There and Back Again

Time has flown.  I've been away again...and again making another baby!  16 weeks along with Rainbow Baby #2 aka Cao Baby #3.  Our first rainbow, my Emma Lucille, is 9 months old.  She fills my life with love and sunlight like only she can.  I get lost in her big brown eyes and could listen to her little snore-filled sleep breathing forever.  She's a wild one, not afraid to make it known what she wants and not taking crap from anyone.  Already a little firecracker and she can't even walk or talk yet.  I could go on and on about how this little person has changed my life forever, has made me feel things I never thought I'd feel again.  Feelings I thought were lost the day we lost Owen.  Such happiness I thought was never to be mine, I really thought I'd never be this happy, this content again.  Yet here I am.  Up to my elbows in dirty diapers and baby laundry, but drowning in love and laughter and her hugs at the same time.

It's hard to say if I'd have it any other way.  I've thought about this many times.  If I could go back in time and save Owen (was he meant to be saved?) would I?  Before Emma was Emma, before I was pregnant, my immediate answer would have been YES!  Are you mental?  Of course I'd go back and alter this heartache, this grief-stricken journey I've been on.  Now, it's hard to say, honestly.  If I did, would Emma be here?  Would Emma be the Emma we know and love?  Would Owen have lived?  Would I have saved him only for him to pass away from something that couldn't have been prevented?  Yet more questions with no answers.  Just thoughts, sometimes crazy, sometimes dark, but they're mine.

It's a bittersweet thing, this rainbow baby business.  Emma has no idea what an impact she has had on me in her short life, and how she'll continue to teach me things forever.  Owen made me a mom, of that I'm certain.  Emma, though, Emma is giving me a crash course in parenthood.  As I've watched her grow, I cannot help but think about my son and wonder what his personality would be like.  Who would he become?  From the few pictures we have of him, my husband and I are certain Owen would have looked like him.  Emma, on the otherhand, looks like me.  She's strong-willed, stubborn, high maintenance - just your average girl.  What would he have been like?  The complete opposite?  The same?  Who knows.  I daydream about him being here, being her big brother in real life-right now, instead of, to her, being just pictures and urn on the shelf we show her and say, "Brother.  This is your brother, Owen."

I'm back to worrying again.  I go to every appointment for this baby in my belly expecting to hear that it too has passed away.  It's a sad, dark thing - to think about your baby dying.  Now, I can't help it.  I never imagined (who does?) that the way I would bring my son home would be in an urn.  But now?  I mentally go through the events in my head.  What I would do when and if they tell me this baby didn't make it.  Who would I call?  What would we do?  I imagine calling my husband, and then my parents, and then my siblings...I can hear their tears, their sighs.  I quickly push these horrible thoughts away and try to think positively.  I imagine this baby and Emma playing together, boy or girl (we don't know yet).  It'll get easier/harder as we get closer to the fall arrival of our newest addition, but I'm ready.  More prepared (though it's never enough, is it?) thanks to both Emma and Owen, for whatever comes our way.  

Until next time, keep looking up.

The Rainbow

I've been away.  Off living life, working...oh yeah, and making a baby!  Here I am - 15 weeks pregnant with our rainbow baby.  No nickname for this one yet, we’ve just been calling him/her “baby” and “little one”.  My husband will sometimes just point and say “this one” when we’re talking about the baby.  I wonder why we don’t have a nickname yet.  With Owen it was so easy.  He was Peanut.  From the start, boy or girl, that baby was Peanut.  Perhaps it’s a safety mechanism.  Protecting ourselves from getting too comfortable.  How horrible does that sound?  Don’t get me wrong, I’m already in love with this little baby.  I just find it hard to daydream about the future like I did with Owen.  It was as if he was already a part of our lives even before he was here.  For some reason, though, I cannot see this little one for more than what it is…a little baby the size of an apple, or navel orange depending on which pregnancy site you follow.

Had these made by Tootoolicious on Etsy to surprise Mike.

I find myself saying “if”.  IF this baby comes home, IF everything goes well.  Before losing Owen I would have never said such things.  What normal person would?  When I was pregnant with Owen, it was always “when” he gets here, but that “when” never came.  Now, with this little one, I find myself more cautious because I am fully aware of just what can happen.  Instead of talking to this baby as I did with Owen, I say things like, “stay with me, little one.”  It has become my mantra.  Any twinge of pain, even ones that are completely normal like my muscles loosening or my uterus growing…”Stay with me, little one.”

I finally gathered the courage to start filling out the pregnancy journal I bought for this little rainbow.  I had been putting it off, telling myself that IF everything is ok at my next appointment I will start to write in it.  IF I make it to 3 months, I’ll start taking belly photos.  Being that we lost Owen so late in the pregnancy, I don’t know that I have a reason to worry so early on, but it’s that same reason that makes me worry.  Pregnancy seems to have lost the sparkle it once held for me, but I am determined to get it back.  Yes, there is much I can worry and be anxious about, but who would that help?  Not me and certainly not this little rainbow.  This baby deserves all the good I can bring to the table and that's just what he/she is going to get.  We still have decisions to make:  when will we decorate the nursery?  What will we use and what will we buy new?  Some things I know, like I don't want to have a baby shower.  I'd rather have a party after this baby is safely in my arms.

It helps to have such supportive friends and family.  People checking in to see how this little one is doing keeps me positive.  People saying they thought about Owen or that something reminded them of him also makes me smile.  They know that I have two children.  Though neither are completely present, they’re on their minds and that’s what counts.  They help keep me positive, and I need all of that I can get.  So far, so good.

Update again soon...maybe with a name????

The Tangible Things

I laid in the hospital bed wondering how I was going to deliver my son, silent, into this world.  I mean, I know the mechanics of it.  The medicine they were pumping into my veins would start the labor process and then my body would do what it was meant to.  My mind, however, was not at all prepared for going through all that pain only to leave empty-handed.  One of my nurses, Pam, handed me a teddy bear.  In my medically-induced buzz, I named him "Squishy"...as in "i shall call him Squishy and he shall be mine and he shall by my Squishy" from Finding Nemo.  My husband says I repeated this several times.  Growing up, I never had a stuffed animal that I always had to have with me.  I had my toys, yes, but none that meant the world to me.  Since she handed him to me, I have not spent one night without Squishy.

I have realized that he means so much to me because he reminds me of my son, my little lost one.  That bear is something I can hug, kiss, and hold in my aching arms when I miss Owen (which is often).  Owen.  His name means so much to me now.  I write it everywhere and I write it often.  While others have pictures of their children as they grow, I am left with one set of photos...his first and his last.  What I have is his name - Owen Henry Cao, my Peanut, my <3 ohc <3 - those photos, and my memories of those beautiful 39 weeks we had with him.

Owen Henry Cao. The one that wasn’t to be.  Why not sooner?  Would I feel better if we lost him sooner?  No, I know I wouldn't.  No matter when my loss would have happened, my heart would still be just as broken.  From the moment we found out about him, he was our son and we loved him.  That is many of the “what ifs” that wander my mind aimlessly – never having an answer.  But a week before his due date?  At the point where we were just waiting for the onset of labor.  That seems so cruel.  The moment that I thought, “this is it” I was told it wasn't to be.  My son’s heart stopped beating.  An unsolved mystery that only few still care about.  The hospital, the medical examiner, they've all moved on.  They did their part and went on to the next case…and left me behind with a million questions that have no answers.  This is what it must feel like to be obsessed with something.  I constantly think about my son, whenever the water calms at the end of the day thoughts of him rise to the surface. The happy memories of my pregnancy, the devastating news of his death, and the beautiful aftermath he left behind.  

The Next One

13 squares

My husband and I have begun talking more about the next baby we will have, the way we did when I was pregnant with Peanut. We talk about how we will raise them and the things we'll do as a family. We talk about names, nursery decor, and the things we'll still need to buy before their arrival. It's sad that Peanut is not included, and I find myself feeling almost guilty.

I want to be blissfully happy with my subsequent pregnancy the way I was with Peanut. I want to think about only the good, focus only on the positive. It was so easy with Peanut. Now, I fear, feeling happy and positive will be more of a chore. It'll be easy to focus on what can go wrong, for I've lived that, I don't know how to feel good about it anymore. I'll have to remind myself to be happy and not focus on what has happened, but try to envision what will happen...or at least what I pray will happen.

I know things will be different once I am pregnant again. I know there are things I will do differently and things I will do the same as I did with Peanut. I will love this baby the same, I will talk to him or her everyday. I will sing to them, read to them, and my husband will kiss them goodbye every morning - all the same as with Peanut. I feel, however, I will leave some things undone.

I will not have a baby shower, I'd rather have a party when we bring the next baby home to visit our families. As a good friend put it, "you'd rather celebrate the arrival than the promise of a baby." Which, when I think about it, is exactly what I did at Peanut's baby shower. We celebrated his anticipated arrival, even though it was never promised, never certain. I will also make more pregnancy memories. With Peanut, I was so focused on capturing memories of his arrival and afterward that I missed out on precious moments during my pregnancy - which, is all the memories I have now.

I'm unsure as to whether I will set up the nursery before the baby arrives. We don't really have to register for anything, we have everything we need. Hand-me-downs that were never used, but handed down with love nonetheless. I know what I will do is choose different nursery decor. I still have Peanut's, but feel that the monkey theme was his and his brother or sister should get something different. This is probably more for me than for them. They won't remember what their nursery decor was, but to me, monkeys were Peanut's thing. It wouldn't feel right to reuse that.

All these things I'm thinking about and I'm not even pregnant yet.  It's comforting, though, to think about the future.  It gives me hope, a hope I so desperately need to cling to.

The Conversation

A few months ago, my niece Mia ran up to me and put her hands on my tummy.  "Where is he?  Where is he?", she asked with twinkles in her eyes.  I was struck dumb.  What do I say?  My brother told her what happened, she knows he's dead...doesn't she?  I finally muttered, "I don't know...go blow your nose."  She smiled and ran off.
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Recently, we were in my car where I have a photo of Owen hanging from my rearview mirror and I also have one of his sonogram pictures attached to the passenger sun visor.  When we lost Owen, I told my brother’s children (ages 14, 11, and 6) that they could ask me anything about him and what happened – I would always be straightforward and honest with them. 

Mia: what are those? *pointing to sonogram*

Me: those are from when he was still in my tummy.

Mia: oh, and then he came out?

Me: yes, and then he came out.

Mia: and he looked like that. *pointing to ohc picture*

Me: yes, and he looked like that.

Mia: and then he died...

I was stunned by her blunt statement.   Usually people avoid talking about Owen; I can see them become physically uncomfortable when I mention his name or my pregnancy.  She was just saying what was on her mind.  I respect her for that.  To be honest, it was a breath of fresh air to have this sort of conversation, even if it was with a six-year-old. 

Me: *stunned silence* yes, Mia, he died.

Mia: why didn't I get to see him when he came out?

Me: I thought it would be too sad for you. Did you want to see him?

Mia: yes, I wanted to see him, but they didn't let me.

Me: I'm sorry.

Mia: then he went up there, right? *pointing her tiny index finger skyward*

Me: yes, he went to heaven.

Mia: did you see him go?

Me: no, but we know that's where he went.

Mia: do you know why he passed away?

Me: no, we don't. I think it was just an accident.

Mia: what if you have another baby?

Me: what do you mean?

Mia: what's going to happen if you have another baby?

Me: then we'll have another baby and Owen will be a big brother.

Mia: I want you to have another baby.

Me: so do I, Mia.

Mia: I'm sorry he died.

Me: so am I.

It was as if we were talking about something completely different; shooting the breeze, chatting about school, not talking about my dead son.  I was amazed at how okay she was talking about this. She wasn't uncomfortable, she was fine.  She had questions and she wanted answers.  I wish more people were like her.

The Rant

I sometimes wish I could look as ragged and aged on the outside as I feel on the inside.  I feel ancient inside, I’ve lived a lifetime in just 7 months.   I wish people could see how weathered and broken I feel sometimes.  Maybe then they would understand just how hard it is.  “You’re still young, you can have more children,” does make me or any grieving parents feel better.  I could have a hundred more children, but they could never replace my Peanut.  My first.  I never thought I could love someone so much.  A pure love, a mother’s love.

Quite frankly, I don’t care if talking about my pregnancy or my dead son makes you uncomfortable.  He is and always will be a huge part of my life.  Not just some unfortunate event from which we will try to heal.  I spent 10 months waiting for him – preparing his room, talking to him, eating the right things so he could grow.  How dare you expect me to just *poof* move on.  You weren’t the one who had to put all those baby things away. You weren’t the one who had to tell your family that the new addition they were so anxious will not be coming home.  You weren’t the one who had to lay there and endure 9 hours of labor and delivery only to leave the hospital empty handed.  You are not the one who has to live with this anchor called grief every day.  Carry it around and still manage to smile and force yourself to have good days.  You think it’s easy?  Some days I would rather the Earth split open and swallow me whole than have to walk around like I’m not completely broken inside.  And yet, here I stand.  After all that I have been through, I am still here.  Broken, yes, but here.  My soul weathered from the storm that was Owen, but more resilient having known him.  You should all be so proud that we grieving parents have chosen to share this part of our lives with you.  You should feel cherished that we who hold our children in our hearts think to share them with you.  You can’t see them running around or sleeping soundly in their beds.  Many, I should say most, people we meet in our day to day lives will never know how strong we truly are. They will never know that we go home and cry ourselves to sleep.  They will never know they hell we endure every day without our children.

Put aside the fact that only a fraction on the “swimmers” actually make it to the egg. How’s this for some knowledge:  there’s only a 24-hour window each month within which one can become pregnant.  BOOM!  It almost frightens me that some mothers I know were not aware of this.  While pregnant, I read and read about pregnancy, becoming pregnant, the birth.  I don't like not knowing what is happening or what is going to happen.  would it be considered ironic how I planned and planned for Peanut to be here, but then the most unplanned, unexpected thing happened?  I don't know if that's the right word. 

How is it that I know the facts, did the research, plan it out and yet I am still without child?  How is it so difficult for me to get pregnant?  I temp, keep track of my cycles, and more all to one day have a new born in my arms again.  And yet I come up with a “-“each month. Am I trying too hard?  Do I not want it bad enough?  What do I have to do to show the universe, God, or whoever that I want to be a mother.  Speaking of "mother", I am dreading mother's day.  I planned how I would spend it with Peanut and was already planning on what to do for Mike for Father's Day.  I pictured us making Mike a little clay imprint of Peanut's hands and feet that said something like "Happy Father's Day - 2012".  And now what?  Little things will always creep up that remind me just how much I'm missing out on.  I see parents walking with children in strollers, carrying little ones in baby carriers, "baby on board" signs.  Each time a little piece of me breaks.

Maybe, so that’s why I decided the best distraction would be work.  I’m not broken, I can still work.  I’m hoping my new job will distract me enough and make this whole baby making a lot easier.  My husband and I are agreed that I will work through my next pregnancy.  I feel that it is the best thing for me because I cannot go through those 40 weeks, knowing how wrong things can go, without a distraction.  I hate that I will have to try to enjoy this pregnancy rather than just letting it be.  I hate that I already know I’m going to focus on the bad, and I’m already trying to think of ways to calm myself down. I’m not even pregnant yet.

I’ve never been so disappointed to see “not pregnant” on those stupid digital tests. Pregnancy test, how can you be so blunt?  Don’t you realize you’re stabbing me in the heart?  Have you no compassion?  Of course not, you’re a machine.  And I’m obviously crazy; arguing with a home pregnancy test.

Losing my son is the worst thing that will ever happen to me.  I can say that with certainty. While I have lost other loved ones in my life and will eventually lose more to age, sickness, and what not, nothing will compare to the loss of my son.  I have memories of my grandfather that I will cherish forever; my family and I often tell stories of him and as we laugh, we remember and mourn him.  He was loved by our entire family.  I don’t get to share stories of Peanut the way we do of my grandfather.  Because no one was there.  It was all me, and some of my husband.  No one can remember how he’d kick when I would watch ‘I Love Lucy’ and laugh so hard, only me.  No one can reminisce about how Mike would have his hands on my belly waiting for Peanut to kick, talking to him while we were in the car…none of that.  That’s what makes it that much harder.  I want to talk about him and remember all the wonderful things that happened while he was alive, but no one can remember those with me. 

The Good Days

"Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are. Let me learn from you, love you, bless you before you depart. Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow. Let me hold you while I may, for it may not always be so. One day I shall dig my nails into the earth, or bury my face in the pillow, or stretch myself taut, or raise my hands to the sky and want, more than all the world, your return." - Mary Jean Iron

Normal days used to bore me. Now I long for them. I hope for days when I am so wrapped up in meaningless chores or errands that my mind isn't allowed to wander. But, tricky, little thing my mind is, it always finds a way...the little bugger. It can be something as direct as seeing a little Asian baby at a restaurant. My husband is Chinese and we live in a primarily Asian part of town...so imagine how often that happens. It'll get me thinking about what Peanut would look like, how big he would be, what his temperament would be like; things like that. Or it could be as out there as this: my husband took me on a fabulous date the other night to a hoity-toity restaurant, you know the kind with a dress code and where they put the napkins in your lap. We were enjoying this fabulous dinner (it haunts my dreams, it was so amazing) and right in the middle of it, i started thinking how we should have needed a babysitter (my mom or his mom) to watch Peanut, go through the bedtime routine i would have had him on: dinner, bath, book, prayer, bed...or something like that. I can't say for certain what it would be because I never got to create it. So here I was, all fancied up, with the man I love, in this amazing place and I was sad. Go figure, but that's what grief does to you.

I'm not as religious as others, but I do believe in God. I couldn't have gotten through losing Peanut without prayer and putting my pain and hurt on God. But I must admit there are times when I just look up and say, "why?" We wanted him so much, loved him so much, why did he have to leave us? Some will say it's God Will and we won't always understand. I'm sorry, but I can't live thinking it was God's Will to take my son away from me. God knows how much I love my son, how much I couldn't wait for his arrival, and I can't believe in a God that would take something like that away. Though I'll never know why Peanut passed away when he did or if it will affect his brothers or sisters when I'm pregnant with them, I pray that this was "just one of those things". Like, this was a terrible thing that has happened, but it's something that won't happen again. I wish I could be so sure. I wish this was the one terrible thing that happened to me in my life and that I could be spared pain for the rest of it, but I know that's not the case. That's not how life works. If only, if only.

There are good days, though. It's not as if I walk around in a bathrobe all day with tissues coming out of the pockets. I have days where I can think about Peanut, not about what happened, but just about him - his face, his hands, his feet, his ears, his lips - and actually smile. My biggest accomplishment in life was growing this little person. I sometimes still can't believe that I did it; he was so beautiful. Then again, I'll never beat the Duggars, but I would like 2 or 3 more children. Coming from a big family myself (2 brothers, and about 28 cousins on each side) I love a house where there's always something happening - someone's always there to talk to, someone's always in the kitchen, there's always noise. I never realized how much I loved noise until I spent time alone in this house. It feels so huge, empty, and silent since Peanut. So, the good days. They're not perfect and I wouldn't want them to be. I get frustrated in traffic, forget things at the grocery store, and burn dinner. But I'll take that any day over the days I spend crying in the shower.

Oh, but the bad days. Sometimes, I'll relive the whole thing all over again. I don't want to, but my mind. I'll hear the midwife's voice ringing in my head, "i'm sorry, but there's no heartbeat." I'll remember delivering him and bawling to my husband, "my baby, my poor little boy." So, though I function: I laugh and make others laugh (I love doing that), I work, I do all these things, there is still a grief inside me that I feel most would wonder how I even get out of bed. But we do, us grieving parents, we get out of bed and live our lives with this dark cloud always looming over us. "Tut, tut, it looks like rain." - Christoper Robin from Winnie the Pooh and the honey bees. Please know, that though we do these things, though we may have other children (either before or after our loss) that the pain will never leave us. We will never forget those that should have been. For me, it's a dull pain, one you don't always notice, but is always there. And when you notice it, when you dwell on it, it gets worse...much, much worse. But you stand it, never getting it checked out, just taking it on as your "new normal."

This is just a little something I came up with...it's not good, but it's my crack at being creative.

Appreciate the normal days,

When they are few and far between.

Be thankful for the good days,

Try to understand what they mean.

Pray on those sad days,

When all you can do is grieve.

Be strong through the hard days,

Know they will not always be.

again, sorry if this one seems like rambling...

The Waiting

I feel like up until now, I've been waiting for my life to start...I still feel that way.

First, it was waiting for high school to be over so I could start college - thinking that's when my adventure would begin. Then, it was waiting for college to be over so I could start my life with my best friend/boyfriend who is now my husband. Then it was waiting for us to start a family. That's all I have ever really wanted - to be a stay at home mom and housewife. I remember growing up, my mom was always there and that's exactly what I want for my children. Then, I was pregnant! My life would finally begin, I thought.

I constantly daydreamed about what life as a mom would be like. When I would be doing laundry or the dishes, I would wonder where I could put the bouncer so that I could have my eye on Peanut while doing housework. And when I would be running errands, I would look in my rear-view mirror and think about how in less than a year, I would be checking on Peanut in that very mirror. I thought about driving to the doctor's appointments, taking him with me to the grocery store and just about how he would be involved in every facet of my life. Only...I never got there. That future I had dreamed about my whole pregnancy was shattered November 26, 2011. I didn't know what to do. How was I to go on? I had to create a new future for myself, without Peanut. It broke my heart to have to tear down that future my husband and I looked forward to so much, and to have to build a new one from the rubble.

 

We took it slow, moment by moment, but we got there. Little steps...getting his ashes from the funeral home, ordering the perfect urn for him, having to order another urn because the original was too small. Then it was up to me...I have steps for myself to help me carry on with life. I don't like the term "move on" because to me it implies forgetting. I will never forget, just carry on, always remembering Peanut. Getting a job, or at least temp work, so that I can hopefully have a full-time job by the time we get pregnant. That's one difference among the many things I will do differently during my subsequent pregnancy. I plan to work. I feel that the next pregnancy will be stressful enough, and I don't want to be home, alone, left to dwell on what could happen.

And now, here I am, still waiting. After he was born, I had to wait to maybe find out why. Why he wasn't here with me. Why I wouldn't be taking him on my errands or why I wouldn't have to take super fast showers because it would just be me and him at home. We never did get an answer; chalk it up to just being "one of those things". Then, I had to wait for my postpartum appointment to see when we would be able to start trying for our second child. Even after that, I had to wait for my cycles to start back up. Now, it's waiting to get pregnant and even when I do see that "+" on the test, it's going to be 10 more months of waiting....agonizing!

The way I see it, if you've suffered a loss (which if you have, I'm so very sorry) and you get pregnant again, it's even scarier. But depending on when your loss occurred, once you pass that point, it's still scary, but everything is new. If you didn't get to have a baby shower, and you have one with your subsequent pregnancy, that's a whole new experience. Or if you didn't get to even have a sonogram, that's new. But for me, I have to give birth to a healthy baby to get to that "new" part. I'll take all the pregnancy symptoms I had with Peanut and then some with a smile on my face to just have my healthy rainbow baby. It's just the waiting that gets me.

Among the many things my time with Peanut has taught me is to enjoy the now. I've been waiting for my life to start and all along it was passing me by. I was so set on him coming that I put off so many things for his arrival. I wish I had taken more pregnancy pictures, had recorded the times you could see him moving inside me, had kept a pregnancy journal. All these things I didn't do because I thought he was a sure thing; I thought I could start making memories when he got here. Now I'm left with a half-empty baby book and a hand full of pregnancy photos...and my memories. But my memories are not tangible things that I can show others and say, "look, this is my son...he was real." I know he was real, but sometimes I feel he was just a beautiful dream I had of a life I'll live one day. But for now, I'm waiting for that future...trying to enjoy the now.

The Elephant

My older brother asked me yesterday, "If you had one wish, what would it be?" He said that he thought of this question and had been asking random friends and family. I never did answer him. I felt it was obvious...my one wish, my only wish will always be to have my son here with me instead of only having pictures, a memory box, and an urn. And now onto the meat of the matter...

It wasn't until I made my first voyage home (well, a 3.5 hour drive anyway) that I realized just how isolated I had truly been. With my mom and my husband, Peanut was always talked about. But that bubble of comfort didn't extend much further than my home.

I decided that I wanted something, a change. What I really wanted was to have Owen to take care of, but as always apparent, that is impossible. So, what I needed to do try to find a new normal for myself. My husband wants to know that I am progressing in my grief before we go for Baby Cao #2. That is understandable. I feel that I cannot give myself fully to our future children until I grieve for Peanut. I told him that I will always mourn Peanut. There will never be a day that I do not think of him, but that I will be able to go about my day-to-day as usual. So, a step in the right direction is to try to find some work. I started to apply for a few jobs here and there and got some calls for interviews. I felt that at this point it was okay for my mom to leave this bubble I had created for us and return to her life.

I was excited to see my family for the first time in at least 2 months. Though, the closer it got to us leaving, the more anxious I became. I realized that this would be my first visit home since losing Peanut. The last trip home was for my baby shower. I remember some people telling me, "Next time we see you, you'll have the baby with you." It's amazing how wrong we can be sometimes. It wasn't a baby I brought with me, but an elephant. The whole week I was there, I felt as if I was being followed by this huge elephant. When people looked at me, they didn't see me, but this huge elephant behind me. "Poor Melly...how sad" is the sort of thing I imagined people that knew what happened thought when they saw me. Of course they were happy to see me, we're a very close family, but it's impossible to look at someone whose suffered something so horrible without that horrible thing running through your mind.

It hurt so much that no one mentioned Peanut or asked about him when they saw me. I only got those, "How are you?" or "How have you been doing?" sort of questions with the inflection that told me they were referring to the loss of my son. It made me almost angry that there was this sorrow around me and people never mentioned him. As if not mentioning him made it better? He is always on my mind, and it makes me happy to talk about my pregnancy and to talk about Peanut because he was real. Not mentioning him or what happened does nothing. So, I decided if people were not going to initiate conversation about him, I would. In conversation, I would talk about when I was pregnant or in the hospital. That would start the questions and I would tell my story. I say his name as often as I can. It lets people know it's okay to ask questions.

My first attempt at a "job" was a temporary assignment - 3 days stuffing envelopes. I woke up and started to get ready. While doing my hair, I started to have an anxiety attack. I just couldn't do it. I don't know what I was afraid of, but I was afraid. I e-mailed the girl at the staffing agency and told her what happened to me that morning and she was very understanding. She said she suffers from them all the time and for me not to worry.

A few weeks later I received another assignment close to where my husband works. We carpooled and I worked 4 whole days without a problem. They even asked me to return the following week. It's just data entry, but it is perfect for me right now. I have to focus on the typing, so my mind is unable to wander away. I listen to music and just type, type, type all day long. A certain song may come on that reminds me of Peanut either because of the lyrics or because it is a song I would sing to him. I remember while cleaning the house or driving, I would have one hand on my belly and sing like I was at the Grammy's! I so looked forward to singing to Peanut while breastfeeding or while rocking him to sleep. I had imagined it so many times. I sang to him a little while I held him at the hospital, but it wasn't the same. I'll still sing those songs, and my performances are always dedicated to Peanut - my biggest fan.

p.s. i apologize if this one seems like rambling...

The Line

A line has been drawn. There is the Before and the After. I can see the Before, I look back on it fondly, but without the same naivety as when it was my present. I remember being so happy, so blissfully unaware of just how wrong things could go, how truly horrible they could get. I now live in the After, and things are very different here. Pregnancy has lost the sparkle it once had for me. Now, it is something I feel I must endure rather than something to be cherished. But what I wouldn't give to start that journey again; to see that little “+” and know that it can happen again, it can be different, and we can be OK.

My grief makes me feel like I’m two people; a Jekyll and Hyde situation. I long to be the person I was before…there’s that word again, “before”. I remember myself very well, and I feel like some of me is still here, but some of me is gone. It left so abruptly, I’m still adjusting to its absence. This new normal, this journey of grief is in the driver’s seat for now and I’m just along for the ride. I want to do things I used to do, but there’s grief saying, “Whoa, hold your horses. You’re not ready for that just yet.” How can I not be overjoyed for the birth of my best friend’s baby? How can I not be there at the hospital with her? How can I not want to see, hold, smell, and kiss that new little one? Easy. It makes me feel like to worst, most horrible person in the world for not wanting to do those things, but lucky for me she’s the most wonderful person and is so understanding when it comes to Peanut and my grief. She knows that when I’m ready, I’ll be there to meet my new “niece”.

I feel like I wear a mask sometimes. I put on a smile, make small talk, but all the while I am on the edge of bursting into tears. Crying comes so easily now; I hate that. It makes my face flush, my nose run, and my eyes puffy…how attractive. On bad days, the smallest thing can make me cry and then all the feelings of losing Peanut come rushing in, as if to say, “oh you’re crying, here, let us make it worse…” On good days, it’s a little easier, but those tears are still there. I sometimes wonder how I've gotten this far. There are mornings I wake up and it's almost like I have to remind myself that it wasn't a dream. Peanut is gone and I have to get up anyway...have to learn to live life without him. Sometimes I'll be so caught up doing something that the pain and heartache fade a little, enough that when I stop what I'm doing it rushes back and all that hurt floods my heart and I'm almost overwhelmed. Yet another thing I have to get used to.

I started a new job, and wanted to put a picture of my son somewhere on my desk. I put it somewhere I didn’t think people would see, but a couple of them did. Their eyes lit up as they cooed and asked, “oh, is that your baby? How old is he?” My heart stopped; I knew it would happen eventually, I just wasn’t ready. To the first person that asked, I answered “yes, and he WOULD be about four months old.” It was a woman so she knew immediately what that “WOULD” meant. She apologized and walked away. To the man that asked, I said the same thing, only he didn’t get the “WOULD” part, so I just let it be. After that, I moved his picture. Not because I’m ashamed, I’ll never be ashamed to talk about Peanut, but because I’m just not ready to introduce him to everyone yet. I don’t think they know me well enough; almost like they don’t “deserve” to know him yet. Yeah, I like that.

The Homecoming

I must admit I wasn't all that excited to come home. It wasn't a home anymore. To me, home was going to be where the three of us lived and made memories. I had already played so many of them in my head throughout my pregnancy, it was as if Peanut was already here. But leaving the hospital with only flowers made it very clear that he was not, and he never would be.

That's the thing that gets me - he was so real and alive to me, not just in my belly, but in my heart. I had played out the first years of his life in my head, dreamed about them and debated over such things with my husband as his head rested on my belly, talking to Peanut. We would "argue" over what instrument he would play - cello or piano, what sport he would be in - soccer or swimming (though soccer was a given), what his favorite band would be - Foo Fighters or Linkin Park. All these things happened even before he was here, so it is hard to just turn them off. He was my son...IS my son. It's easy for people that aren't me or my husband not to think about him on a daily basis. People that would only have seen him when we went to visit can go on with their lives and not blink twice. To them, it may just have been a sad thing that happened. Anyone dying is sad, but a baby dying...that's almost taboo. But for me, it is something I think about constantly. Everywhere I go, everything I do makes me think, 'I shouldn't be here alone, he should be here with me.' or 'I shouldn't be here, I should be at home with my little boy.' But I digress...

What made it easier to come home was that we weren't alone. My mom and mother-in-law had stayed to help while my husband returned to work. My best friend and some of her family came to visit a few days after I got home. We went out to lunch and laughed. They love Owen as much as my husband and me and talk about him still. It is such a beautiful thing to have others acknowledge your child, especially when they are lost. My father and brother visited for a few days and that was amazing. I am such a daddy's girl. We have our own sense of humor and are like two peas in a pod. I loved having people visit because, for a time, I was distracted from the reality. And my reality was so sad, I couldn't stand it. I am such a happy person, ask anyone. My goal was pretty much to make people laugh. If I could make a living doing it, I'd be a stand-up comedian. But now, everything was so bleak, and I hated it. I wanted things to go back to how they were before, only to realize how impossible that truly is.

I was numb to everything. I would just sit and stare at nothing. Everything had lost meaning. What was the point, I thought. Nothing I did now mattered. Nothing I did, good or bad, would bring my son back, so what was the point? I must admit that a part of me went insane, a very microscopic part, but part of me nonetheless. The first few days, I thought, once I have suffered enough, I'll wake up from this nightmare and be able to appreciate him that much more. That maybe that was the test, how much could I bear? How much could I suffer until I said 'no more'. See what I mean? Nuts, right?

Now, I may take some heat for the following, but it's part of my story. My husband and his family are Chinese, a culture very different from my own Hispanic background. Now, neither of us adhere to many traditions, but his family is still very much in touch with tradition. When my mother-in-law told me to "get rid of everything, pictures and all" and that she would buy everything for us next time, I was dumbfounded. Here I was, two days out from the most horrific thing that will probably ever happen to me with only these things to remember Peanut, and she's telling me to get rid of them?! I didn't say anything but 'ok, ok' because of the language barrier, but this was far from over.

That night, before going to bed, I told my husband what his mom had said to me. He said she had told him too. I asked what he thought, but before he could answer, I vented. This is the gist of what I said: I have been very accommodating to his family and their traditions, but this is our family...our son. These are Peanut's things and I refuse to get rid of them. He agreed, but said I needed to understand that Peanut never knew these things, never touched them. Everything that was "his" (the blanket and clothes he was using) was cremated with him. I told him I did understand, but like I said, part of me went crazy. That small, crazy part of me felt that Peanut may come back (I have since come to my senses) and he would be sad to know that we had gotten rid of his things.

My mom stayed for six weeks, to the dismay of some. She was exactly what I needed to help me get through this. Having gone through multiple losses herself, she knew exactly how to comfort me. It's an odd thing - everyone suffers some type of loss in their lifetime, but losing a child is all it's own. It is easy to comfort someone who has lost a grandparent, parent or sibling, but something gets lost in the translation when comforting someone whose just lost their child. It is something that unless you have gone through it yourself, it is hard to understand. It is something I wish no one ever had to go through. She would stay home and just watch TV with me, or when I would get claustrophobic, we would venture out into the world. I can never thank her enough for dropping her life and coming to be with me.

It has been almost three months, and I am still very new to this "grieving the loss of a child", but I feel I am doing well. I have managed to donate some of the furniture in the nursery. We didn't want to sell them, making money off of our son didn't seem right. So we donated them. They were hand-me-down gifts from family and my husband decided that since my family was so generous at Peanut's baby shower, we can afford to buy Baby Cao #2 new furniture. However, the things that were once for Peanut, would now be his gifts to his brother or sister. Cute, huh? When he says things like that, it lets me know that I have chosen the right man to walk through life with. It shows me how much he truly loves Peanut, just as much as me, if not more being that he was a boy (fathers and their sons, you know?).

The Delivery

They told me I would have to deliver Peanut. All I could think was, 'You're kidding right? Please tell me you're joking.' How cruel is that?! Labor and delivery is hard enough, but to go through all that and then have to leave empty handed?! No way, Jose! They can't make me do that. They cannot make me deliver this baby. Women have elective C-Sections all the time, and I will be one of them. We left the hospital and returned home, though it certainly didn't feel like a home then.

We called our parents. "Oh Melly No!" was the first thing my mom said. Those words haunt me. I could hear the despair in her voice as she tried to comfort me. I could hear my husband's mom screaming and bawling as he told her. She and my mom would come together, along with my older brother. They would make the drive through the night to get to us. My oldest brother and his family (wife and three kids) would arrive the following day, and so would a few of my cousins, but there was no hurry. No rush because we all knew what was going to happen the next day.

A stabbing pain ached inside of me as we put away all the baby things that had filled our house. The car seat that was so ready to take him home was unbuckled and put away. The bouncer, playpen and bassinet that would hold him so lovingly were taken apart. The clothes, burp cloths, and bibs were folded and put away. Everything that was him was no more. The only thing left was my big belly; and even with that I felt so empty. And the phones just kept ringing! To have to repeat it over and over, I felt as though I would go mad. As we laid in bed that night, all I could do was replay the events that led us here in my mind. It didn't help, I know that. But what else was I supposed to do?

I arrived at the hospital the next morning and was taken to the same room as the night before. I hate that room. I was still sure that I could convince them to allow me to have a C-Section. I was sure I could not deliver this baby and not take him home with me. I refused to do that. But it didn't matter; their minds were made up. They were sure I would deliver him, but I was certain I was not strong enough. The medicine was started that would induce my labor and as the pangs began, I was made very comfortable. I drifted in and out of sleep; people shuffled in and out of the room. There were times of laughter, hard to believe I know. My family and I would joke and remember happier times. More often, there was silence. A heavy sadness hung in the air and filled those silences whenever possible. We could go back, but the silence always brought us to the present.

Then it was time. I must admit that for the hour or so that it took to bring my son into this world, I did not once think about him being dead. I just thought about what I needed to do to get him here. I concentrated on the pushing and relaxed in between contractions. My husband was a very good coach. Well, except for the one moment when his phone began to ring and he tried to answer it. But other than that, I couldn't have asked for a better birthing partner. I didn't yell, either. I just focused on the breathing, not the pain. I honestly did better than I thought I would. So they were right; at 7:23pm Owen Henry was born...stillborn, yes, but BORN! I broke down after the last push. I cried heavily and loud and without concern for how it looked. My baby, my poor little boy.

They scrubbed him up and tried to get him dressed. The clothes we had brought for him didn't fit - they were too small! My boy was a large 7lbs 2 oz, and 19 inches. The newborn onesie didn't fit, but thankfully the hospital staff has a little nightgown on hand. Everyone that was there with us got to hold him. It was beautiful. He was so perfect. Even more reason why I couldn't understand why he wouldn't be going home. He had so much black hair and looked exactly like his daddy. I'm not complaining, I knew I was in there too, but I was so happy to look at him and see my husband. To see this beautiful little person we created together made my heart happy.

For what it was, our hospital experience was wonderful. The staff was so comforting and accommodating. They gave us a "treasure box" to keep little momentous in that my niece and nephews would soon fill with pictures for him. They arranged for a photographer from "Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep", an organization that does a small photo session for bereaved parents, to come and take photos of Peanut. Everything was done slowly so as not to overwhelm us, and I'm very thankful to them. We left the hospital two days later, empty handed.

The Beginning

I had it easy until a few months ago. I had and continue to have very loving and supportive family and friends. College - easy peasy lemon squeazy. I fell in love and married my best friend. That's right, I'm one of those people. About 6 months later, I found out I was pregnant. I couldn't believe it. It's one of those things where you're shocked, excited, and scared all at the same time. I had daydreamed about how I would tell my husband we were going to be parents, but it didn't happen like my dreams at all. I simply handed him "the stick" and together we just stared at it. Our lives were going to change in the most phenomenal of ways...only, not in the way we hoped.

My pregnancy was beautiful - aside from the nausea, sciatic pain, and a couple of other side effects you need not know. Being the person I am, I opted for a Certified Nurse Midwife (CNM) as opposed to your run of the mill Obstetrician (OB). I wanted a low invasive, natural birth experience. The hubby and I even took the Bradley Method birthing classes along with the other courses we chose to take to prepare ourselves for our little peanut. That's what we called the baby. Our first office visit (around 6-8 weeks) we got to meet our little one and the first thing out of my husband's mouth was, "that's it? it's a little peanut." And the name stuck. Later, we found out it was a boy, but it didn't matter - he was still Peanut.

Weeks turned to months and then it was all about waiting...waiting...and more waiting. I had a couple of false labor scares, but was sent home to allow labor to come on its own. Fickle thing, labor, especially if it's your first time. Every pang, every cramp, I would think, "this is it!" But it wasn't.

This is where our story takes a dark turn. I only warn you because I remember it vividly and I still cringe.

This particular morning (I was right at 39 weeks), Peanut was not all that active. He had a habit of snoozing through the weekends so I didn't think much of it. Though, as the day progressed and I still had not felt my little "wombmate", I thought maybe we should call the CNM. She advised that we come in since I had done the standard "sugar rush" to try and agitate him. I drank orange juice in the morning as became the custom throughout my pregnancy. At lunch, I had soda and still nothing. Upon arrival, the nurse was having trouble locating Peanut's heartbeat. This too was normal, since he would always wiggle away from the heartbeat monitors and sonograms. Only this time, no wiggling...there was just silence. So the CNM decided to get the sonogram machine out and just have a look. After what seemed like an eternity, she excused herself. I couldn't hold in the tears anymore. I must admit that I knew even before we left the house that we would not be bringing Peanut home, but I stayed optimistic so I wouldn't worry my husband. But now, it was certain. The nurse said, "We're going to take you to another room." When she too excused herself, I looked at my husband and said, "They're doing that so we won't make a scene." And I was right. We were taken to private delivery room (the one I would eventually deliver Peanut in) and were followed by the CNM, a nurse, and a doctor. The sonogram machine was turned on again, to make sure I guess, and then I heard the words no pregnant woman wants to hear.

"I'm sorry, but there's no heartbeat. Do you know what that means?" I nodded, though not hard enough I suppose because the CNM repeated, "There's no heartbeat, do you know what that means?" I managed to force out a quiet 'yes'. They left us alone for a while, to absorb the news. We sat, our hands on my belly, crying. My husband kept saying, "I'm so sorry Peanut. I'm sorry." I still don't know what he meant, but I never asked. Me, I kept saying, "We were so close, why didn't he just come? We were so close." I still think that from time to time. "What do we do now? Where do we go from here?" I kept asking...not my husband, maybe God.