My Rainbow Baby Has Arrived!

Just over a month ago, we welcomed our sweet daughter Callista to the world.  After a stillbirth and two miscarriages we thought she would never arrive, but she did.  And as I sit here holding her, I'm amazed that I was able to bring her home.  Her full head of hair is as wispy as a dandelion and blonde.  Her eyes are that piercing newborn blue, and will probably stay that way.  She's long, as she was born at just under 22 inches, and just over 7 pounds.  

We are in love.


Yet this doesn't take away that there are children missing.  There is a two year old that should have been running around under my feet as I struggled to stay awake breastfeeding my daughter.  There could have been another son or daughter too, and their absence is profoundly felt, even more so when I visit the cemetery, this time with my rainbow baby in my arms.


The picture book that I wrote?  I finally have someone to read it too; a new reason to seek to be published.  I cannot wait to hear her laugh, and I cannot wait to see her try to hold her first book, even if it goes straight into her toothless mouth.


A study I read jointly published by the USA and UK states that baby loss mommies only start to truly heal two years after the birth of their rainbow baby.  The study was done to find out what could be done for pregnant women who had lost babies before, to ensure that the women received help before she developed post partum depression or any other psychological disorder.  


My rainbow baby is here.  I truly hope that she touches that place that has been locked since I lost my son.  I will never forget, but hopefully I can heal, and I look forward to the journey.  

The Pregnancy "Advice Zone" - The Epidural

Once you reach a certain point in your pregnancy, the horror stories and advice start emerging. A baby loss mom takes this in a much different light. With all of the people out there trying to convince me of the horrors of labor, I'd like to remind them that I have been through labor, and what I have been through is far more horrible than anything they encountered. I was told that my son "may come out in pieces", and I was told that they could not help, he was breech, and then I was wheeled out of Labor & Delivery with empty arms. Now while I am aware that there are further horrors in the delivery room, none can compare to that type of experience.

One of the biggest topics to open Been There Done That Mommy's mouths, is when I mention that I am going natural. I do not want an epidural. I do not want a needle put into my spine, no matter how small. I'm not doing this for a medal, I'm not doing this to compare myself to my friend who is happily getting an epidural (and I am happy that she knows what she wants and is going for it), I'm doing this for me. For me, this is a rite of passage and something I need to do for myself. You would think that's all that needed to be said, but people still find a way to offer their unsolicited opinions.

So I've come up with a solution:

For anyone who tells me that I will end up with an epidural and fail at my natural birth plan, I'd like $20 please. Please put your money where your mouth is. I would be happy to take that money and put it in my child's college savings fund because apparently you don't know how stubborn I am, or how serious I am. With as many people who have made this comment to me so far, I'm pretty sure I will earn at least a few hundred dollars for my child's education.

Sounds like a good start to me.

Surviving a Rainbow Pregnancy

Primary Rainbow. Source: Listentoreason @ FlickrCommons

I've been quiet for a couple of months, and that's because I've had my head in the sand. The husband and I were blessed with another pregnancy shortly after Dragon Con, and after having a stillbirth and suffering two miscarriages, being pregnant again requires a great deal of concentration and introspection. This is a rainbow baby, the rainbow that comes after the storm of loss after loss after loss. This is also a rainbow baby due on the same day that I lost my son, almost two years ago.

This time is different. I'm on Lovenox and have to give myself a belly shot once a day at 10 pm. I'm on baby aspirin every morning. I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes at 14 weeks and that means four finger pokes a day and dietary adjustment (though thankfully in my case, that primarily means removing juice). It means every other week doctor visits and additional visits supervised by a MFM (Maternal Fetal Medicine) who specializes in cases like mine, where the woman can get pregnant easily, but doesn't keep it.

This time is different. I have had seven ultrasounds now, and all have showed wonderful growth and a growing happy, healthy baby. I will be 26 weeks on Tuesday, the point in time where I learned that my first child, Alistair, had died. As I sit here typing this, my little one is kicking happily away bringing tears to my eyes.

This time is different. I have more fear coursing through me than, arguably, someone going to war. I am terrified at every turn that I will lose this one too. That I will have grown too close to this baby to have it taken away from me. When people say "Congratulations" I stare at them blankly, wondering why they are congratulating me if I don't have the baby in my arms yet. When people ask me what I'm having, I say I don't know and I don't care, because just getting a living, healthy baby at the end of this is my primary concern, not whether or not it will be wearing pink or blue. When I found myself registering at Babies R Us yesterday, I wasn't walking through the store with a glazed happy look on my face, I was remembering when I had done this for my son and that he had died a few short weeks before his shower and I felt like with every scan I was jinxing things. Not to mention the music that they played just happened to be songs from when I had lost him.

But this time will be different. I will bring home this baby, healthy and breathing. I have a support network of friends and family both in person and online who are helping me through and holding my hand. And although I yearn to once again work on my novels, I know that right now all I am capable of is taking things one step at a time. If the bathroom doesn't get clean because I am crying, because it has been more than an hour since I have felt the baby move, it's okay.

I've learned that I'm a survivor, and regardless of what happens, I will continue to survive. My dreams of becoming published will still be there, and hopefully I can continue working towards that when my rainbow baby arrives at the beginning of June.

Losing a Piece of my Soul

On June 4, 2010, in what was supposed to be a regular midwife checkup of 26 weeks, I found out that my baby's heart had stopped beating. That evening I was admitted to the hospital and labor was induced. My baby was breech, and it was an impossibly hard labor, punctuated by the words that the midwife could only do so much, or my little one would be torn in two. On June 5, 2010 at 11:00 a.m., I delivered a baby boy. I named him Alistair Magnus. He was perfect in every way, from his pale blonde hair, to his turquoise eyes, to his large hands, and his high-arched feet. On June 5, 2010, I said goodbye to the largest piece of my soul.

It is ten weeks later today, and I am a different person.

It is an impossible thing to think about burying your child, no matter how young or old. It is an impossible thing to sit on the computer designing your child's headstone, when you would rather have been picking out his going home onesie from the hospital. It is an impossible thing to face the fear of conceiving again, knowing that a perfect pregnancy, with perfect test results and a perfect ultrasound could still contain such a small imperfection in the inside of the umbilical cord that would cause a baby's death. It is an impossible thing to find hope in the maelstrom of madness and grief, especially when no one really seems to understand what you're going through.

My husband and I visit Alistair daily at the cemetery. I know that some point, our visits will not happen as often, that we may have future little ones who occupy most of our time.

But I will not forget. For when he died, he took a piece of my soul with him.