Happy Two Months My Angel...

Happy doesn't feel like the right word.

I'm not happy about facing this day alone.

With empty arms.

Two months ago today I was laying in a hospital bed, an IV dripping magnesium into my body in an effort to stop early labor.

All morning I felt the contractions... Around 8am they finally hooked me up to a machine to measure the contractions I said I felt... The machine couldn't register them, but still I continued to count them all day, Donovan watching the clock when one would begin.

Around noon or so Donovan left to go back to town and see Landon. The doctors still weren't convinced I was in actual labor so we carried on not realizing the severity of the situation at that moment in time.

Around 1:30pm a very sweet nurse came in and gave me a "bed bath". We talked about how she had lost a child several years ago. She gave me a hug after I was all cleaned up and told me that she knew it wouldn't happen to me and that she would be praying.

We still had no idea that I was actually in active labor.

Toward the end of my bed bath an ultrasound technician came in with a big fancy machine and started checking on my sweet baby girl.

The images I saw on that machine were the last I would ever see of my baby girl safe in my womb.

The last images I would see where she wasn't fighting for her life.

She was just kicking. Waving. Flipping. Swimming.

She was perfect.

But she was coming.

NOW.

The ultrasound technician kept pressing on my belly, trying to get a better look. She kept making those noises that everyone dreads hearing a doctor make.

She paged my doctors and a flood of nurses and doctors came pouring in to the room.

One doctor jumped up on my hospital bed and checked to see how dilated I was.

Her words sent me into a panic.

"I can feel her. She's coming down...

You are having this baby NOW."

I started shouting "No! It's not time! Please no! Please put her back! Please sew me shut! PLEASE!... Save my baby, please."

I was sobbing uncontrollably.

I knew this wasn't good.

I called my husband and told him to get here as soon as possible.

I called my mother and begged her to pray.

I updated my status on facebook and asked everyone to pray.

And within an hour, I was the mother to a gorgeous, perfect, but very tiny baby girl.


I was so scared to see her for the first time.

I can't even describe that feeling. I wanted her more than anything, I wanted the perfect pregnancy, the perfect delivery, the perfectly healthy, plump, pink baby. I was so scared to see her and know that she wasn't "normal".



But when I finally laid eyes on her, I was completely and totally in love.

My throat tightened and tears came pouring out of my eyes, but I was so incredibly proud of her.

And so in love.

So incredibly in love.



Today my daughter would be two months old.




Two months.

I don't even know what else to say.

Except that I wish I could see her now. I wish I could hold her. I wish I could dress her up in a special outfit and take pictures of her.

I wish I could see her smile. I wish I could watch her fall asleep on her daddy's chest, or laugh at her brother's antics.



I wish I had insomnia because I was up all night feeding my newborn. Not because I was up all night crying over the loss of my daughter.

I wish I had a million diapers to change and stains to get out of onesies and cute pink outfits to wash in the laundry.

I wish I had a baby to nurse and snuggle and kiss.

I just can't believe it was two months ago today that I met her. That was one of the happiest yet scariest days of my life.




Happy Two Months, Leilani Marie. Mommy loves you. Mommy misses you.

I hope you are happy. I pray that you are living in a world of light and of no pain. I hope that you can see how much love you have here. I hope you can feel it where you are.

I love you, Always.

Mommy.




The first and last time I would ever hold my sweet baby girl. Rest in peace my Angel. I love you.

Yesterday Was Rough...

I wanted to write a post all day yesterday, but I couldn't bring myself to do it.

Yesterday was rough.

Every day seems to have some significance to Leila's life for me, but yesterday was one of the worst yet.

Yesterday was supposed to have been my baby shower.

My awesome, fabulous, Hollywood inspired baby shower.

It was going to be a day all about us. I was going to be pampered, lavished with delicious food and silly games, I was supposed to be the center of attention (and Miss Leila, of course). My belly was going to be the guest of honor.

That belly.

The belly that, to my disbelief, is completely flat and gone now. Most women pray for this, spending hours watching what they eat and hauling themselves to the gym...

But I look at my flat belly, with it's ugly scar serving as my own personal tattoo, constantly reminding me of the way in which my daughter entered the world, and I feel sick to my stomach. It isn't supposed to be flat.

I am supposed to be 7 months pregnant. I am supposed to be waddling around with all the other preggos, rubbing my belly and gasping softly as Leila gives me a strong, reassuring, "I'm still here" kick.

But the kicks never really come. Sometimes I have "phantom" kicks. I swear I can feel her somersaulting in me. I expect to look down and see the crazy "belly dance" that I got to experience with my first born.

But when I look down, I see nothing.

And I cry.

Leila was quite the little belly gymnast. Even at only 4 months my belly (though not very big), was always in action. I am pretty sure she NEVER slept, which she proved during her life as well. When she was in the hospital the nurses and doctors kept explaining to us that her high level of activity was just unheard of. She should be sleeping 20 hours a day, yet she was ALWAYS moving. Her little eyes never opened, so we couldn't use that as an indicator to whether or not she was sleeping, but every time we came to visit, it seemed like she was always wide awake. Kicking and moving and reacting to our every word.

The day I was admitted to the hospital, two days before sweet Leila was born, she had been displaying some Olympic Gold worthy moves.

Constant somersaults.

I mean, some serious flips.

She just seemed so active and happy.

Even though each flip and turn literally made me sick to my stomach, I smiled every time. My baby was moving. She was healthy. It was a constant reminder to me that my baby was with me, and that she was going to be healthy.

I guess I should explain why that was so comforting to me.

If I haven't already wrote about this: the first 16 weeks of my pregnancy were spent with me worried sick. I was terrified that something horrible would happen and I would lose my precious angel.

I did everything I could to be extra cautious and careful. I ended up in the hospital 6 times during my pregnancy. I just couldn't put anything to chance. Nothing was worth losing my baby over.

It wasn't until about 4 months in to my pregnancy that I actually started to breathe more easily.

I felt her move.

It was like whenever I would start to worry again, Leila would give me a good strong kick and say "Here I am, Mommy! Don't you worry about me!"

She always seemed to know just what I needed.

I can't even put in to words how much I wanted my baby girl. Like any mother would, I dreamed about her constantly. I dreamed about the relationship she would have with her brother. I dreamed about how she would have Daddy wrapped around her finger the second she was born.

But that wasn't true.

She had Daddy wrapped around that finger the second he learned she was a girl.

Honestly, even before then, but the second it was confirmed she was a girl (we just knew from the start!) his heart was completely hers. A special "daddy and his baby girl" bond. He wanted his little daddy's girl more than anything.

And he was going to get her.

It's just the letting go part that still doesn't make sense to me.

I still can't understand how we could be given something so precious and perfect and just have it ripped away.

And yesterday, of all days, was the aching reminder that "this wasn't supposed to happen".

I am still supposed to be pregnant.

I am supposed to be happy.

Miserable with pregnancy, but blissfully happy.

But instead of playing "how big is Virginia's belly" games, and baby food testing, and baby themed word scrambles (which I have not yet lost one of!), and every other amazing game my dear friend Kaylee would have thought of...

Instead of those things, I spent the day mourning over my daughter. My heart literally breaking any time I even thought of anything remotely related to "baby".

I did, however, create a wildly successful appetizer recipe, which I will share later.

But right now, I am sharing with you a little piece of my heart.

The little piece that died the second my Leila's heart stopped beating.

That piece of my heart is trying so hard to figure out how to beat again. How to not be broken.

One way is through writing. Every keystroke is one closer to fixing me. It's my therapy. It's my release.

And now I have found another: crafts. But more about that later.

Right now I just want to say: thank you. Thank you for following me on my journey.

It is certainly an up and down ride.

Some days I feel like I am finally coming out of the dark tunnel... I can see the light, still pretty far away, but bright enough that I almost have to squint...

And then I take a turn even deeper in to the tunnel... And I have to start all over again.

And I know you are there with me at every turn, squinting when the light gets near, cheering that I can get closer to it, then struggling to see with me when it goes dark again.

It may not be the most eloquent of metaphors, but it's my metaphor.

You are my metaphorical passengers, so thank you for joining me on my ride.