, but all of these people, in those moments, I believe they loved me wholeheartedly and unconditionally and that carried me through and it blew me away as I realized what I was receiving, what I was witnessing, what I was feeling.

Scientists like to point out to us that we humans aren’t using most of our brain power. Many of us have speculated on what it is we can really do, if we put our minds to it, and I mean that literally and figuratively. But what Hickory gave me, was the gift of understanding that what our brain is capable of is nothing compared to what our hearts and souls are capable of. I believe that this ability to love wholeheartedly and unconditionally someone close to us, or someone we don’t even really know anything about, this is our most powerful ability. This is the power that can carry all of us through anything. This is the power that makes us capable of wonderful things.

The challenge is in putting this power to use, to not be scared of it, and to know that if we do use it, and we get hurt, there will be more of it around to carry us through.

A dear friend sent me a card, in a moment of her showing me that her amazing power. In it she shared this quote:

“Only to the extent that we expose ourselves over and over to annihilation can that which is indestructible in us be found.” – Pema Chödrön

Please, I’m asking of myself, and of you, something terribly difficult…to open ourselves up to annihilation. It is not easy, but to have this power and waste it would be the greatest tragedy of all.

Thank you, my Dear Hickory.

The second thing is, he looked more perfect in real life.  I guess it’s no different then seeing  a photo of the Eiffel Tower versus actually standing in front of, and looking up at, the Eiffel Tower.  So more specifically, right now…today…it’s like someone said I was going to get to fly to Paris and see the Eiffel Tower, so I packed and planned and spent 6 1/2 months anticipating the Eiffel Tower, and instead someone slapped me in the face one day and said, sorry, your trip is cancelled…oh, and by the way, the Eiffel Tower was destroyed this morning so you’ll never know what it was really like.  So here’s a photograph.  Ugg.

We’re all doing well…really, we are.  But there are still many triggers around.  Those things that remind you that life has taken a drastic turn off the course you thought you were on.  Much of my mourning is that of not being pregnant anymore.  I should still be quite pregnant, and as I head into April, my mourning will likely turn to a loss of the childbirth I expected to happen then, and in May…my baby.

Reaching in the mail box, and there was a beautiful baby staring up at me…from the back of a magazine.

Pregnant Mamas…I am so happy for them, and jealous of their pregnancy-caused aches and discomforts.  And there is an irrational fear I feel for them, a scary, dark part of me that wants to warn them (but I don’t)…tomorrow you might not have that baby anymore, because the shock of that night is still fresh in me.  I miss that kindred connection I would have still had, fellow-waddlers…life vessels.

In some sort of subconscious affirmation of life, we went out and bought a bunch of houseplants…and at the end of the day, after getting them all settled into their terra cotta pots, and their special places in our homes, I stood back to admire them and broke down sobbing at the realization that I would have never had all of these pots down low where little crawling baby hands would have been reaching for the salad/dirt-bar.

Izabelle and Annika devoured an American Girl Doll catalog, marking page after page of things they wanted.  And Annika, my very thoughtful, wants-to-fix-things-girl, marked a baby doll and all of the accessories…for me.  “Since baby Hickory died I want to get you this dolly and all of the pretty things for it too, so you have a baby, Mama.”  Uggg.

My favorite wool slippers…no, the toes of my favorite wool slippers…because I can see them. And those slippers, were purchased from an aquaintence/neighbor/almost-friend, who lives just around the block from me, and is one of those people who knew I was pregnant, but doesn’t know that next time we run into each other, I will no longer be pregnant, and there will not be a baby in my arms.  Whenever we walk by her house, I look up and have such an odd feeling, like I have a dreadful secret that she doesn’t know yet.

Stores, parks, you name it…the first time into any of those places since it happened.  One store in particular, where I had some rare alone-time, browsing around while waiting for a prescription.  I looked through the baby section…taking note of any little things I wanted to have on hand when baby came.  There are some sweet little thank you notes hanging at the back of the store, near the bathroom I used twice that trip, that I thought of purchasing for the gifts baby would receive.  Then there is the fact that I don’t have to use a bathroom twice in one trip now since my bladder has plenty of room.  I had bought more prenatal vitamins and the EFA (essential fatty acid) my doctor had recommended for the pregnancy.  I’ve been in that store three times, and the entire time it feels like it’s haunted or something, and the little giraffe on the thank you notes still makes my breath stop for a moment.

The drawer in the dresser that still has a few of baby’s things in it.  And I just don’t know what to do with those things…because I just don’t know.  Will we ever try again?  If we did try, could we even get pregnant?  And the worst one…what if we did (try again), and we did (get pregnant), and the same thing happened again?

Deli meat…sure, I don’t want it…but I can eat it now, because I can get all the Listeria I want.

The kids’ picture books…like, “Baby on the Way“, and “Welcome with Love“, that I just had to put away in a box…and the brand new one, “A Baby Sister for Frances“, that is stashed on the high shelf in the closet, waiting to come out after baby arrived, that I can’t even touch.

The switch from a due date countdown on my google calendar, to the dates of the baby-loss support group.

The litter box…that I have no good excuse not to clean out anymore (I can get toxoplasmosis all I want now, too), resuming my old job so Todd doesn’t have to anymore.

The frozen gluten-free banana bread batter in a single muffin cup still in the freezer, that was put there just a few days before I lost Hickory.  An experiment to see if it would bake up well so I could fill the freezer with them in preparation for baby.

Talk of the weather.  I know there isn’t anything else good to talk about with a woman who lost her baby, and this isn’t a criticism of anyone who brings it up, heck, I’m the one who brings it up half the time.  It’s just that I imagine in my head the kind of conversation we would be having, those ooey-gooey conversations about a gigantic belly, and big baby kicks, and the things that older siblings are saying to baby-in-the-womb, and the due date countdowns, and the actual date predictions, and so on.

The childbirth/breastfeeding/newborn books I threw in the recycling bin in a fit of anger/frustration/desperation, only to fish them all out a few hours later, my face still stained with tears, but a layer of hope underneath by then.

His 20-week ultrasound photos hanging up on the photo/art line in the living room.  I’ve kept them up because I want, so much, for them to be a happy memory of him, but they just make me think of the ultrasounds done that night, and just like in those still photos, he was perfectly still, including his heart.  And the faintest version of the gut-wrenching feeling I felt that night returns.

So I need to sneak it in and that’s the first challenge, and I recognized that, and I tried to do it but still wasn’t ever getting around to opening up the blog.  Until I realized my second problem.  I decided it was time to put a coat on to cover up my dark side.  Enough of that wallowing business, it seemed time to write about the good stuff…about moving on, about what I learned, about why I can honestly say, I would go through it all again…from the months of nausea and other pregnancy woes, to the heart-wrenching pain of losing him, and about why I named this blog “Hickory’s Gifts”, and not, “Oh God, This Sucks”.

An acquaintance of mine, an older woman who had heard about what happened, and unfortunately, related to it, recently sent me a care package and a note where she pleaded with me to take the time to grieve, to not, “ignore it until it festers and poisons your life.”   “Advice,” she said, “that I wish I had had.”  I am so grateful that our society has learned since then, and I have had much, much more of a chance to grieve then women used to have.  I’ve been held and supported by friends and family.  But, after hearing so many pained people at the support group, pained not just because they lost their precious babies, but also because they still don’t feel like they’ve grieved like they needed to, that they are just not understood, I vowed to put it all out there, so others can have a chance to understand.

So I need to let the dark side out to fulfill this vow, and maybe I am more of a pessimist then I’d like to admit, but the pressure of writing about the good stuff, was just that…pressure.  As soon as I gave myself permission to take off the coat, which was actually more of a straight-jacket, here I am, finding the time to write about my dark side.

I realize that this blog is it’s own gift…it allows me to get this stuff out, which helps me so much.  I hit publish, and I get up, with no expectations of anyone ever actually reading it, but having typed it out, I walk a little lighter, my head is a little clearer, and my heart a little fresher.  Maybe my dark side gets a little smaller (though my back side certainly isn’t…har, har).  So if you are reading this, well, you can know that there are gifts coming, and maybe they will be sweeter with the anticipation and brighter having read through the darkness.

Oh…and the secret to finding a time to write with the kids?  An audio book subscription service, Simply Audiobooks, and coffee…lots and lots of coffee…for me, NOT the kids!

I’m a bit out there, is what I’m trying to say. But, my confession to you is, I’ve never actually believed in soul mates before.

I don’t really believe that Todd and I were pre-destined to be together. There are undoubtedly, other people out there we could have chosen to share our lives with, happily, had we not met.

But, seventeen years ago, we did meet, at the end of our junior year of high school, thanks to our friends, Matt and Christine. There was certainly a spark there, shared interests, and intriguing differences, and thus began our journey.

We have shared mutual challenges, and we’ve had our individual challenges that we faced together and supported each other through. We have been through minor illnesses and health. We have struggled with seemingly never-ending financial difficulties. We have changed, we have grown and matured and widened our horizons. We have cried together when loved ones have been lost. We have been angry at one another and stormed, but we’ve always found the peace between us again. We have moved, and settled, and moved and settled again. We have tried new paths, and returned to some of those that were well-worn and tried them again.

We held our first child, Izabelle, and looked at each other with that look…the look of how on Earth can we love someone so much? And how on Earth could we ever survive if she left us? And when she was a year old, we sat, holding hands and holding her, terrified to our cores after watching her seize for thirty minutes, only stopping when she was injected with strong and scary medication. Then waiting to see if she would wake up, if she’d know who we were, if she’d speak, if she’d be. Together we learned the terror of loving someone so much who just about did leave, and who would continue to have medical challenges that would scare us out of our wits.

Then we held our second child, Annika, and wondered how we could possibly love another being just as much. When Oliver, our third child arrived, we knew what to expect, but we wondered how we could possibly be so incredibly blessed, three times over.

Then we found out we were to be blessed a fourth time. We shared our fear that we couldn’t possibly risk our hearts over another, and more simply, that we couldn’t provide for another. But we were in it, our hearts were already lost to this baby. And one way or another, we’d find a way to provide everything that they all needed.

And then we lost that baby, our baby boy Hickory, and our hearts did break. But even broken, they continue to love. They will never heal, but we will survive. And there is no one else who can know what I am feeling when I think of Hickory, like Todd can. And only I know how deeply Todd is hurting even though he can be so strong on the outside. We were not soul mates the moment we met, but through all of this, we have become soul mates.

I’ll get to that in a moment, but let me embarrass myself for a moment.

When faced with labor and delivery of my already-lost baby boy, I decided I didn’t want the epidural offered…the epidural that would numb my body.  I’d like to say that this was just tough, hard-core Emily, but no, really, it was Emily who had spent all night long, alone in a hospital room, grieving my baby’s death and the thought that labor and delivery were going to be too painful seemed ludicrous.  Anything was better than the emotional pain I was feeling and I welcomed the distraction.  There was a bit of the hard-core in the decision…I didn’t want to entirely lose the experience of childbirth as well.  I can’t find the words to explain that which most likely sounds like madness to most of you, but some of you will understand.

However, there came a point, after a sleepless night and an intensely emotional 24 hours, where I was exhausted to my core, and in every way.  The nurse offered me something, again, “for the pain.”  Man, did I wish it was for the unbearable pain…the other pain…but no, she could get me the epidural or she could get me a narcotic through my i.v. to take the edge off the contractions for an hour or so.  This time, I agreed.  Something had to change, as I had just issued Julia and my Mom knitting orders.  They had gravitated to my bedside during an emotional breakdown (it might have been the one where I threatened to throw a tantrum), and while I had gotten back together, they stayed close.  But I needed them back on the sofa, Julia back to knitting, my Mom back to crocheting, and the resulting, soothing rhythm.  That rhythm of the needles moving, the pauses as they adjusted their work, the breaks in their conversation, their own breathing, that was what was soothing the unbearable pain.  So I needed to give myself a break, so they could take a break from worrying, and get back to the rhythm.

So the nurse brought me some Stadol and it had an interesting effect on me.  It went straight to my head first, making it crazy heavy and wobbly feeling.  I don’t normally like that feeling.  Always hated cold medicines because of the heavy/groggy feeling they gave me.  But that day, it did actually take the edge off the unbearable pain.  I can understand a bit more how alcohol and drug addicts get to that point.

And then, the hoagie-buns started dancing for me.  The basketball-jersey-wearing hoagie buns.  In kaleidoscope fashion.  I shared this with Julia and my Mom, who I think, amazingly, kept right on stitching…those ladies take their knitting orders seriously.  Then I started thinking I might very well roll right out of that bed (one side had a rail, on side didn’t), and of course, that struck me as hilarious, so I giggled.  And my rhythm ladies kept on stitching.  But somehow, I had one toe in reality the entire time, so I smiled at the hoagie buns, with their bright yellow with red trimmed jerseys, and thought that it was so crazy-reedicoolous (as Annika would say, and I thought in my head at that moment), that my baby was dead in my tummy, gone, and I was laboring to get him out, and then he would still be dead, but right then, I was dancing with hoagie buns, and that made me giggle too.

But soon enough, the rest of me joined that toe, I was fully in reality again, and Julia and my Mom had to come back to my bedside to comfort me through.

And now, here I am, and my days are not filled with hoagie buns (which I can be thankful for), but instead, are interspersed with crazy-overwhelmed feelings from the most basic of tasks.  Oh my God, lunch is coming up…I need to get some food on the table…oh God, I have no idea what to even make.  Then, Oh my God, I’m freaked out about lunch…I’m reedicoolous.

And then there are times where the dark cloud completely surrounds my head and there isn’t even any specific thoughts in that cloud, it’s just dark, and cold, and sad, and I can’t see out.

But, unlike past postpartums, this time, I am fully aware of my feet being firmly on the ground.  I know that the cloud that I can’t see through, is entirely caused by hormones, not my mind.  I know, not how, but I do know that I will somehow be able to shoo that cloud away, or it will lift on it’s own at some point.  And sometimes, I can even get myself fully in my firmly planted feet, carefully lift one, and take a step out of that cloud and make lunch, or read a book to the kids, or turn on some music.  And sometime soon, like the Stadol left my system, these hormones will balance out, and until then, I will love and forgive myself and keep trying to shoo away the cloud.

Then I was taken back by a nurse, who, it turns out, had NO IDEA why I was there. I won’t go into the details of the conversation, because it was the most awkward, painful conversation of my life. This nurse was not even close to the caliber of the nurses I had during my hospital stay, in fact, she was the worst nurse I’ve EVER experienced. But again, my rant is not with her.

She left me, with a pat on the knee while she looked the other way and said, “sorry,” half-naked on the table waiting, waiting, waiting, for the OB. And while waiting, I processed the absurdity of a physical exam such as I was waiting half-naked for. I know enough about childbirth, and my most recent childbirth, and postpartum care to know it was not in any way necessary, but, I have no doubt, it was standard protocol. I processed the fact that my file was brand new, with just the forms I had filled out in the waiting room, and the blank form for that visit in it. I know, that doctor, being human, and having no doubt attended many births since mine, would have little to no recollection of me, or my medical history from my hospital stay, but she did not have any copy of my hospital records. So, I was going to get to relive the entire experience with her, and not for therapeutic reasons, but in order to try to decipher my medical needs. And how well was she going to address my medical needs with only the information I relayed to her, only the information I could remember and knew to begin with?

So, I got dressed, and I walked out.

About an hour later, the receptionist called and left me a message, “Please call back so we can discuss scheduling.” For all they know, I had postpartum psychosis and had jumped out the window.

I deserve better. We all deserve better.

I am a human being. I had a traumatic experience. The doctor should have walked into her office the following morning, and made a note of my name to the office staff…this woman might need special help…know what happened with this woman so she gets the loving care that she needs.

And there should be a standard protocol of getting a patient’s record from the birth for follow-up care. Not addressing the emotional side is a travesty, but I can’t say I was entirely surprised, but I am shocked, absolutely shocked, that my medical records weren’t there.

We live in a society, where corporations have been granted “personhood” and most of us were outraged by this. Why though, really? Is “personhood” such a high term? Do we treat each other like persons? No, we treat each other like numbers connected with money-making potential. Maybe instead of granting corporations with person-hood, we should just stop kidding ourselves by calling ourselves persons…maybe we should just switch all of us to being corporations. Corporations compete with each other, they acknowledge each other, and serve each other as long as money is involved…and that’s pretty much how we treat each other in many aspects of our society.

We are human beings and until we treat each other like human beings, ALL THE TIME, we might as well call each other corporations.