I never thought I’d get a “mom haircut.” My hair would stay the same whimsical color and long length as before kids. Mom haircuts are lame.

. . . Six months after I gave birth to Garrett, I dyed my red hair blonde and chopped it to “collarbone length” for ease of styling.

I never thought I’d have to hide vegetables in other food to get my kids to eat them. I would introduce veggies early. My babies would love them. They would all get full and balanced nutrition every day.

. . . Garrett’s diet consists of almost exclusively fruit. While this sounds okay, fruit is LOADED with sugar, very acidic, and causes diaper issues. Other foods he will eat: toast, Mac n cheese (kraft only,) yogurt, pbjs. Notably: no vegetables. No meat. I just made him banana-egg pancakes to hide some protein in his diet. I’ve started buying pasta that is made with vegetables. I am patting myself on the back for being the mom I never thought I’d be

I never thought I’d get a tattoo of my kids names.

. . . Welp, here’s a picture of my left shoulder blade.

It’s a memorial tattoo, to be fair. But loopholes aside, it’s still my kid’s name.

I never thought I’d even consider the stay-at- home mom lifestyle.

. . . Now, pregnant and with a toddler to take care of during the week, I’ve gone part-time and may be considering cutting my hours further after maternity leave.

I never thought I’d be the “two under two” type.

. . . But when I give birth to my third baby, Garrett will be 22 months, just under two years. Gwen would be three.

I never thought my kids would be part of a “baby boom”

. . . This baby on the way is solidly a “Pandemic Baby” (although data is suggesting this is more of a baby bust than a boom, I’m still subjected to inappropriate comments about my quarantine activities – who tf thinks this is an okay thing to say to a stranger?!)

I never thought I’d be a loss mom. No one does. That’s for other people.

. . . But my family will never be complete. A piece of my heart resides beyond this Earth.

I never thought I’d bury a child.

. . . But I visit the niche where her ashes rest on special occasions and when I miss her more than my heart can take.

I never thought I’d have to explain death to a young child.

. . . But the day will come when my living children will ask about the baby whose picture is on the wall, next to the rest of the family photos. Or the extra stocking on our mantle at Christmas. Or the name inked on my shoulder.

On that note, I never thought I’d have to make the distinction between my living children and my non-living one.

. . . see above

I’m nowhere near the chill, impressive, laid-back working mom I thought I’d be. I’m for a lot of the things I used to be against. I struggle. A lot. With my faith. With my mental health (PTSD is a bitch, y’all.) With parenting a toddler. While pregnant. I hover at the playground. I avoid situations where Garrett could hurt himself, even if it teaches a lesson. I hesitate with discipline. My kiddo eats refined sugar, grains, and not-so-healthy meals. He is still nearly entirely nonverbal at 19 months. He throws tantrums. I avoid anything and everything that might put my pregnancy at risk, even if most experts say it’s okay. I freak out if I wake up in the wrong position. Working as a nurse during a pandemic while pregnant? You bet I am effing terrified. I dont always cook the best meals for my family. I am far from an ideal wife.

I am the mom I never thought I’d be

And that’s okay

Confession time: I low-key admire Chrissy Teigan. I don’t follow her on any social media (I don’t even have a Twitter,) I don’t actually know all that much about her. But what I do know is that she has the tendency to be real and raw about her struggles as a mom. I know both of her children were concieved via IVF. And I know that she and John Legend, after so many years of struggling with infertility, naturally concieved a baby that they announced in August

The same baby they tragically lost this week.

Not to state the obvious, but I’ve been there.

When I was there, I wanted to be left alone. I wanted even the nurses to be out of my room unless there was some medical intervention that had to happen. I had a very full delivery room before I gave birth to Gwen, but that wasn’t really my choice or preference. I did it to appease others. I didn’t fight when people I didn’t really want to be there got invited against my will and without my knowledge. I had no strength to fight; my baby was dead inside me. I was unsure if I even wanted pictures. I was urged by the nurses to get those pictures. I’m glad I did, in the end.

Chrissy and John had pictures taken. Those pictures, depicting the couple’s sorrow and grief at the loss of their third child are all over the internet. Major news outlets are covering the story. The world is watching this process that I wanted to shut even my closest family out of. It’s nothing short of heroic what they’re doing. Of course, they might disagree. I still get angry when people call me brave.

It’s going to change the world. If anyone can bring the rawness of pregnancy loss to life, it’ll be Chrissy Teigan. Is it wrong for me to hope that will happen?

Despite this hope of mine, my first reaction is still a visceral grief. Grief for their family, knowing they are going through what I did. Despair that no amount of love, desire, money, or level of prenatal care could prevent such a tragedy from happening. Flashbacks of my own pain in those first hours, days, weeks, and months after losing Gwen. Sadness at the knowledge of how this will change her as a person.

I choose to grieve Gwen out loud. Virtually everyone knows I have two children, and that I am equally proud of both of them. They know what happened to Gwen, they’ve seen the pictures. Not only has the Legend family chosen to grieve out loud, they’ve chosen to grieve in the spotlight.

I will say it again: I low-key (okay, fine, not-so-low-key) admire Chrissy Teigan.

It takes a village to raise a child

An old adage. A positive sentiment.

I would amend it for loss moms: “it takes a village to raise a child. It takes a village to remember a child.” Because, without my support system, both in person and online, Gwen might fade from memory. But instead she lives on in the hearts of my family, friends, and a group of former strangers on the internet.

I’m going to be honest though. That’s all I really have to say about Gwen. Sometimes simplicity is best.

This post is about the original quote: “it takes a village to raise a child.” What does that mean?

To me, I always thought of the village as exclusively supporting the parents of the child. Even after Garrett’s birth. And that is true.

I had trouble breastfeeding due to his tongue tie and early-term birth. So I saw a lactation consultant for the first eight weeks of his life, read several books, and watched some YouTube videos for help. My village.

I had trouble bonding with him. Also cleared up by eight weeks with the encouragement of my online community. My village.

When Nick and I need some time alone, we let Garrett’s grandparents watch him. Our village.

But

Now I understand further that it takes a village to raise a child for the child’s sake.

Recall the stories of feral children, raised by monkeys, wolves, or other animals. The animals proved themselves able to rear a healthy human child – at least physically. But, deprived of human contact, the children often never learned proper verbal, emotional, and social skills, except those of the species that raised them. Severely neglected children also show similar, although less marked, stunted social skills, manifesting similarly to autistic children. Sadly I have come across several of these.

Recall, also, Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. For those who have never studied it, here’s a visual

For a child, basic needs, tiers one and two, are provided by parents. Alone, this is what parents can hope to provide. However, to have a fully functioning child, more is needed.

Look at tiers three and four: psychological needs. These are provided by the village. Social support. Friends. Relationships. Encouragement.

Recently Nick and I have faced criticism for the amount of time we allow Garrett to be babysat by his grandparents. Good old mommy shaming is still pervasive in society.

It’s true: Garrett sees my dad and stepmom weekly every Tuesday. He sees Nick’s parents every weekend. He sees my mom weekly as well. And his aunt babysits him every Monday while I sleep off three nights of working 12.5 hour shifts at the hospital in three hours.

Could I do it without help? Probably. But that’s not the point. That’s not healthy. In order to raise a physically, mentally, and socially adept child.

It takes a village.

A lesson from my 6 month old:

Garrett wakes up more mornings than not with the same noise. Is it screaming? Crying? Whining? No, none of those. Get this: Garrett wakes up nearly every single morning with a big, loud, Whole-hearted . . .

Happy Screech of Pure Joy

Garrett realizes he’s awake, it’s a new day to play and learn and grow, and that makes him so happy he can’t contain his excitement.

And when mommy or daddy come to lift him out of his crib, he cracks the biggest, most heart-melting smile.

What would the world be like if more adults were like Garrett? Imagine waking up knowing that it’s a brand new day full of opportunity. Imagine being so happy to see your family and friends that you let your joy spill out everywhere.

I hope that my son can grow to emulate the positive traits of his father and me. But I also hope that I can grow to be just like him.

What does your Netflix browsing history look like? What do you watch on TV? What about movies? Do you have a favorite?

One of those lovely unexpected downsides of losing Gwen has been that I can no longer pick up a book, pop in a movie, or browse Netflix and Hulu and Amazon Prime for new shows. Not without a good amount of preparation. Because, triggers. Seriously, nothing is safe. And I don’t want to start sobbing at work or in public just because a work of fiction struck me the wrong way.

In fact, I pretty much exclusively watch reruns of Star Trek. Original Series, Next Generation, Deep Space Nine, Voyager, Enterprise, you name it. Star Trek is mild enough to keep my emotions in check, with storylines that I enjoy and good, if cheesy, moral life lessons. I’ve become so familiar with Star Trek that I even know which episodes to avoid by the time the initial “captain’s log” intro is done.

There are several shows and movies that I cannot get through without bawling. Such as Tarzan. Yes, freaking Tarzan.

Then there’s Up.

The first time I saw Up, I was in high school, volunteering for a church camp. I was not prepared for the famous first few minutes. I cried. Now, I can’t watch it at all.

Because Nick and I are Carl and Ellie.

We were that power couple that just fit together, that people could imagine together when we were 80, still madly in love.

The ones with dreams and ambitions.

One quiet, one excitable.

One skinny redhead girl and one bespectacled boy.

Who got a house together.

Who dreamed of babies.

Who decorated a nursery with those dreams.

Who lost the baby.

Who changed forever.

And now, two chairs sit in our living room: one large brown recliner and one green and white glider. We call them our Carl and Ellie chairs.

And that scene which made me cry at 16 became my reality 9 years later. It’s a good sentiment, really, that everyone seems to want a relationship like Carl and Ellie.

Their life wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t what they dreamed. But their love prevailed. I wonder though, what wasn’t shown in that scene. One of the most poignant shots is that of Ellie staring out of their front yard blankly, dead to the world, even to Carl standing behind her, buried in grief for her child and her dreams.

Then they just . . . Grow old together.

Where’s the rest of the story? Did Ellie set up boundaries and walls in a futile effort to protect her heart? Did Carl struggle to stay in love with her? Did they fight over who was allowed to grieve on a certain day?

If they showed that, maybe it wouldn’t be such a great love story after all. Maybe you want a love like Carl and Ellie because it lasts in the face of tragedy. You gloss over the negative impact of the tragedy itself. I would never wish the curse of having love tested to its limits upon anyone. While you can appreciate it, please never envy our love story.

Nick is Carl. I am Ellie. Speaking for myself, I hate that we have to be.

Wait what?

Life is good?

How can life be good when one of my children is dead?

Did I forget?

Major mommy guilt.

But, sometimes, life IS good.

Even without my Gwen. She is forever on my mind; I cannot forget her. Not for a single minute.

If you asked me last year whether life could be good, I might have said no.

A couple years ago, I was in Washington visiting my mom. We went whale watching. I saw a humpback, my all time favorite species of whale. Then I went below deck and threw up. I don’t even know how many times. Turns out I get seasick. I spent more time looking at the toilet than the whale. And when I was back on dry land, I was thrilled! I saw a humpback!

My brother said I was used to throwing up; I did it so often. I mean that is true. But I threw up today and it still sucked. Honestly, you can’t get used to throwing up.

So why was I so happy after countless rounds of vomit? I saw a humpback!

The good part didn’t mean the bad didn’t happen.

Can you say the same about child loss? I mean, not really. Losing Gwen permanently altered how I feel about literally everything. The highs are never as high as they used to be. The lows hardly even faze me. My range of emotion is actually pretty small, between the meds and the impact of feeling the joy of first-time motherhood at the same time as the sorrow of losing my only child before she had the chance to feel my embrace.

But can I feel sorrow? Can I feel joy? Yes. My grandfather and uncle died within 4 months of each other this year. I sat in the same pew of the same church with tears in my eyes, then ate the same meal, exchanging the same conversations with the same people. Sorrow. Between the two deaths, I gave birth to a healthy and living baby boy. The week after my uncle’s funeral, my sister in law gave birth to a healthy baby girl. Joy.

Life moves in waves, like the tide.

And it can be good. Here’s a snapshot of my life at this very moment:

Crochet: I learned while I was pregnant with Gwen. She goes into every single project I create. I gave two projects going right now. One is a hat I am working on for Garrett’s Halloween costume. It consists of two parts, a headband and a beanie top. What were my first two projects for Gwen? A headband and a beanie. My other project is an afghan, made up of repeating patterns of 13 stitches. Gwen was born on the 13th of April after 13 hours of labor. 13 is her number.

Dogs: throughout both of my pregnancies, Luna laid across my belly and Bailey sat at my feet, ever vigilant. My protectors, however ineffective.

And baby snuggles: Garrett is my greatest joy, even if his presence reminds me of the depth of my loss.

So why shouldn’t life be good?

How many times have you been asked what you do for a living in the last year? I am willing to bet that anyone who is not a total hermit would answer, “countless.” It’s probably the number one small talk item (don’t quite me on that, I didn’t actually fact check this time.) So, when I get asked, I proudly answer:

I’m a nurse!

That rarely gets me the reaction I hope for. Don’t get me wrong, nurses are appreciated. It tops the list of most trusted professions. And I know I get mad respect. But no one can quite verbalize it.

Here’s the answers to the follow up questions I do get:

I work at Swedish Medical Center, on the rehab floor. No, not that kind of rehab.

No I will NOT look at your gross toe fungus.

If you have to ask me whether you should see a doctor about it, GO SEE THE FREAKING DOCTOR!

Many people also understand that a lot goes on behind the scenes. We are people with lives and feelings, and we take on the pain of our patients, no matter what mask we wear when we’re in the room. Every so often, I see the following picture circulating on social media:

This picture has been used to show the impact of a miscarriage or stillbirth on labor and delivery nurses. So obviously, many people know this happens.

Or this picture coupled with this caption:

she’s gonna kill me for this pic, but can we just give it up for nurses for a minute?
•
caty just wrapped up her fourth shift in a row. that’s around 53+ hours in four days. that’s not including the 1.5 hours she’s in the car each day. she usually doesn’t get a chance to eat lunch or even drink much water. (& she has to dress like a blueberry.. i mean, come on). she is so good at what she does that she often forgets how to take care of herself while she’s taking care of her patients.
•
this pic is from a night back in july where she came to my house after a particularly hard day. she delivered a stillborn. have you guys ever really thought about what a labor & delivery nurse sees? they see great joy in smooth deliveries & healthy moms & babies. they see panic & anxiety when a new mom is scared. they see fear when a stat c-section is called. they see peace when the mom has support from her family – bc not all new moms do. they see teenagers giving birth. they see an addicted mom give birth to a baby who is withdrawing. they see cps come. they see funeral homes come. did you know that they have to make arrangements for the funeral home to come pick up the baby? i didn’t either.
•
caty (& all other nurses) – you are SPECIAL. you bless your patients & their families more than you will ever know. thank you for all that you do. 💛✨

Nursing takes a special kind of heart. Not only are we trained in empathy, you will never hear a nurse tell you they got into the field for the money or hours. The word “calling” gets thrown around a lot. Many of the students in my nursing school cohort left different careers to pursue nursing. Our hearts define us.

But leaving those hearts open takes a toll.

I’m going to tell you about my day now. This morning, when I came home from my shift, I burst into tears. Not for me, but for the patients and families mourning losses that are incomprehensible. Mourning personalities, functionalities, and physicalities. Mourning those who still live. And those who have died as well. Not that last night was all that bad. It just caught up to me. And I can’t even talk about it, because, well, HIPAA. Then, I fed my 4 month old baby boy, said a prayer for my patients and for my baby girl, took two benadryl, curled up with my dogs, and fell into a drug-induced dreamless sleep. I woke up at 5 pm, donned my monotone blueberry-colored scrubs again, and ate the dinner Nick had so graciously prepared for me. He gave me the baby to feed, then I packed up my breast pump and nursing supplies and got in the truck. Nick drove me to work as I sat staring blankly out the windshield, deep in thought. We arrived at the hospital and I saw a beaming family loading a covered carseat into their SUV. I cried a little bit then too. When I last waited at the front of the hospital for my car, I was sitting in a too big wheelchair, clutching a rough hospital blanket around my shoulders with a box in my lap and an achingly empty uterus. No carseat. No baby. Just a box. Then I wiped my tears, kissed Nick and Garrett good bye, took the elevator to the 4th floor, and walked straight out of the frying pan into the fire. No tech, and my patient assignment had been rearranged. I now had a new admit, and the family of one of my other patients was livid over some decision the doctor had made. The nurse giving me report was millimeters away from tears herself. The night did not improve from there. While taking a breather in the supply room, one of my coworkers came in and admitted she was hiding too. Then I headed to the coffee pot before another call light could interrupt me and found no cups. A second coworker was desperately attempting to pour himself a cup of coffee too, to no avail. I found some extra cups, brought them over and poured myself a coffee. I then put it down at my station and sat down for 0.2 milliseconds before running to put out yet another fire. By the time I came back, my coffee was cold. I chugged it and went to pump. I then had to hurriedly pull my shirt back down to answer a bed alarm. Now, I’m avoiding charting.

The tears. The spacing out. The sore feet despite expensive orthotic shoes. The cold coffee. The aching head from hours of staring at a computer screen to chart. And a LOT of emotions I can’t truly explain with words. We also have extensive education that we use daily to determine how we deliver care. It’s hard work for the body, mind, and soul. Thats what goes on behind the scenes. Those images are deep, but there’s so much more to it.

When Gwen was born, I know my nurses went home and cried. I know they had to give each other report on me. I know some of the things they would have said. For instance, that I was a G1T1P0A0L0. A bunch of letters and numbers that tell a sad tale.

G1 means it was my first pregnancy

T1 means I had a term birth

P0 means I never had a preterm birth

A0 means I never had an abortion (or miscarriage)

L0 means no living children.

GTPALs can tell a lot of stories, if you know how to read them.

I also know they had sadness in their eyes as they gave report. And I was likely referred to as “this poor girl.” They probably mentioned I was a nursing student. That one probably hurt, because it’s a connection we all share.

They took Gwen to the morgue. They brought her cold body back when we requested it. There’s a reason we donated that cuddle cot.

They grieved for me. They may have gone home to their own families and thought about my broken one. They probably prayed for me.

My point is, they did their job, even with their hearts breaking and their coffee going cold.

I will never forget them.

Mary. Laura. Megan.

October 15th.

International Pregnancy and Infant Loss Day.

Wave of Light.

Yet another holiday I hate “celebrating.” This post is a serious one, without my normal acerbic tone. I don’t feel all that witty just right now.

Every October 15th at 7:00 PM, I will be lighting a candle for Gwen and inviting everyone I know to light a candle for at least one hour as a part of the wave of light, an international remembrance event for all babies gone too soon.

I take every opportunity to talk about my little girl. October, particularly October 15th, affords me this chance. People will put up with my grief for one special month. But what I air publically in October is only a fraction of my daily life without Gwen. Even with Garrett in my arms, the pain cuts just as much as the day she died. Especially with Garrett in my arms.

So, as is my M.O., I’m gonna do some education. You gon’ learn today.

Whatever you think of president Reagan, you probably cannot fault him for declaring October as national pregnancy and infant loss (PAIL) awareness month on October 25th, 1988. Since then, several brave mamas have campaigned to expand the month and its impact. In 2002, Robyn Bear, Lisa Brown, and Tammy Novak petitioned to the US house of representives and state governments to name October 15th as national PAIL day. They were successful in 2006, and by 2016, all 50 states implemented the proclamation. Similar events occurred around the world.
Terra-Lynn Coggan in 2003 began the wave of light movement, as I described above. In addition to personal candles, several national and state landmarks are illuminated in pink and blue. Across the country, families and friends attend walks and events in honor of their beloved babies. It’s a massive scale remembrance event. It’s beautiful. It’s tragic. I love it.

But I also hate it.

I hate that so many observe it. I hate that I am 1 in 4 who have lost a pregnancy. 1 in 160 who have had a stillbirth. I hate that every one of these women and men are mourning a loss that no parent should endure, no matter the circumstances. I hate the world I’ve been thrust into. There’s some great support out there, but I hate its necessity.

Here’s to the wave of light.

And here’s to Gwenevere Helen Young

So loved, so wanted, so missed

April 13th, 2018

Reference:

Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. (n.d.). Retrieved October 15, 2019, from https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pregnancy_and_Infant_Loss_Remembrance_Day#Wave_of_Light.

When Gwen was born, I felt a feeling unlike any other. I had an instinctual reaction: I would protect this baby with all of my being. It didn’t matter that she was already dead. I was unable to protect her life here on Earth, and for that, I despaired. I couldn’t protect her body either; I knew she would be taken from arms. I knew she would be placed in a furnace, my precious baby girl reduced to ashes. I knew she would be placed behind a stone, outside, where the wind and snow would blow in the winter, and where the sun would beat down relentlessly in the summer. I knew I would never see her precious face again. I would never take her home. she would never know the caress of her mommy’s arms or her daddy’s proud and shining face.

For mothers of stillborn children, it is their memories we protect, not their bodies

I worked so hard to create Gwen’s legacy. I started this blog. I raised funds for a cuddle cot to be placed in Swedish Medical Center for moms like myself. I post pictures of her, I write about her on social media. I got a tattoo of her name, footprint, and hand print. 

This is a mother’s love.

When Garrett was born I felt the same need to protect him. Only this time, he was alive, and I could protect his life and his body. I could nourish him, physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. My body did not fail him. I could keep him safe in my arms. 

This is a mother’s love.

Nick felt differently, but at the same time, the same. Many people do not know a very important fact; most of the fundraising for the cuddle cot did not come from donations. 

When I was pregnant with Gwen, Nick set a goal. Since he was soon going to be more busy than ever, he wanted to complete the work on his beloved 1986 Toyota MR2. He accomplished this goal. He now had the time to spend focusing entirely on her. No divided loyalty present. 

This is a father’s love

After she died, all desire to work on cars disappeared. It was connected to Gwen. His favorite thing in the world – now coupled with the greatest sorrow. 

Nick had three cars at this point: his MR2, the family 1999 Ford F-150, and his 2016 Ford Mustang Rousch. I had one car: a 2016 Ford Focus ST. 

We now have three cars: The Mustang, A 1996 Ford Bronco, and a Toyota 4Runner (that one is mine.) Nick sold the MR2 and the truck. He traded the Focus for a “mom car,” the 4Runner (yes, even though our only child was dead.) He donated the funds from the MR2 and F-150 to the cuddle cot fund. As for the Mustang, he bought some vinyl and embossed the dashboard with the name, “Gwenevere” – the first ever modification he made to his beloved muscle car. 

This is a father’s love

And he puts his entire being to raising our baby boy.

But this post is not actually about my love for my children. It is not about Nick’s love for his children. 

It’s about my mom. And Nick’s dad. And their unfailing love for their children. 

You see, when we were born, they felt the same thing we did.

And at 25 years old, they watched their children as I labored to give birth to my daughter, our first child. They witnessed the extreme anguish of their children that they swore to protect always as we became parents to a daughter we could not take home.

They could not protect us from this tragedy

They felt their own grief for their granddaughter and the grief for the pain of their children. And they had to be strong and hold back their tears to be there for us.

As someone who did not have a decent father figure in my everyday life until the age of 14, I witnessed a love that I couldn’t fathom – the love of a father for his son. Not only did I witness Nick’s love for his first daughter, I witnessed Cary calmly supporting his first son. 

After this event, I watched a close bond form between those two men. Even I, as his wife, could never love him like Cary could. 

This is a father’s love

Now, my mom also tattooed Gwen’s name on her wrist. She remembers her and loves her as much as her other three living grandchildren. But she also checks up on me at the most important moments. Such as Gwen’s birthday, important anniversaries, and the birth of my niece. I go to her every time I am feeling so depressed or anxious. It never fails to make me feel better, at least a little bit. 

About a month and a half ago, I got into a bad car wreck. I stopped to avoid hitting the person in front of me; the person behind me did not. Garrett was in the car. I was hit from behind, pushed into a concrete barrier, then into the car in front of me – the very one I had managed to avoid seconds earlier. My only thought: “I can’t lose another one!”After checking on my precious boy and determining that he was unhurt, calling the police, then Nick, I texted my mom and brother, who I was due to see after a quick doctor’s appointment. As soon as I got home, she came over to my house. As I fretted over my son, worrying about him and holding him tight, my mom said something that impacted me profoundly. 

“You know how you feel about Garrett right now – how worried you are? How much you love him? I feel the same about you.” 

This is a mother’s love

When a child is born, the mother and father vow to protect them forever. And at the age of 26, I realized the truth of this reality. 

A mother’s love and a father’s dedication will never die