Happy Birthday My Love

Dearest Harper,

Today marks four years since you crept into the world in a deafening silence. No cry, not a single breath, just silence so loud that it could shatter glass, and hearts. I remember those moments as if they were only yesterday, how could one not, the memory of you burnt into my brain as it were branded in with a hot iron. You. Were. Beautiful.

I held you, for hours, memorizing every inch of you, from your cap of black curly hair to how your fingers were long and slender, and perfect. It has been four years since I handed you over to our nurse for the last time. I watched her wheel you down the hall, and I thought to myself, how does anyone survive this? I watched the nurses take a piece of my soul, and I handed it over willingly because I had no other option. How does a mother survive giving back her child?

It has been four years since you died, since my heart was broken, and piece of me went with you. I understand that unless you have been through the loss of a child yourself, you don’t fully grasp the concept of the amount of grief a mother is burdened with.  It is an insurmountable task to overcome; in all honesty, a mother never gets over it. No matter what the reports from tests say, you feel some fault, some sort of failure because that is what your body is made for, to grow and nurture, and birth a child, and when your body fails you, and you lose a child, it is a sea of feelings you must wade through. Even the fathers of the babies lost do not quite understand what is happening in your head and heart, the battle that rages within.

Often, people ignore the subject because it is so taboo to talk about the baby that died. It is, at times, the elephant in the room that is seemingly invisible. I have watched as people tip toe around it, ignore it completely, and then there are those who have no comprehension of how far you’ve come in your journey and they criticize you for still being sad, even four years later. I am the first to tell you, I have more good days than bad, and those bad days are few and far between because I finally allowed myself to relish in the happiness of my little family, even if it is incomplete without you. But, I still have bad days, because I miss you. I would question my own self if this ever changed. I will always miss you because the heart wants what it wants and it wants you to be here so it can be complete again.

Criticizing grief is like throwing an anchor to a person who is already drowning

RaeAnn Fredrickson

I have my moments, we all do. My heart aches when I realize that I won’t ever hear your first word, see your first steps, or ever see you dance in a recital with your sisters. It leaves room for many moments of pondering. Wondering what your hair would look like, what your tiny voice would sound like, what your favorite show would be, would you like pirates like your baby sister? It is in these moments that a pang hits my heart because I miss you. And I realize that I will always be left with those things to wonder about. But this is my life; this is the path that has been chosen for me to walk down. Someone had to be the one in one million.

I have come a long way in the last four years. I went from being unable to escape my bed, to being unable to escape irrational fears of losing your sister, to watching your siblings grow into these beautiful little people, and being able to ENJOY it, it is something I never thought I would find again. I never thought that I would be able to be happy again. You showed me the way back to happiness, a way to honor your memory while still living my life. You guided me to where I am at today, helping me to find the silver lining in all the storm clouds that are sent my way. Last year RAK for Harper went international, and people all around the world took a moment to do a random act of kindness for someone in your honor. This made your birthday so meaningful. To know your name, your tiny life was celebrated all over the world. What mother would not be proud?

It is unbelievable that four years have passed since I last kissed the top of your head and breathed deeply your scent, whispering all those I love yous in your ear. I have so many things I never had the chance to tell you because I was riddled with the wounds of grief. I will settle for being able to tell you here. I love you Harper, more than words written could ever explain. You will always be my daughter, and that love will never change. I feel very lucky to have had the chance to be your mom.

If I had one wish for your birthday, it would be to send you all the love and kisses I have missed out on giving you over the last four years. One day, I can only hope that I get that chance.

Happy Birthday my sweet girl, I love you and I miss you.

Love,

Mommy

Like a dream

Dear Harper,

I have been thinking about you a lot lately. And then today I read a blog post from the baby loss community and it made me realize so many things about our journey. 

People dance around their feelings out of fear of someone thinking they are wrong. I,too, am guilty of this, I don't post things because I often worry how they will be perceived. That being said, I am a new me and I'm stepping out from behind that curtain and talking more openly. More honestly. Let me be clear, this post is not for the faint of heart. It's a mess and some of it ugly. But it's my mess and I wouldn't change it for the world. 

We dance around words. Try to make things prettier than they are. The fact is, you died. You didn't get to greet this world with screaming. You came into this world silently. I remember the moments vividly. But saying that you died sounds ugly so I waltzed around it and used nicer words when speaking of our story. 

Even as I held your lifeless body in my arms, I felt many things. I was heartbroken beyond the explanation of mere words. But I had an overwhelming sense of pride. Mixed with my grief was a small joy. You were BEAUTIFUL and I made you. I was a proud mother. I was proud of the sheer divinity that I had created. I felt that there was no truer words than the saying 'too beautiful for earth'. 

According to the etiquette of life, as given to us by society, it was wrong for me to have that moment of pride when the circumstances were nothing but cumbersome. But, Harper Lynn, you were beautiful and I was proud! I looked at your sweet little face, laying in my arms so peaceful and I cried. 

I wept because you would never see the nursery, you would never meet your siblings and no longer would you hear the sound of my voice whisking you away to dreamland. I wept because of your perfect little face, and perfect tiny fingers and perfect tiny toes. I sobbed as I held you, from pain, from pride. How could grief and joy mix so harmoniously on July 12, 2010? That's not right. I shouldn't have felt those things together. Or so I am told.

I spent the next 12 hours with you. Hoping, wishing that things were different. Yet I found smiles amongst the tears as I ran my hands over your short black hair. It reminded me of your grandma. I sat in a sobering silence as the nurse wheeled you out of my room for the last time. I gazed upon the bassinet which held my daughter. The one who died. 

I sat in silence for the rest of the day. The nurses came in and out, feeding me pills to make me forget. But how do you forget losing a piece of your own soul? People came in and out, I spoke, mostly out of a drugged stupor. Remember not the things I said because I don't. 

I remember listening to a newborn scream in the neighboring room all night that night and I was angry. I was red with anger. Not because I lost my baby but because that baby needed to be held and the new mom was 'too tired' to do it. So the baby went to the nursery. I would have killed to hold that baby, to tell it that everything was okay and that it was loved. 

I remember walking across the hallway to the nurses station that is nestled in the center of the birthing rooms, nursery and patient rooms. I stared at the door of the delivery room you were born in. It's not with the others, it's by itself in a corner. It's for those moms who don't get to show the world their baby.  Then the nurse asked me if she could help me, it broke my stare and I remember looking at her somberly. 

I lost track of the conversation with her, maybe because of all the medications I was on. But I heard a baby cry, so I looked past her and saw a deliciously fat baby waiting for placement in a foster home. I wanted to hold her. Love her too. But instead I had to be brought back to reality. The nurse, so nicely and carefully brought me back to the reality that you had died and asked if I needed help. I did need her help...I needed her help filling out your stillbirth paperwork. I wasn't sure what boxes to check. 

That night in the hospital was nothing but sobering. Filling out papers saying you were dead, figuring out how to arrange a funeral for a baby, and knowing you were just down the hall...in a morgue. I can't remember much after the paperwork, they medicated me some more and tucked me in for the night. 

The next morning, I woke and I showered. I stood in the tiny bathroom looking at my belly. Trying to comprehend how yesterday I had a baby and today I didn't. And I got mad. I wanted to go home. I wanted out, NOW! I wanted to go home and explain to my kids that they weren't going to have a sister in the capacity that we had talked about. I washed my hands as I looked at my own tear stained face in the mirror, I remember losing focus again on the water rushing down the drain and realizing that water held a lifetime of dreams. 

The doctor came to check on me, I remember your dad doing most of the talking because I had little to say to anyone. The nurses brought us things and told us things and I didn't hear them. Their words fell upon deaf ears. I remember wanting to go home. He said I could go, he'd have the discharge papers done and in about half hour I could go home. I nodded ever so slightly as he walked out the door. 

What was that? All the rushing we heard as soon as he walked out. There was a ruckus being raised and I wasn't amused. I sat on the side of the stupid bed, in the stupid hospital, waiting for a stupid doctor to let me go get in my damn car and go home to a babyless home. Your dad went out to see what was taking so long. Oh great, I couldn't leave this nightmare behind  because someone had a baby. I was mad, I just needed out. 

Finally, after what felt like years, the nurse brought some papers that your dad took. And next thing I knew I was walking down soulless hallways through an endless maze to the doors of the hospital  carrying all that would ever be considered your belongings. 

I walked into the house, to your brothers room and climbed into the bed you and I had shared for the last 6 weeks while I was on bed rest. And I went to sleep. I didn't eat. Didn't talk. Just slept. 

I had to plan your funeral the next day. Flowers came, cards came, your service came and went. I remember very little. Just the black hole of a mind that I was swimming in. I came and went but didn't have much to say. I took my medicine and breathed. 

You couldn't ask for much of me. That was all I could manage, breathing. People checked in, I faked the smiles, and I was nothing but a shell of a mom to your brother and sister. If it hadn't been for Holly, your sister wouldn't have had much of a birthday. I just couldn't muster it. My birthday was spent teetering on the edge of madness and with family. Your grandparents took us to dinner. I tried hard to enjoy it but without you there just wasn't much to enjoy. 

The days and weeks passed, I spoke of you often, cried even more, and just breathed. I had given up, I wasn't a person, I was the remnants of a once very lively person...I was letting it all go. 

I threw myself into volunteering in your sister's kindergarten class. I did PTA stuff. I was spending as much time at school as they were. It kept me from being with the demons in my own head. Kept me from succumbing to the emptiness. 

And mere weeks after your slight moment on earth, I got two lines on the pregnancy test. I was having a baby. 

Honestly, I thought it would fix me but all that positive test did was create a sheer panic. I wanted to be excited, I wanted to be happy. I wanted to be elated about it. But I couldn't get over the idea that, whoever was on their way, would die too. How do you get excited about something that you've already decided you most certainly won't get to keep? 

It was a gauntlet of emotion. If it was to be felt, I felt it. I was scared. Scared if having to do it again. Scared of losing another child, which I knew that my heart could not handle. It would be the final nail in the coffin. Which as I typed that, I giggled because it such a morbid thing to type in a post such as thing. But it is nothing but the truth. 

Life was zooming around me as I stood still. Weeks passed with the pregnancy, my belly grew, I saw you weekly on that screen, heard your tiny heart beating stronger and stronger. But I was still hanging on to the what ifs. It made it hard to be over the moon. 

And then the day came that they asked if I wanted to know what the baby was. Of course I wanted to know. But then those words escaped the technicians mouth, it's a girl. I felt a rush of many things in that moment. Was I going to get to keep her? Was this really happening? I need more pink! We need things for her! I want pink! 

Over the course of the pregnancy I went through ups and downs, emotionally and physically. And as we neared the end of wait, I was beginning to feel the excitement. Her room was ready and she was named after you, Harlyn. 

She got here, I heard the tiny cry from the massive squishy baby and my heart stopped, tears bled down my face. But it was mixed emotions. It was more than I understood. I was sobbing because my perseverance had paid off but also because I was here, I was having another baby because you weren't here. It took me down a quick flash of memory lane. I cried because you were gone and because she was here. 

There is more truth than can be written when I say that Harlyn saved my life. She pulled me from the abyss I was losing myself in, she made me able to move forward, she made me realize that I could miss you and be happy. It wasn't until I saw her that I felt happy again. She was massive, and beautiful, and she looked just like you. It was stunning to see her face and see your resemblance. 

I spent 10 months so afraid I would forget you that I forgot to live. And in the moment of seeing your sister's face and seeing you there I knew that she would never let me forget a moment. You and her did something amazing on June 6, 2011. Without being here, you made me realize that I was going to be okay. That even without you in my arms I was gonna live.

I spent her first months sleeping only when others were awake. I stared at her all night every night because it was so surreal to finally, after 18 months of being pregnant, had a baby to call mine. A baby that was here. There was fear mixed with that. I was scared she would be gone when I woke up. 

She is two and a half. And it's been two and a half years of crazy, insane fun. I miss you everyday. But Harlyn showed me that I'm allowed to be happy even though you're gone. Doesn't change that I love you, or that I miss you. Or that I teeter into the abyss sometimes when things get overwhelming. That pain is a welcome visitor at times because it helps remind me that I need to never take anything for granted. And it reminds me that you were here and weren't just a figment of my imagination. 

Three and a half years ago my life was flipped inside out and I was tossed into an abyss that only I could climb out of. Three and a half years later, I stand before you, still breathing, still living, my heart still beating. I am living a dream.