A sweet little girl named Layla Grace became an angel this morning. I’ve never met this little girl, or her parents, but she has touched me in ways I never thought possible.
So many of us are connected through social media, whether it’s Facebook, MySpace, or Twitter. I love Facebook because it’s given me a chance to reconnect with so many friends and ex-coworkers who I otherwise would probably never have talked to again. Twitter is something that I found myself making fun of for months; well, now I’m one of its biggest fans. It’s my outlet for bitching, telling jokes I would NEVER post anywhere my family would see, and just being me.
Twitter is where I “met” Layla Grace. More accurately, Layla’s mom. Layla passed away from stage 4 neuroblastoma at the tender age of 2 years. I’ve been following Layla’s mom and each heartbreaking tweet along the way. Some would think it morbid to read such heartache, my husband included. He can’t understand why I invest so much energy and feeling into “perfect strangers”. I used to feel that way, too. Now it’s a way for me to reach out to others who may be feeling the loss that I feel, maybe a way for me to possibly help someone else.
I’ve thought of Layla and Maggie all day, two perfect angels in heaven. In heaven, there is no pain, no suffering, only pure joy and happiness. I pray that Layla’s parents and sisters find peace and that they know how loved they are. They have an unbelievable support system of friends, family, and perfect strangers holding them up.
My girl Marcie said it best: At least we know Layla has one amazing playmate in heaven. And as much as I miss my Maggie, knowing that makes me happy and gives me some peace.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Friday, November 20, 2009
Blessed
My friends have always been one of the most important things in my life. They aren’t just friends, they’re family. They have my back, I have theirs, and there’s unconditional love.
When Maggie died, my friends rallied to hold me up from day one. They checked in daily via text messages, emails, FB messages, and voicemails. Some brought food, something that I will always be grateful for. I have no idea what we would have eaten, or if we even would have.
We always knew we had amazing friends, but we were still blown away by the generosity and the love we felt. It really was remarkable. Friends dropping everything to travel back home for me, friends who we haven’t seen in years showing up at the funeral, friends who I have never met in person coming without hesitation. Friends who have children of their own, but still did what they could to be there for us.
In times of tragedy, you know who your true friends are. You know who you can call in the middle of the night, if need be. You realize that the girls you used to giggle with in high school are still a huge part of your life, though you may not see them often. They were here for me, they traveled for ME, without question. That means more than they will ever know.
Sometimes, you can be surprised by a renewed friendship. I met Kimberly when we were in 7th grade, 22 years ago. Yikes. We were friends through 9th grade and then we drifted apart. We reconnected when our girls went to the same preschool and we started chatting through Facebook. Now, our babies are in Kindergarten together and our families have kind of blended together. I talk to or see Kim every day and I’ve grown to love her like a sister.
On Wednesday, after I had gotten off the phone with the lady at the cemetery, I sat in my van and cried my eyes out. I was trying to compose myself so I could pick up Piper and I had almost succeeded, until I saw Kim. She knew by the look on my face that I was in a bad place, reached out her hand and said “Are you okay?” I promptly burst into tears and she held me while I sobbed. Standing there on the sidewalk, across the street from Pea’s school, just holding each other. I told her what had happened, that I was just dreading even discussing Maggie’s headstone, and that I didn’t want to go alone. She immediately said, “I’ll go with you, okay? You won’t be alone.” This woman has 4 children, but didn’t hesitate to show how much she cared.
We walked up to school with our arms around each other, and she said “This is what friends do. You’ve been there for me, and I’ll always be here for you. I’ve learned a lot about true friends over the past 10 years.” I couldn’t have said it better myself.
True friends stick by you when you’re bawling with snot all over your face, when you’re hating life, when you’re bitching about your husband, when you feel like your kids are going to drive you insane, when you just need a glass of wine and an ear, when you’re broke, when you’re sick, and when you’re feeling sorry for yourself. True friends are there for all of that, and expect nothing in return.
I am blessed to have my true friends and I wouldn’t be here if not for them.
Thank you, my dear friends, for loving me unconditionally and for taking care of me for the past 6 ½ months. You all mean the world to me.
When Maggie died, my friends rallied to hold me up from day one. They checked in daily via text messages, emails, FB messages, and voicemails. Some brought food, something that I will always be grateful for. I have no idea what we would have eaten, or if we even would have.
We always knew we had amazing friends, but we were still blown away by the generosity and the love we felt. It really was remarkable. Friends dropping everything to travel back home for me, friends who we haven’t seen in years showing up at the funeral, friends who I have never met in person coming without hesitation. Friends who have children of their own, but still did what they could to be there for us.
In times of tragedy, you know who your true friends are. You know who you can call in the middle of the night, if need be. You realize that the girls you used to giggle with in high school are still a huge part of your life, though you may not see them often. They were here for me, they traveled for ME, without question. That means more than they will ever know.
Sometimes, you can be surprised by a renewed friendship. I met Kimberly when we were in 7th grade, 22 years ago. Yikes. We were friends through 9th grade and then we drifted apart. We reconnected when our girls went to the same preschool and we started chatting through Facebook. Now, our babies are in Kindergarten together and our families have kind of blended together. I talk to or see Kim every day and I’ve grown to love her like a sister.
On Wednesday, after I had gotten off the phone with the lady at the cemetery, I sat in my van and cried my eyes out. I was trying to compose myself so I could pick up Piper and I had almost succeeded, until I saw Kim. She knew by the look on my face that I was in a bad place, reached out her hand and said “Are you okay?” I promptly burst into tears and she held me while I sobbed. Standing there on the sidewalk, across the street from Pea’s school, just holding each other. I told her what had happened, that I was just dreading even discussing Maggie’s headstone, and that I didn’t want to go alone. She immediately said, “I’ll go with you, okay? You won’t be alone.” This woman has 4 children, but didn’t hesitate to show how much she cared.
We walked up to school with our arms around each other, and she said “This is what friends do. You’ve been there for me, and I’ll always be here for you. I’ve learned a lot about true friends over the past 10 years.” I couldn’t have said it better myself.
True friends stick by you when you’re bawling with snot all over your face, when you’re hating life, when you’re bitching about your husband, when you feel like your kids are going to drive you insane, when you just need a glass of wine and an ear, when you’re broke, when you’re sick, and when you’re feeling sorry for yourself. True friends are there for all of that, and expect nothing in return.
I am blessed to have my true friends and I wouldn’t be here if not for them.
Thank you, my dear friends, for loving me unconditionally and for taking care of me for the past 6 ½ months. You all mean the world to me.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Dear Maggie
Daddy and I picked out your headstone today. I can’t believe I just typed that. I still can’t believe you’re gone, it sometimes feels like you were never here. That’s almost worse, I think.
Thanksgiving is next week and I just want to ignore it in hopes that it’ll go away. I can’t deal with you not being here. Last year’s holidays were simply amazing with you, we were all so happy. I had everything I had ever wanted and had never been happier. Taking pictures of you and Piper under the Christmas tree, putting you in ridiculous frilly dresses for no reason, putting obnoxious bows in your hair (all 10 strands of it), and watching your eyes light up at all the presents. You weren’t even 5 months old at Christmas, but you thoroughly enjoyed watching all of us together. It was the best Christmas we have ever had.
And now, this year, there will be a huge, gaping hole where you should be. I was actually looking forward to child-proofing the tree, and hiding presents so you couldn’t rip the bows off. I would give anything for those “annoyances” right now. I’m sad that I won’t be able to send out another Christmas card with my beautiful girls’ smiling faces. I’m not even doing Christmas cards this year; I just can’t.
Sometimes, just when I think I’ve got a “handle” on all of this, something knocks the wind out of me. Last night, I was laying in bed with Piper and I suddenly smelled you. I have no idea how that’s even possible since we’ve cleaned Piper’s room, but still, there you were. It was amazing and heart wrenching at the same time. I breathed as deeply as I could for as long as I could, and then it was gone. You were gone. All over again.
The absence of you creeps up out of nowhere and I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. You should be in the car with me every morning when I take Piper to school, and every afternoon when I pick her up. You should have been at Cam’s birthday party in October. You should have been with us when we met your new cousin for the first time. I should have been the one to teach you how to be gentle with the baby. I missed you so much that day, and I held onto Logan with all my might. I had a sense of peace holding him, remembering that first moment I finally got to hold you. That was the most beautiful memory I have of you. Just you and me, mother and daughter, for the first time. I had waited 2+ years to get pregnant, another 9 months to give birth to you, and an agonizing 24 hours to hold you for the first time. It was all worth it in that moment. I memorized your face in seconds and noticed immediately that you were going to have red hair, just like me. I counted your fingers and your toes, I caressed your beautiful face, I kissed your sweet mouth, and I held you while you slept. It was magical.
The day you died, I also held you while you slept. You had only fallen asleep on my shoulder one other time and this particular day, it was almost like you knew it would be the last time. Did you know, Mags? Did you know that it was what I needed, to have the last memory of you alive to be one of pure happiness and contentment? I think you did and for that, I will always be grateful.
You were my angel from the day you were conceived and while I would give anything to have you back here with me, I know that you’re always with me, looking out for me, loving me. And it brings me more peace than I could ever express that you’re with Grandpa Joe, your uncle Nicholas, your cousin Nolan, and your aunt Ginger. They’re lucky to have you, sweet girl.
So, this holiday season, I will miss you and I will grieve for you, but I will know that you’re in good hands.
I love you with all of my heart and soul, forever and always.
Mommy
Thanksgiving is next week and I just want to ignore it in hopes that it’ll go away. I can’t deal with you not being here. Last year’s holidays were simply amazing with you, we were all so happy. I had everything I had ever wanted and had never been happier. Taking pictures of you and Piper under the Christmas tree, putting you in ridiculous frilly dresses for no reason, putting obnoxious bows in your hair (all 10 strands of it), and watching your eyes light up at all the presents. You weren’t even 5 months old at Christmas, but you thoroughly enjoyed watching all of us together. It was the best Christmas we have ever had.
And now, this year, there will be a huge, gaping hole where you should be. I was actually looking forward to child-proofing the tree, and hiding presents so you couldn’t rip the bows off. I would give anything for those “annoyances” right now. I’m sad that I won’t be able to send out another Christmas card with my beautiful girls’ smiling faces. I’m not even doing Christmas cards this year; I just can’t.
Sometimes, just when I think I’ve got a “handle” on all of this, something knocks the wind out of me. Last night, I was laying in bed with Piper and I suddenly smelled you. I have no idea how that’s even possible since we’ve cleaned Piper’s room, but still, there you were. It was amazing and heart wrenching at the same time. I breathed as deeply as I could for as long as I could, and then it was gone. You were gone. All over again.
The absence of you creeps up out of nowhere and I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. You should be in the car with me every morning when I take Piper to school, and every afternoon when I pick her up. You should have been at Cam’s birthday party in October. You should have been with us when we met your new cousin for the first time. I should have been the one to teach you how to be gentle with the baby. I missed you so much that day, and I held onto Logan with all my might. I had a sense of peace holding him, remembering that first moment I finally got to hold you. That was the most beautiful memory I have of you. Just you and me, mother and daughter, for the first time. I had waited 2+ years to get pregnant, another 9 months to give birth to you, and an agonizing 24 hours to hold you for the first time. It was all worth it in that moment. I memorized your face in seconds and noticed immediately that you were going to have red hair, just like me. I counted your fingers and your toes, I caressed your beautiful face, I kissed your sweet mouth, and I held you while you slept. It was magical.
The day you died, I also held you while you slept. You had only fallen asleep on my shoulder one other time and this particular day, it was almost like you knew it would be the last time. Did you know, Mags? Did you know that it was what I needed, to have the last memory of you alive to be one of pure happiness and contentment? I think you did and for that, I will always be grateful.
You were my angel from the day you were conceived and while I would give anything to have you back here with me, I know that you’re always with me, looking out for me, loving me. And it brings me more peace than I could ever express that you’re with Grandpa Joe, your uncle Nicholas, your cousin Nolan, and your aunt Ginger. They’re lucky to have you, sweet girl.
So, this holiday season, I will miss you and I will grieve for you, but I will know that you’re in good hands.
I love you with all of my heart and soul, forever and always.
Mommy
Sunday, August 23, 2009
A Bereaved Parent's Wish List
This was sent to me by a friend, who also happens to be a grief counselor.
1. I wish my child had not died. I wish I had her back.
2. I wish you would not be afraid to speak my child's name. My child lived and is very important to me. I need to hear that she is important to you, also.
3. If I cry and get emotional when you talk about my child, I wish you knew that it is not because you have hurt me. My child's death is the cause of my tears. You have talked about my child, and you have allowed me to share my grief. I thank you for both.
4. Being a bereaved parent is not contagious, so I wish you would not shy away from me. I need you now more than ever.
5. I need diversions, so I do want to hear about you; but I also want you to hear about me. I might be sad and I might cry, but I wish you would let me talk about my child, my favorite topic of any day.
6. I know that you think of and pray for me often. I also know that my child's death pains you, too. I wish you would let me know those things through a phone call, a card or note, or a really big hug.
7. I wish you would not expect my grief to be over in six months. These first months are traumatic for me, but I wish you could understand that my grief will never be over. I will suffer the death of my child until the day I die.
8. I am working very hard on my recovery, but I wish you could understand that I will never fully recover. I will always miss my child, and I will always grieve that she died.
9. I wish you would not expect me "not to think about it" or to "be happy." Neither will happen for a very long time, so do not frustrate yourself.
10. I do not want to have a "pity party", but I wish you would let me grieve. The pain is overwhelming; it will take time to learn how to survive with this nightmare.
11. I wish you understood how my life has shattered. I know it is miserable for you to be around me when I am feeling miserable. Please be as patient with me as I am with you.
12. When I say, "I'm doing okay", I wish you could understand that I do not "feel" okay and that I struggle daily.
13. I wish you knew that all of the grief reactions I am having are very normal. Depression, anger, hopelessness and overwhelming sadness are all to be expected. So, please excuse me when I'm quiet and withdrawn or irritable and cranky.
14. Your advice to "take one day at a time" is excellent advice. However, a day is too much and too fast for me right now. I wish you could understand that it is an accomplishment sometimes to handle an hour at a time.
15. Please excuse me if I seem rude, certainly not my intent. Sometimes the world around me goes too fast and I need to get off. When I walk away, I wish you would let me find a quiet place to spend time alone.
16. I wish you understood that grief changes people. When my child died, a big part of me died with her. I am not the same person I was before my child died, and I will never be that person again.
17. I wish very much that you could understand -- understand my loss and my grief, my silence and my tears, my void and my pain. But I pray daily that you will never understand.
1. I wish my child had not died. I wish I had her back.
2. I wish you would not be afraid to speak my child's name. My child lived and is very important to me. I need to hear that she is important to you, also.
3. If I cry and get emotional when you talk about my child, I wish you knew that it is not because you have hurt me. My child's death is the cause of my tears. You have talked about my child, and you have allowed me to share my grief. I thank you for both.
4. Being a bereaved parent is not contagious, so I wish you would not shy away from me. I need you now more than ever.
5. I need diversions, so I do want to hear about you; but I also want you to hear about me. I might be sad and I might cry, but I wish you would let me talk about my child, my favorite topic of any day.
6. I know that you think of and pray for me often. I also know that my child's death pains you, too. I wish you would let me know those things through a phone call, a card or note, or a really big hug.
7. I wish you would not expect my grief to be over in six months. These first months are traumatic for me, but I wish you could understand that my grief will never be over. I will suffer the death of my child until the day I die.
8. I am working very hard on my recovery, but I wish you could understand that I will never fully recover. I will always miss my child, and I will always grieve that she died.
9. I wish you would not expect me "not to think about it" or to "be happy." Neither will happen for a very long time, so do not frustrate yourself.
10. I do not want to have a "pity party", but I wish you would let me grieve. The pain is overwhelming; it will take time to learn how to survive with this nightmare.
11. I wish you understood how my life has shattered. I know it is miserable for you to be around me when I am feeling miserable. Please be as patient with me as I am with you.
12. When I say, "I'm doing okay", I wish you could understand that I do not "feel" okay and that I struggle daily.
13. I wish you knew that all of the grief reactions I am having are very normal. Depression, anger, hopelessness and overwhelming sadness are all to be expected. So, please excuse me when I'm quiet and withdrawn or irritable and cranky.
14. Your advice to "take one day at a time" is excellent advice. However, a day is too much and too fast for me right now. I wish you could understand that it is an accomplishment sometimes to handle an hour at a time.
15. Please excuse me if I seem rude, certainly not my intent. Sometimes the world around me goes too fast and I need to get off. When I walk away, I wish you would let me find a quiet place to spend time alone.
16. I wish you understood that grief changes people. When my child died, a big part of me died with her. I am not the same person I was before my child died, and I will never be that person again.
17. I wish very much that you could understand -- understand my loss and my grief, my silence and my tears, my void and my pain. But I pray daily that you will never understand.
Monday, August 3, 2009
An Empty Crib
Yes, it's still up. It's still standing in its corner of the room once shared by my girls, now a room where no one sleeps.
The room still smells like Maggie, something that hasn't been lost on anyone. It's undeniably Maggie in there and while it makes my heart ache, it's somewhat of a comfort. Somewhat.
I go back and forth between feeling ready to "move on" to feeling like that'll be leaving her somehow. I know she'll always be here with us, but the thought of getting rid of her things makes me sick.
My mom had the horrific and emotional task of removing most of her clothes to spare me the agony of stumbling across them every two seconds. Everything's in bags/boxes under the crib, along with her Bumbo chair and other baby gadgets.
It's comforting to know it's still there in case I ever need to breathe it all in. But really, it's time, isn't it? Piper refuses to sleep in there, which is completely understandable. She shared that room with her baby sister and she knows that's where she died. Who can blame her, right?
I miss sleeping with my husband and I hate that he spends his nights on the couch. It makes me feel sad and lonely and guilty. I just wish I could feel okay with taking this final step so Piper can have her room back. So we can paint and decorate and get her new bed set up. So Ryan and I can feel like a married couple again, and not roommates.
I just don't know if I'm ready yet. And I guess if I don't know, then that probably means I'm not. Right?
The room still smells like Maggie, something that hasn't been lost on anyone. It's undeniably Maggie in there and while it makes my heart ache, it's somewhat of a comfort. Somewhat.
I go back and forth between feeling ready to "move on" to feeling like that'll be leaving her somehow. I know she'll always be here with us, but the thought of getting rid of her things makes me sick.
My mom had the horrific and emotional task of removing most of her clothes to spare me the agony of stumbling across them every two seconds. Everything's in bags/boxes under the crib, along with her Bumbo chair and other baby gadgets.
It's comforting to know it's still there in case I ever need to breathe it all in. But really, it's time, isn't it? Piper refuses to sleep in there, which is completely understandable. She shared that room with her baby sister and she knows that's where she died. Who can blame her, right?
I miss sleeping with my husband and I hate that he spends his nights on the couch. It makes me feel sad and lonely and guilty. I just wish I could feel okay with taking this final step so Piper can have her room back. So we can paint and decorate and get her new bed set up. So Ryan and I can feel like a married couple again, and not roommates.
I just don't know if I'm ready yet. And I guess if I don't know, then that probably means I'm not. Right?
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Maggie's Story
I found out I was pregnant December 3, 2007, and to say I was shocked is an understatement. I only took a test because I couldn’t believe how ravenously hungry I had been for the past few days. So, Monday morning, I peed on a stick (POAS) before work and about fell over when I saw the telltale second line. In all the months of charting, and temping, and POASing, I had never seen a second line. Wow. I somehow managed to go to work and be productive during the day. After work, I took another test and forced my sister to come over and look for herself. She saw it too. Holy shit!
The next day, Tuesday, I took yet another test (I know, right?), got another BFP (big fat positive) and was finally able to do something I’d been planning for 2+ years: I went to Von Maur and bought a “I’m The Big Sister” shirt for Piper. This is how I had wanted to tell Ryan. He got home that night and I took him into our room. I held up the shirt and he said “Oh, who’s that for?” I just looked at him. “Um, it’s for Piper!” BIG hug and smiles all around. We decided to hold off on telling Piper until after my first appointment. I didn’t want to get her all excited and have something go wrong.
I told my parents the next night by showing them a digital pregnancy test – the look on my dad’s face was priceless! My mom cried, of course.
Fast forward to Friday, December 21, 2007. I was 6w1d (6 weeks, 1 day) and had been having some cramps and was FREAKED. So, I went to the ER. My first appointment wasn’t for another few weeks and I just had to know there was something there. And there was. Maybe my mind played tricks on me, making me think I was in pain. Whatever the reason, I had never been so happy to see something as beautiful as that tiny flicker. There was a BABY. We told Piper the next day and she was thrilled.
My pregnancy was suckish, not at all like mine with Piper. I was nauseous all the time, gagging on everything, had a headache almost everyday, had bladder infection after bladder infection (I think 8 or 9 total?), and didn’t gain much weight. Towards the end, I was getting weekly NSTs (non stress tests) and ultrasounds to check baby and my amniotic fluid level. Baby was fine, my level was very low. Low enough that Dr. W decided (after u/s #12) that it was time to take Maggie, 12 days early. My c/s had been scheduled for August 7, but she didn’t feel comfortable with waiting that much longer, seeing as I was losing fluid. That’s scary.
Our beautiful baby girl was born at 11:28 a.m. on Saturday, August 2, 2008. She weighed 6 pounds, 7ounces and was 17.5 inches long. She was my itty bitty. But she came out screaming and that was the most beautiful noise I had ever heard. Piper was very, very quiet when she was born; Maggie wanted us to know she was here. They gave her to Ryan and he brought her to me. I barely got to kiss her before they whisked her off to the nursery. Her temp was low and they wanted to get her warmed up. I had no idea that I wouldn’t get to see her again for another 24 hours.
Her blood sugar levels were all out of whack so she had to stay in the nursery and be monitored. Ryan was able to go and be with her, as were my parents, but I only saw pictures for that first day. Surprisingly, I wasn’t all that upset. I just wanted her to be okay and I wanted to be okay. My iron level was extremely low, so low that Dr. W was *this* close to giving me a transfusion, and I really just wanted to feel better. I had felt so shitty for so long and I knew Maggie was in good hands.
The lactation consultant brought my baby girl to me the next day and I couldn’t believe just how beautiful she was. We struggled for close to 30 minutes to get her to latch on when I finally barked at the LC that I just wanted to LOOK at my little girl and I would worry about the breastfeeding later. I memorized every single detail of that precious little one. I was head over heels in love, again.
The next morning Dr. H, the girls’ pediatrician, came to talk to me and said something along the lines of, “Maggie’s palate is a bit high.” I figured out the next day that he was just being gentle with a new mom, and for that I will always be grateful. He didn’t want to freak me out. She had a cleft in her soft palate, which is why she wasn’t able to latch on and why bottle feeding her was also very difficult. I didn’t care. She was beautiful, and precious, and mine, so we’d do whatever we had to do.
At just 5 days old, we took her to meet Dr. C at UIHC’s otolaryngology department and I had never met a nicer man! He made sure to tell me first thing that I had done nothing wrong, that I had not caused her cleft palate, and that I was a good mom. Gotta love hearing that! We were told she would have surgery around a year of age to fix the cleft and that she would never have to have another surgery after that. He also told us that she would be very susceptible to ear infections because of the cleft, so I decided then and there that I would be staying home with her.
That was the best decision I’ve ever made. Ever. I had almost 9 beautiful months with her and I will always feel lucky because of that. Maggie was one of the most calm, happy babies I had ever been around. Her smile was so contagious and she could brighten up anyone’s day. She was the best sleeper and always woke up singing, talking, chirping. I miss those moments when she didn’t think anyone was around and she’d just jabber away in her crib.
She ended up having quite a few ear infections so she got tubes in December. She was like a whole new baby! I couldn’t believe it! We had been concerned from day one that her hearing was very impaired (she failed pretty much every hearing test) but after the tubes, all that changed. She was responding to noise, looking around all the time and just seemed so much happier. God, she was amazing.
When she died, she was just 4 days shy of 9 months and was learning all kinds of new things. She was sitting up like a pro and was starting to push herself up on her hands and knees/toes. She put everything in her mouth – everything – and loved crackers. She was starting to get used to baby food, but boy did she love her bottle! And I so loved feeding her. She was so cute when she’d hold the bottle all by herself; such a big girl!
The day she died was a beautiful day. It was cool but not cold and sunny. It was just a perfect spring day. We had a great morning and she was in the best mood. We went to Grandma Elaine’s house and left Piper there so she could play. Maggie and I came back for a bottle and a nap, and she actually fell asleep on my shoulder. She never did that. I wish I would have just held her. As sad as I am, the last moment I had with her was one of the sweetest, most beautiful moments any mother could have. A full-bellied, sleeping baby cuddled in your arms – nothing could be sweeter.
I love you and miss you, Maggie May.
The next day, Tuesday, I took yet another test (I know, right?), got another BFP (big fat positive) and was finally able to do something I’d been planning for 2+ years: I went to Von Maur and bought a “I’m The Big Sister” shirt for Piper. This is how I had wanted to tell Ryan. He got home that night and I took him into our room. I held up the shirt and he said “Oh, who’s that for?” I just looked at him. “Um, it’s for Piper!” BIG hug and smiles all around. We decided to hold off on telling Piper until after my first appointment. I didn’t want to get her all excited and have something go wrong.
I told my parents the next night by showing them a digital pregnancy test – the look on my dad’s face was priceless! My mom cried, of course.
Fast forward to Friday, December 21, 2007. I was 6w1d (6 weeks, 1 day) and had been having some cramps and was FREAKED. So, I went to the ER. My first appointment wasn’t for another few weeks and I just had to know there was something there. And there was. Maybe my mind played tricks on me, making me think I was in pain. Whatever the reason, I had never been so happy to see something as beautiful as that tiny flicker. There was a BABY. We told Piper the next day and she was thrilled.
My pregnancy was suckish, not at all like mine with Piper. I was nauseous all the time, gagging on everything, had a headache almost everyday, had bladder infection after bladder infection (I think 8 or 9 total?), and didn’t gain much weight. Towards the end, I was getting weekly NSTs (non stress tests) and ultrasounds to check baby and my amniotic fluid level. Baby was fine, my level was very low. Low enough that Dr. W decided (after u/s #12) that it was time to take Maggie, 12 days early. My c/s had been scheduled for August 7, but she didn’t feel comfortable with waiting that much longer, seeing as I was losing fluid. That’s scary.
Our beautiful baby girl was born at 11:28 a.m. on Saturday, August 2, 2008. She weighed 6 pounds, 7ounces and was 17.5 inches long. She was my itty bitty. But she came out screaming and that was the most beautiful noise I had ever heard. Piper was very, very quiet when she was born; Maggie wanted us to know she was here. They gave her to Ryan and he brought her to me. I barely got to kiss her before they whisked her off to the nursery. Her temp was low and they wanted to get her warmed up. I had no idea that I wouldn’t get to see her again for another 24 hours.
Her blood sugar levels were all out of whack so she had to stay in the nursery and be monitored. Ryan was able to go and be with her, as were my parents, but I only saw pictures for that first day. Surprisingly, I wasn’t all that upset. I just wanted her to be okay and I wanted to be okay. My iron level was extremely low, so low that Dr. W was *this* close to giving me a transfusion, and I really just wanted to feel better. I had felt so shitty for so long and I knew Maggie was in good hands.
The lactation consultant brought my baby girl to me the next day and I couldn’t believe just how beautiful she was. We struggled for close to 30 minutes to get her to latch on when I finally barked at the LC that I just wanted to LOOK at my little girl and I would worry about the breastfeeding later. I memorized every single detail of that precious little one. I was head over heels in love, again.
The next morning Dr. H, the girls’ pediatrician, came to talk to me and said something along the lines of, “Maggie’s palate is a bit high.” I figured out the next day that he was just being gentle with a new mom, and for that I will always be grateful. He didn’t want to freak me out. She had a cleft in her soft palate, which is why she wasn’t able to latch on and why bottle feeding her was also very difficult. I didn’t care. She was beautiful, and precious, and mine, so we’d do whatever we had to do.
At just 5 days old, we took her to meet Dr. C at UIHC’s otolaryngology department and I had never met a nicer man! He made sure to tell me first thing that I had done nothing wrong, that I had not caused her cleft palate, and that I was a good mom. Gotta love hearing that! We were told she would have surgery around a year of age to fix the cleft and that she would never have to have another surgery after that. He also told us that she would be very susceptible to ear infections because of the cleft, so I decided then and there that I would be staying home with her.
That was the best decision I’ve ever made. Ever. I had almost 9 beautiful months with her and I will always feel lucky because of that. Maggie was one of the most calm, happy babies I had ever been around. Her smile was so contagious and she could brighten up anyone’s day. She was the best sleeper and always woke up singing, talking, chirping. I miss those moments when she didn’t think anyone was around and she’d just jabber away in her crib.
She ended up having quite a few ear infections so she got tubes in December. She was like a whole new baby! I couldn’t believe it! We had been concerned from day one that her hearing was very impaired (she failed pretty much every hearing test) but after the tubes, all that changed. She was responding to noise, looking around all the time and just seemed so much happier. God, she was amazing.
When she died, she was just 4 days shy of 9 months and was learning all kinds of new things. She was sitting up like a pro and was starting to push herself up on her hands and knees/toes. She put everything in her mouth – everything – and loved crackers. She was starting to get used to baby food, but boy did she love her bottle! And I so loved feeding her. She was so cute when she’d hold the bottle all by herself; such a big girl!
The day she died was a beautiful day. It was cool but not cold and sunny. It was just a perfect spring day. We had a great morning and she was in the best mood. We went to Grandma Elaine’s house and left Piper there so she could play. Maggie and I came back for a bottle and a nap, and she actually fell asleep on my shoulder. She never did that. I wish I would have just held her. As sad as I am, the last moment I had with her was one of the sweetest, most beautiful moments any mother could have. A full-bellied, sleeping baby cuddled in your arms – nothing could be sweeter.
I love you and miss you, Maggie May.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Mom
My mom is the most amazing person I have ever known, hands down. She’s loving, compassionate, sympathetic, tolerant, patient, sweet, hilarious, sensitive, beautiful, independent and smart. I am in awe of her. She is my rock, my constant, my best friend. We’ve always been very close, telling each other everything, relating to each other’s lives (our husbands are so similar, it’s scary), and sharing in our happy times and our low times.
I’ve always felt like we’re a lot alike and have always understood each other. For once in my life, I wish she couldn’t relate to me and what I’m going through. I hate that she’s experienced this pain, this agony, this emptiness. I hate that someone I love as much as her knows what this feels like. What it feels like to lose a child.
I was only 15 when my brother died. He was just two weeks old and never left the hospital. That was the most horrific time for all of us, for so many reasons. But how could a 15-year-old ever understand that kind of grief? How could anyone, for that matter? You couldn’t, unless it’s happened to you.
And it happened to me, unbelievably. I still don’t believe it. I feel like I’m talking about someone else, living someone else’s life. I know she’s gone and I will never see her beautiful face again, but the enormity of it almost feels temporary. I don’t think that makes sense but sometimes, I find myself saying “This IS forever”. And that sucks. Really, really sucks.
And my mom GETS it. I hate that she does, but I am so grateful at the same time. She knows what it feels like to not want to get out of bed. She knows what it feels like to be so fragile, you don’t want to be touched or looked at. She knows what to say and what not to say. She knows, just by looking at me or hearing my voice, when I need her. She knows that it takes time, lots and lots of time. She knows that I want a baby more than anything to fill these empty arms. She knows that it’s not a replacement, but a chance to love another child. She knows that sometimes I just don’t want to talk, at all. And she knows that quite possibly, the next day I’ll feel like talking about Maggie all day long.
She gets it. And I love her so much for that. She means the world to me and I am so blessed to have her as my mom, my best friend, my constant.
Thank you, Mom, for getting me through the last 3 months. The dark days don’t seem quite as dark when I know you’re there for me.
I love you.
I’ve always felt like we’re a lot alike and have always understood each other. For once in my life, I wish she couldn’t relate to me and what I’m going through. I hate that she’s experienced this pain, this agony, this emptiness. I hate that someone I love as much as her knows what this feels like. What it feels like to lose a child.
I was only 15 when my brother died. He was just two weeks old and never left the hospital. That was the most horrific time for all of us, for so many reasons. But how could a 15-year-old ever understand that kind of grief? How could anyone, for that matter? You couldn’t, unless it’s happened to you.
And it happened to me, unbelievably. I still don’t believe it. I feel like I’m talking about someone else, living someone else’s life. I know she’s gone and I will never see her beautiful face again, but the enormity of it almost feels temporary. I don’t think that makes sense but sometimes, I find myself saying “This IS forever”. And that sucks. Really, really sucks.
And my mom GETS it. I hate that she does, but I am so grateful at the same time. She knows what it feels like to not want to get out of bed. She knows what it feels like to be so fragile, you don’t want to be touched or looked at. She knows what to say and what not to say. She knows, just by looking at me or hearing my voice, when I need her. She knows that it takes time, lots and lots of time. She knows that I want a baby more than anything to fill these empty arms. She knows that it’s not a replacement, but a chance to love another child. She knows that sometimes I just don’t want to talk, at all. And she knows that quite possibly, the next day I’ll feel like talking about Maggie all day long.
She gets it. And I love her so much for that. She means the world to me and I am so blessed to have her as my mom, my best friend, my constant.
Thank you, Mom, for getting me through the last 3 months. The dark days don’t seem quite as dark when I know you’re there for me.
I love you.
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