I am sick. And not just sniffles sick, full-blown ill. On Monday I was suffering from major back pain so I went to have a massage to work out the kinks. To my dismay, the massage therapist was coughing throughout the session and I could feel her breathing her germs on me as I laid on my back.
On Tuesday (when I was officially 24 weeks along) I started to feel unwell, I was tired, my throat was scratchy and I knew something was coming. That's when it hit me. I woke up several times in the night gasping for air, my chest was totally congested and I couldn't breathe. It was pretty scary and I barely slept. At 3am I got up and made a chamomile tea and watched the holiday Glee episode because I felt so rotten when I was lying down.
I went to a walk-in clinic on Wednesday morning and the doctor diagnosed me with bronchitis, and possibly strep throat. Thankfully they were able to prescribe me antibiotics and a steroid puffer to help with my breathing. Now it's one day later and, while my chest is a little clearer (despite waking up every hour last night due to coughing and chest congestion), my nose is running like a faucet! I'm also suffering from wicked headaches (thank goodness for Tylenol Extra Strength Rapid Release gelcaps!).
And to top it all off, because of baby's position, I pee everytime I cough or sneeze! So I either have to clench my legs in preparation, or keep changing my pajama bottoms.
Being pregnant and sick TRULY SUCKS! But you'd never know it by the way baby keeps kicking away (and probably wondering why I'm making so much noise!).
Here's hoping I'll feel better tomorrow. Until then, I'm off to devour yet another Riccola cough drop and sleep off this sickness!
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
Comforting words for parents experiencing a loss
I saw this in a post on In Memory of Jacob and wanted to share it. When we lost Olivia, the hospital gave us a lovely package: a white fabric "envelope" with resources inside, a certificate with her name/DOB/weight/length, and pictures of her. While I've tucked it away somewhere safe, I pull it out ever so often.
This letter was included in a hospital packet for parents experiencing a loss. I wish we had received something like this (in addition to the traditional "grief" literature):
This letter was included in a hospital packet for parents experiencing a loss. I wish we had received something like this (in addition to the traditional "grief" literature):
Dear Mommy and Daddy,
I know this is a rough time for you so I will be as gentle as I can be. First of all, thank you for so many tears, particularly those shared with another that you love. They are a gift to me, a precious tribute to your investment in us. As you do your mourning, do it at your pace only. Don't let anybody suggest that you do your grief work at someone else's timetable.
Do whatever it takes to face directly the reality of what has happened, even though you may need to pause frequently and yearn for my return. Do this with courage and my blessings. Know that sometimes inertia is the only movement possible. Give your best to keeping a balance between remembering me and renewing your commitments to life.
It's okay with me if you go through minutes, hours and even days not thinking of me. I know that you'll never forget. Losing me and grabbing hold of a new meaning in your life is a delicate art. I'm not sure if one comes before the other or not, maybe it's a combination.
Be with people who accept you as you are. Mention my name out loud and if they don't make hasty retreat, they're probably excellent candidates for friendship.
If, by a remote possiblilty, you think that there is anything you could have done for me and didn't, I forgive you. Resentment does not abide here, only love.
You know how people sometimes ask you how many children you have? Well, I am still yours and you are still my mother. Always acknowledge that with tenderness, unless to do so would fall on insensitive ears or would be painful to you.
I know how you feel inside. Read, even though your tears anoint the pages. In Henri Nowens' book "Out of Solitude" he writes, "the friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair and confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not healing, and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares."
I want you to know that I am okay and that I have sent you messages to ease your pain. They come in the form of flowers that bloom out of season, birds singing, voices and visions and sometimes through your friends and even strangers who volunteer as angels.
Stay open but don't expect the overly dramatic. You will get what you need and it may be simple as an internal feeling of peace. You are not crazy, you have been comforted.
Please seek out people bereaved longer than you. They are tellers of truth, and if they have done their grief work, they are an inspiration and a beacon of hope for you.
There are still funny things happening in our world. It delights me to no end to hear your spontaneous laughter.
Mommy and Daddy, I will always be in your heart. Today I will light a candle for you. When you light your candle for me their light will shine above the darkness.
Love,
Your Baby
Author unknown
I know this is a rough time for you so I will be as gentle as I can be. First of all, thank you for so many tears, particularly those shared with another that you love. They are a gift to me, a precious tribute to your investment in us. As you do your mourning, do it at your pace only. Don't let anybody suggest that you do your grief work at someone else's timetable.
Do whatever it takes to face directly the reality of what has happened, even though you may need to pause frequently and yearn for my return. Do this with courage and my blessings. Know that sometimes inertia is the only movement possible. Give your best to keeping a balance between remembering me and renewing your commitments to life.
It's okay with me if you go through minutes, hours and even days not thinking of me. I know that you'll never forget. Losing me and grabbing hold of a new meaning in your life is a delicate art. I'm not sure if one comes before the other or not, maybe it's a combination.
Be with people who accept you as you are. Mention my name out loud and if they don't make hasty retreat, they're probably excellent candidates for friendship.
If, by a remote possiblilty, you think that there is anything you could have done for me and didn't, I forgive you. Resentment does not abide here, only love.
You know how people sometimes ask you how many children you have? Well, I am still yours and you are still my mother. Always acknowledge that with tenderness, unless to do so would fall on insensitive ears or would be painful to you.
I know how you feel inside. Read, even though your tears anoint the pages. In Henri Nowens' book "Out of Solitude" he writes, "the friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair and confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not healing, and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares."
I want you to know that I am okay and that I have sent you messages to ease your pain. They come in the form of flowers that bloom out of season, birds singing, voices and visions and sometimes through your friends and even strangers who volunteer as angels.
Stay open but don't expect the overly dramatic. You will get what you need and it may be simple as an internal feeling of peace. You are not crazy, you have been comforted.
Please seek out people bereaved longer than you. They are tellers of truth, and if they have done their grief work, they are an inspiration and a beacon of hope for you.
There are still funny things happening in our world. It delights me to no end to hear your spontaneous laughter.
Mommy and Daddy, I will always be in your heart. Today I will light a candle for you. When you light your candle for me their light will shine above the darkness.
Love,
Your Baby
Author unknown
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Raw emotions
I just read about a woman who's going through her third loss in one of the blogs I'm following, and it makes my heart ache. How can it be that some people have it so easy and don't appreciate that fact, while others have to fight for that privilege?
I feel so badly for her and her husband and I know that only time will dull the pain they're going through. The only thing that will get them through this is the hope that one day they will be successful and holding their baby in their arms.
After we lost Olivia, it was all I could think about. Every time I was alone, thoughts of her flooded my mind and the pain hit me so hard I couldn't breathe. One day B pointed out this song, which he explained gave him hope that things would turn around for us. I dedicate this song to everyone who is mourning the loss of a child:
I feel so badly for her and her husband and I know that only time will dull the pain they're going through. The only thing that will get them through this is the hope that one day they will be successful and holding their baby in their arms.
After we lost Olivia, it was all I could think about. Every time I was alone, thoughts of her flooded my mind and the pain hit me so hard I couldn't breathe. One day B pointed out this song, which he explained gave him hope that things would turn around for us. I dedicate this song to everyone who is mourning the loss of a child:
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Labels - do they matter?
Since the release of Lily Allen's unfortunate news, there's been a debate over the use of the word "miscarriage". According to Wikipedia, here's the terminology broken down:
I understand that some people are sensitive to different terms, and after I lost Olivia I didn't feel like the word "miscarriage" really represented what I went through. How could someone who lost a baby at 10 weeks compare their situation to mine - losing a baby at 27 weeks that was kicking and growing and almost viable? Over the last few months I've come to realize that the "label" doesn't matter, it's the heartbreak and grief that accompany the loss that bring affected families together.
Join the debate on the Faces of Loss, Faces of Hope Facebook page. What do YOU think?
- Very early miscarriages—those that occur before the sixth week LMP (since the woman's Last Menstrual Period)—are medically termed early pregnancy loss[2] or chemical pregnancy.[3]
- Miscarriages that occur after the sixth week LMP are medically termed clinical spontaneous abortion.[2]
- Labour resulting in live birth before the 37th week of pregnancy is termed "premature birth", even if the infant dies shortly afterward.
- A fetus that dies while in the uterus after about the 20–24th week of pregnancy is termed a "stillbirth"; the precise gestational age definition varies by country.
I understand that some people are sensitive to different terms, and after I lost Olivia I didn't feel like the word "miscarriage" really represented what I went through. How could someone who lost a baby at 10 weeks compare their situation to mine - losing a baby at 27 weeks that was kicking and growing and almost viable? Over the last few months I've come to realize that the "label" doesn't matter, it's the heartbreak and grief that accompany the loss that bring affected families together.
Join the debate on the Faces of Loss, Faces of Hope Facebook page. What do YOU think?
Monday, November 1, 2010
Even celebs aren't safe from loss
This was her second miscarriage. My heart goes out to her, particularly because she's in the public eye and this opens her up to even more scrutiny. I hope people will be compassionate during this very difficult time.
This just shows that no one is safe from the pain of losing a baby. My heart goes out to her and her partner.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Awkward goodbye
I'm listening to my ipod and the song, Awkward Goodbye, by Athlete. It's the song that was playing in the car when we left the hospital after Olivia was born.
The song is about losing someone you love, and the chorus really resonated with me at the time:
The song is about losing someone you love, and the chorus really resonated with me at the time:
No one knows how I love you
No one comes even close
Sunlight runs through my veins for you
Oh ohh
No one comes even close
Sunlight runs through my veins for you
Oh ohh
I remember the flood of emotions that hit me in that moment, and the reality that she was really gone hitting me like a brick wall. It still chokes me up, remembering the everything we went through and how unfair it was. My heart still aches when I think of her...
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Moments I will never forget
- the positive pregnancy test and telling B
- our families' joyful reaction to the news
- hearing the baby's heartbeat for the first time and sending the recording to B when he was in Vegas
- feeling the first flutter while watching the Hope for Haiti concert
- our babymoon in Los Cabos
- feeling the baby kick and watching my belly move
- when the ultrasound technician turned off the machine and said "you need to go see your doctor"
- our doctor's face when he walked in the room
- feeling like my world was collapsing when he told us the baby had cranial and facial anomalies
- waiting for the call from mt sinai for the follow-up appointment date
- waiting two long weeks for the appointment
- sitting in the waiting room, looking at all the pregnant women and knowing we were all there because something was wrong
- the silence of the ultrasound technician as she examined the baby
- the box of kleenex the doctor brought in when they delivered the news
- find out she was a girl (which confirmed what we already suspected)
- agreeing to be induced and waiting for what felt like an eternity to fill out the paperwork before we could leave
- calling my sister and hearing her sob when I told her what was happening
- going to chicago with B because I couldn't stand to stay at home and wait
- shopping in chicago and knowing I couldn't buy maternity clothes, or regular clothes because they wouldn't fit
- buying a blanket to wrap our baby in after she was born
- barely sleeping the night before we went to the hospital
- waiting for the contractions to start for 36 hours
- unbearable pain from the oxytocin-induced contractions
- getting an epidural during a contraction
- my water breaking and pushing
- delivering Olivia in the dark and in total silence
- holding her stillborn body and stroking her skin
- the look on B's face that told me his heart was breaking
- holding Olivia during the blessing ceremony and watching the nurses take her away
- putting on my maternity jeans to leave and noticing my absent belly
- leaving the hospital empty handed
- packing up everything we bought for the nursery
- my milk coming in four days after she was born
- looking through the memory package from the hospital, and seeing the pictures of her tiny lifeless body and purple skin (from never taking a breath)
Rest in peace little angel. I will never forget you.
- our families' joyful reaction to the news
- hearing the baby's heartbeat for the first time and sending the recording to B when he was in Vegas
- feeling the first flutter while watching the Hope for Haiti concert
- our babymoon in Los Cabos
- feeling the baby kick and watching my belly move
- when the ultrasound technician turned off the machine and said "you need to go see your doctor"
- our doctor's face when he walked in the room
- feeling like my world was collapsing when he told us the baby had cranial and facial anomalies
- waiting for the call from mt sinai for the follow-up appointment date
- waiting two long weeks for the appointment
- sitting in the waiting room, looking at all the pregnant women and knowing we were all there because something was wrong
- the silence of the ultrasound technician as she examined the baby
- the box of kleenex the doctor brought in when they delivered the news
- find out she was a girl (which confirmed what we already suspected)
- agreeing to be induced and waiting for what felt like an eternity to fill out the paperwork before we could leave
- calling my sister and hearing her sob when I told her what was happening
- going to chicago with B because I couldn't stand to stay at home and wait
- shopping in chicago and knowing I couldn't buy maternity clothes, or regular clothes because they wouldn't fit
- buying a blanket to wrap our baby in after she was born
- barely sleeping the night before we went to the hospital
- waiting for the contractions to start for 36 hours
- unbearable pain from the oxytocin-induced contractions
- getting an epidural during a contraction
- my water breaking and pushing
- delivering Olivia in the dark and in total silence
- holding her stillborn body and stroking her skin
- the look on B's face that told me his heart was breaking
- holding Olivia during the blessing ceremony and watching the nurses take her away
- putting on my maternity jeans to leave and noticing my absent belly
- leaving the hospital empty handed
- packing up everything we bought for the nursery
- my milk coming in four days after she was born
- looking through the memory package from the hospital, and seeing the pictures of her tiny lifeless body and purple skin (from never taking a breath)
Rest in peace little angel. I will never forget you.
Remembering Olivia
I'm not sure why, but I've been thinking about Olivia a lot this week. I think the doctor's visits and upcoming 15 week ultrasound are reminding my of what we went through. It's also because on Friday the doctor revised my due date to March 29th, almost exactly one year from the day Olivia was born (March 19).
I'm SO anxious about the ultrasound in three weeks, and desperately hoping everything will come out "normal".
I was searching Google blogs for amniotic band syndrome and found a number of postings from people who went through similar experiences. The one that touched me the most was "Life After Haleigh", as we went through a very similar situation. As I read it, tears poured down my face and memories of Olivia and holding her tiny body came flooding back.
I'm so thankful that I'm pregnant again, and thankful for all of the people I've gotten support from this year. Someone once told me "you make plans, and god laughs" and that's certainly true in our case. I never imagined how this year would turn out....so many ups and downs. We started the year pregnant, then lost the baby, then sold our house and moved, and now we're pregnant again!
Throughout all of this, my wonderful husband has stood by me. He's been my rock, and my best friend. I am most thankful for having him in my life!
I'm SO anxious about the ultrasound in three weeks, and desperately hoping everything will come out "normal".
I was searching Google blogs for amniotic band syndrome and found a number of postings from people who went through similar experiences. The one that touched me the most was "Life After Haleigh", as we went through a very similar situation. As I read it, tears poured down my face and memories of Olivia and holding her tiny body came flooding back.
I'm so thankful that I'm pregnant again, and thankful for all of the people I've gotten support from this year. Someone once told me "you make plans, and god laughs" and that's certainly true in our case. I never imagined how this year would turn out....so many ups and downs. We started the year pregnant, then lost the baby, then sold our house and moved, and now we're pregnant again!
Throughout all of this, my wonderful husband has stood by me. He's been my rock, and my best friend. I am most thankful for having him in my life!
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
What not to say
When we went through our loss, all we wanted was for everyone to know (so we didn't have to explain what happened) and for people to just let us be.
I understand how awkward it must be for bystanders who just don't know what to say. But some people just don't think before they speak. Here's some of the ill-phrased but well-intentioned responses we heard:
It just wasn't meant to be
This wasn't your time
You're young, you'll have more babies
I had a miscarriage and I understand how you feel
At the time, some of these made me downright angry. How could they possibly know how I'm feeling? I carried a baby for 27 weeks, I felt her move and watched my belly twitch with her kicks. I was well past the three month "danger zone" and thought it was smooth sailing, until my bliss was ripped out from underneath me with the harsh reality of our situation.
I now know that people really didn't know what to say, and I'm sure I've even made similar thoughtless comments in the past. Now I know that the only thing a person suffering a miscarriage wants to here is:
I'm sorry, and I'm here for you.
Helpful advice that you will hopefully never need to use! Here's some other do's and don'ts from a miscarriage support centre in Aukland, New Zealand.
I understand how awkward it must be for bystanders who just don't know what to say. But some people just don't think before they speak. Here's some of the ill-phrased but well-intentioned responses we heard:
It just wasn't meant to be
This wasn't your time
You're young, you'll have more babies
I had a miscarriage and I understand how you feel
At the time, some of these made me downright angry. How could they possibly know how I'm feeling? I carried a baby for 27 weeks, I felt her move and watched my belly twitch with her kicks. I was well past the three month "danger zone" and thought it was smooth sailing, until my bliss was ripped out from underneath me with the harsh reality of our situation.
I now know that people really didn't know what to say, and I'm sure I've even made similar thoughtless comments in the past. Now I know that the only thing a person suffering a miscarriage wants to here is:
I'm sorry, and I'm here for you.
Helpful advice that you will hopefully never need to use! Here's some other do's and don'ts from a miscarriage support centre in Aukland, New Zealand.
Black Swan Song
One of my favourite bands is Athlete, a small indie group from London. Around the time Olivia was born, I started listening to their new(ish) albums, The Getaway and Black Swan.
At the time their music really resonated with how I was feeling, completely broken and unable to see past each day. One song song in particular, called Black Swan Song, really spoke to me. I've been listening to it for months and over time the lyrics took on a new meaning for me. They went from mirroring my despair to becoming a source of hope and reminding me to appreciate my friends and family who helped me to survive the most difficult time of my life. Going through something like that was an eye opener - you truly learn who the most important people in your life are during these moments (especially those who surface after years without any contact).
Here's a live clip of the song:
I waded through the darkest fields you'd imagine
Your pretty face sketched on the barrel of my gun
And i know you'll be the first to welcome me
When i climb into eternity
Oh,oh
The forest kept us warm
But it doesn't feel like home anymore
And i know there's bigger mountains where you are
And a better climate for my heart
Oh,oh
I've been racing the clock
And I've run out of steam
I am ready for my final symphony
Oh my body is weak
But my soul is still strong
I am ready to rest in your arms
Though many battles i have won
I lost too many friends i could count on
And i know they'll be the first to welcome me
When i parachute into eternity
Oh,oh
I've been racing the clock
And I've run out of steam
I am ready for my final symphony
Oh my body is weak
But my soul is still strong
I am ready to rest in your arms
And the rain beat down on the rooftops
But there was no sound,
There was no sound
And all my friends and family carried me
They carried me home
Carried me home
I've been racing the clock
And I've run out of steam
I am ready for my final symphony
Oh my body is weak
But my soul is still strong
I am ready to rest in your arms
I've been racing the clock
And I've run out of steam
I am ready for my final symphony
Oh my body is weak
But my soul is still strong
I am ready to rest in your arms
Oh, oh
Interestingly, the song is about the lead singer's grandfather, who fought in the war, and recently passed away (you can watch the proper video here, which better explains the story). For me, it reminds me that I have family and friends who love me, and who carried me through the darkest days of my life. Thank you to each of you, you know who you are!
At the time their music really resonated with how I was feeling, completely broken and unable to see past each day. One song song in particular, called Black Swan Song, really spoke to me. I've been listening to it for months and over time the lyrics took on a new meaning for me. They went from mirroring my despair to becoming a source of hope and reminding me to appreciate my friends and family who helped me to survive the most difficult time of my life. Going through something like that was an eye opener - you truly learn who the most important people in your life are during these moments (especially those who surface after years without any contact).
Here's a live clip of the song:
And here's the lyrics:
I waded through the darkest fields you'd imagine
Your pretty face sketched on the barrel of my gun
And i know you'll be the first to welcome me
When i climb into eternity
Oh,oh
The forest kept us warm
But it doesn't feel like home anymore
And i know there's bigger mountains where you are
And a better climate for my heart
Oh,oh
I've been racing the clock
And I've run out of steam
I am ready for my final symphony
Oh my body is weak
But my soul is still strong
I am ready to rest in your arms
Though many battles i have won
I lost too many friends i could count on
And i know they'll be the first to welcome me
When i parachute into eternity
Oh,oh
I've been racing the clock
And I've run out of steam
I am ready for my final symphony
Oh my body is weak
But my soul is still strong
I am ready to rest in your arms
And the rain beat down on the rooftops
But there was no sound,
There was no sound
And all my friends and family carried me
They carried me home
Carried me home
I've been racing the clock
And I've run out of steam
I am ready for my final symphony
Oh my body is weak
But my soul is still strong
I am ready to rest in your arms
I've been racing the clock
And I've run out of steam
I am ready for my final symphony
Oh my body is weak
But my soul is still strong
I am ready to rest in your arms
Oh, oh
Interestingly, the song is about the lead singer's grandfather, who fought in the war, and recently passed away (you can watch the proper video here, which better explains the story). For me, it reminds me that I have family and friends who love me, and who carried me through the darkest days of my life. Thank you to each of you, you know who you are!
Friday, August 20, 2010
Pulling back the curtains - Olivia's story
I'm writing this post as I move into a new phase of my life. After a year filled with moments of sheer joy and complete despair, I've reached a place of acceptance and hope. I'm here to share my story in the hopes that it will help someone who has endured similar heartache and tried to move on with life through a lens of optimism.
But before I can share where I'm headed, I need to explain where I've been...
In October 2009 we became pregnant with a July 2010 due date. This was our first time pregnant and we were overwhelmed with the news. As the weeks passed and the baby grew, so did our acceptance of what was about to happen. It was completely surreal until the day we heard her heartbeat through the Doppler, and then we knew there was no turning back. Everything was progressing to plan and we travelled to Los Cabos, Mexico in February for a babymoon to celebrate our last months together as a childless couple.
Little did we know what awaited us upon our return.
It all started at our 21 week ultrasound at the end of February. We were very excited to see the baby that was growing stronger and kicking harder each day. I went in to the room by myself (they wouldn't let B in until the end) and everything seemed pretty routine...until the end. The nurse turned off the machine and told me I needed to go see my doctor the next day. I was surprised and asked about seeing the picture, and she said we needed to go to the doctor. I asked what what was wrong, and she wouldn't say.
Needless to say we were totally freaked out and barely slept that night. We went to the doctor the next morning and his face immediately told us something was very wrong. He said the baby had a two vessel umbilical cord instead of three. He said this wasn't uncommon but could be indicative of other things. He also said there were some anomalies in the face and head that they couldn't identify. He said we would be referred to the Mount Sinai high-risk pregnancy clinic in Toronto for further investigation.
We were devastated by the news, but tried to be optimistic, hoping that it was a misdiagnosis or something minor. Our Mount Sinai appointment was a full two weeks later so we both threw ourselves into work to try and forget about it, which was virtually impossible.
The day of our appointment came and we were both cautiously optimistic. The doctor conducted a thorough ultrasound, which took nearly an hour. She then left and came back with two more doctors to do a follow-up ultrasound on the baby's head. They then left to discuss and told us to go to a small room at the end of the hall to wait for the results.
We never imagined what they would tell us. They said the baby had exencephaly, a rare condition where the skull doesn't form properly and the brain is exposed/outside the head. They said it was a fatal condition. I could try to carry the baby to term, but i would likely miscarry. And even if I did carry to turn, the baby couldn't survive outside my body. The final option was to be induced early.
Needless to say we went with the last option, rather than delaying the inevitable. They booked us in for an induction one week later. That was quite possibly the longest week of my life. I went with B to Chicago for a trade show to take my mind off the reality of what we were facing, and we returned the night before the induction.
I was in the hospital for 48 hours and had a series of medications to induce labour. It was extremely painful and I ended up having an epidural to help me manage the pain. On Friday, March 19, I gave birth to a stillborn baby girl, who we named Olivia. She was 1 pound 5 oz and very tiny. Her head had a number of anomalies, including a severe cleft, but the rest of her body was perfect. I was thankful for the opportunity to hold her tiny body.
Olivia was buried with my grandparents in my hometown, where we know she's not alone.
The next two months were the most difficult of our lives, and we couldn't have gotten through it without the love and support of our family, friends and co-workers. We struggled to find peace in knowing that our little angel is looking down at us from heaven.
Since then we found out that the baby's condition was caused by an amniotic band, which is extremely rare and very much unlikely to reoccur.
So now, five months later, we are once again pregnant and due April 1, 2011. I'm cautiously optimistic about this pregnancy, and desperately hopeful this time will be our turn to become parents.
But before I can share where I'm headed, I need to explain where I've been...
In October 2009 we became pregnant with a July 2010 due date. This was our first time pregnant and we were overwhelmed with the news. As the weeks passed and the baby grew, so did our acceptance of what was about to happen. It was completely surreal until the day we heard her heartbeat through the Doppler, and then we knew there was no turning back. Everything was progressing to plan and we travelled to Los Cabos, Mexico in February for a babymoon to celebrate our last months together as a childless couple.
Little did we know what awaited us upon our return.
It all started at our 21 week ultrasound at the end of February. We were very excited to see the baby that was growing stronger and kicking harder each day. I went in to the room by myself (they wouldn't let B in until the end) and everything seemed pretty routine...until the end. The nurse turned off the machine and told me I needed to go see my doctor the next day. I was surprised and asked about seeing the picture, and she said we needed to go to the doctor. I asked what what was wrong, and she wouldn't say.
Needless to say we were totally freaked out and barely slept that night. We went to the doctor the next morning and his face immediately told us something was very wrong. He said the baby had a two vessel umbilical cord instead of three. He said this wasn't uncommon but could be indicative of other things. He also said there were some anomalies in the face and head that they couldn't identify. He said we would be referred to the Mount Sinai high-risk pregnancy clinic in Toronto for further investigation.
We were devastated by the news, but tried to be optimistic, hoping that it was a misdiagnosis or something minor. Our Mount Sinai appointment was a full two weeks later so we both threw ourselves into work to try and forget about it, which was virtually impossible.
The day of our appointment came and we were both cautiously optimistic. The doctor conducted a thorough ultrasound, which took nearly an hour. She then left and came back with two more doctors to do a follow-up ultrasound on the baby's head. They then left to discuss and told us to go to a small room at the end of the hall to wait for the results.
We never imagined what they would tell us. They said the baby had exencephaly, a rare condition where the skull doesn't form properly and the brain is exposed/outside the head. They said it was a fatal condition. I could try to carry the baby to term, but i would likely miscarry. And even if I did carry to turn, the baby couldn't survive outside my body. The final option was to be induced early.
Needless to say we went with the last option, rather than delaying the inevitable. They booked us in for an induction one week later. That was quite possibly the longest week of my life. I went with B to Chicago for a trade show to take my mind off the reality of what we were facing, and we returned the night before the induction.
I was in the hospital for 48 hours and had a series of medications to induce labour. It was extremely painful and I ended up having an epidural to help me manage the pain. On Friday, March 19, I gave birth to a stillborn baby girl, who we named Olivia. She was 1 pound 5 oz and very tiny. Her head had a number of anomalies, including a severe cleft, but the rest of her body was perfect. I was thankful for the opportunity to hold her tiny body.
Olivia was buried with my grandparents in my hometown, where we know she's not alone.
The next two months were the most difficult of our lives, and we couldn't have gotten through it without the love and support of our family, friends and co-workers. We struggled to find peace in knowing that our little angel is looking down at us from heaven.
Since then we found out that the baby's condition was caused by an amniotic band, which is extremely rare and very much unlikely to reoccur.
So now, five months later, we are once again pregnant and due April 1, 2011. I'm cautiously optimistic about this pregnancy, and desperately hopeful this time will be our turn to become parents.
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