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.

The Downward Spiral

Normally when I sit down to write, it comes easily.

My fingers flick over the keys, my thoughts seem to connect directly to my fingertips, and out comes what I am feeling.

Today I stared at the blank screen for a long time... Not knowing what to say, not knowing how I feel. I am ashamed and embarrassed. I feel like I am failing at one of the few things that usually comes easily to me.

I have been crying off and on all day. I had a nice distraction: took Landon to the gym with two other girls and their boys.

They both have babies.

Beautiful, gorgeous babies.

One is an adorable chunky monkey of a little boy.

The other is a breathtakingly gorgeous little girl. I can barely bring myself to look at her because she reminds me of Leila so much. A much bigger version of Leila, but the same dark coloring and features, though I can't ever be sure about the eyes, since I never saw Leila's eyes.

I love my friends: they are so wonderful and they care about me so much, but this numbness inside of me makes me feel socially awkward and inhuman. I wonder why any one would want to torture themselves by being around miserable old me. I feel sorry for the burden my friends have been given.

I can only pray that if one of my friends ever needs me the way I have needed them, that I can show even a fraction of the love and support I have been shown.

I realize that most of my thoughts today haven't been fully strung together. I guess it's mainly because I can't grab onto one and hold it down long enough to know what I am truly thinking. My mind is cycling through a million thoughts rushing through my head.

I keep going back to my pregnancy.

My perfect, strong, stubborn little girl.

My pregnancy was extremely difficult and very hard on my body, but Miss Leila... she was such a fighter! I was taken to the emergency room about 6 times throughout my pregnancy. Twice for seizures (one ended up being dehydration related), once for intense pain, once for contractions (at 18 weeks), and I can't remember the other two reasons. I was so terrified my entire pregnancy that I never let anything go unnoticed. I am sure my doctors thought I was crazy, but I was determined that I was going to have a perfect and healthy baby, no matter what it took.

She was perfect.

She was healthy, in the womb.

But four months early is too much for a baby, and she succumbed to this world.

I replay everything over and over in my head. She was so strong, she was so perfect. She was born too early.

What did I do wrong? I ate healthy, I remained moderately active, I took my prenatals, I listened to my doctor, I went to my weekly (yes weekly, from the very start I was seen every week), appointments, I didn't drink caffeine (except for the occasional latte now and again, which my doc said was completely fine), I wasn't around smoke, didn't smoke (never have anyway so that was easy), I didn't drink alcohol. I did everything by the book.

Everything.

I still failed.

Something, like writing, that is supposed to just come naturally to me, and it didn't. It just... slipped away from me. My body failed at being a good mother. My body failed her.

I failed her.

And now I am just falling. Constantly falling... Momentarily time freezes and I feel like things might turn so I can start "falling up" and get back on my feet... But then a baby cries, or I see an outfit I had bought one of for Leila on another baby, or I have to explain what happened, or I look in the mirror and hate what I see... and I start falling again.

But there is more to this story... There is an "up"... And it's all Leila. It's all her. It always was. She was always so amazing, before her life, and after it. She is a miracle. And next, I will tell you more about her legacy.

I Woke Up Today...

Yesterday was unbearable.

It was awful.

It was probably up there with the worst days since Leila passed away.

I went to bed last night crying and wishing all the pain would just go away and I could go back to being pregnant and excited.

My shower was supposed to be this Saturday. I am supposed to be excited and preparing for my precious baby girl...

I am not supposed to be mourning her.

Yesterday we had to relive the pain of losing her all over again. We had to retrace all the mistakes made that led to her early arrival. It was excruciatingly unbearable.

I don't wish this on my worst enemy. I am not a person that wishes pain on people... But apparently people wish pain on me. When I got home some horrible woman had emailed me making up rumors about my husband. It was disgusting. Who does that? Who kicks someone when they are down? Thank God that I actually trust my husband, or it may have actually done damage.

Needless to say, yesterday was rough.

I went to bed last night miserable and at a very low point...

But eventually the tears stopped coming and I fell asleep. And then, something incredible happened:

I woke up today.

And the sun was shining. And my son was smiling. And I had made it through another awful day.

You know what, so far, today has been better.

Fighting the Feeling...

Of jealousy.

I said it.

I am now feeling jealousy. Horrible, awful, deep down inside my gut, green-eyed-monster jealousy.

I hate it.

I am not by nature a jealous person. Not at all. I have always been very content with my life, even with its ups and downs... I have endured every test and climbed every mountain without much complaint. I have watched those around me succeed with little effort, or fail miserably and still come out better than me on the other side, and still marched on. Because I am forever an optimist, forever believing that what I have, my life, is a wonderful gift and that I am so lucky for everything in it.

I don't think I can do that anymore.

All I can think about is what ISN'T in my life. How empty my heart feels. How empty I, quite literally feel. I unintentionally torture myself with updates of "how far along" I am in my pregnancy, only to be reminded that I am no longer pregnant... and that my daughter is no longer alive. I am supposed to be carrying this precious life. I am supposed to be excited and happy and ready to welcome her with open arms. To cradle her and snuggle her and smell her hair and her sweet baby breath and nurse her and dress her up and show her off.

But I am empty.

I have no baby to offer for any of those roles.

No Leila to welcome, no Leila to cradle...

Just emptiness.

Usually, when I am going through a rough spot in my life, I can still find this never ending supply of positivity and joy for other's good fortunes. I never let my circumstances stop me from being happy for others. I am trying so hard to continue that part of me, but I can't help but ache with jealousy from every pore when I see a new mom with her baby. When I hear about someone finding out they are pregnant, or what they are having, or talking about their baby.

I love babies.

I love ALL babies.

I do not discriminate against baby love of any kind.

Babies are incredible, amazing, innocent, loving, beautiful little people, and I can't help but smile when I am around them. They mend my heart, while breaking it all over again at the same time.

It's a bizarre experience.

But about the jealousy: I don't know why I am all of a sudden plagued with this emotion. It's a new one to me, even since Leila's passing, I have just begun to feel it over the past couple of days. I don't like having an ugly emotion in me. I wish I could control it, but I am just so jealous of those who have their children. Who don't have to walk through life as the "mother of an angel".

I truly believe that I am one, though. The mother of an angel, that is. It may sound corny, but even when she was alive, she was truly an angel, and in her death she has changed the lives of so many people, brought so many people closer to God, and affected the world in such a profound way... I can honestly say I think she is the closest anyone could ever come to meeting an angel in this life.

But I would give anything to have her here. To not have to wait. I think one of the things that makes it all worse for me is seeing women, especially those portrayed on certain TV reality shows, that are able to get pregnant and have perfectly healthy babies, who don't really seem to want them. If I could rescue every baby that is born into a world without truly loving and devoted parents, I would in a heartbeat...

But I digress...

I guess there isn't much more for me to say about this new emotion... I have been fighting the crap out of it. I don't know if it's a part of the "Grieving Process" or if it's a "normal" feeling, but it makes me feel inhuman. I don't want to be bitter. I don't want to be "the mother of the baby that died"... But you can't fight reality...

If I could, well...

I would fight like hell.

One Month Ago Today...

January 28, 2011...

One month ago today, my world stopped. The sun stopped shining, the earth stopped turning, and though in all actuality, it beats as well as ever, I am pretty sure my heart stopped, too.

I talk about Leila a lot, because I don't know what else to do. If talking about her makes others uncomfortable, then I am sorry. But she was my daughter, she was everything I could have ever wanted, and my time with her was so brief. I want to be able to remember every tiny little thing about her: from her teeny tiny little finger nails on her loooong skinny fingers, to her cute little nose, to her dark peach fuzz hair, to her skinny little legs and her adorable little feet.

I don't want to forget a thing.

It feels like just yesterday the doctors were starting to be more positive about Leila's fight. I remember joking with her doctor about how stubborn she would be as a teenager. I remember laughing and smiling and dreaming about her future. Can it really be true?

Has it really been one month since we said goodbye?

I am reliving those moments again and again right now. I remember walking down the hallway to her room. I remember the look on our favorite nurse, Donna's face. I remember looking at Leila's body. Knowing that something was wrong. Knowing what I didn't want to know.

That she was hurting.



Before Leila passed away I had received a link to a story about a premie baby girl. The story talked about the daughter's struggle and the parents' pain, then about how she grew into a happy and precocious little girl. One day when at a baseball game, the daughter asked her mom, "do you smell that?" The mom looked around and said "Yes, it smells like rain." The little girl said "No, mom! Do you smell that smell?" Again the mom said "Yes honey, I think we are going to get rained on soon." Finally the little girl says, "No Mommy. It smells like God, when you rest your head on His chest."

As soon as I read that story, when my Leila was still alive, I imagined that God was in her isolette with her. Holding her, breathing His healing breath on her. Comforting her. Any time her fight got rough, I told myself that God was holding her and taking away her pain. I told myself that she talked to God and He talked to her.

After she died, I found myself wondering if God was there with her. I wondered if maybe she told God she was ready to go.

If she chose.

I think I would feel better if I knew that she had told God she was ready, and that she didn't want to fight anymore.

I hate the idea that she just died. No sense to it, just death. It feels so final.

I want to believe that while she was resting her head on God's chest, she told Him she didn't want to fight anymore. That she wanted to go to Heaven and play with angels. That she loved her parents and her brother, but that even she understood that we didn't want her to suffer.

I think she gave us those last few minutes with her, to love on her and hold her for the first and last time, knowing that she was going to go home to God.

I pray with every fiber of my being that she is happy. That she will get some semblance of the childhood that was taken from her. That she will get to do all the things she never got to do down here: like run and play and laugh and cry and eat. And see.

I really hope she can see.

More than anything I wanted to see her eyes. I knew that they were still fused shut because she was so early. Because they weren't ready. I had prepared myself to raise a blind daughter. I didn't care: I would learn to read braille if I had to. I just wanted her to be healthy.

But now, now that she is in Heaven, I REALLY, really hope that she can see. I hope that she sees us and knows that we were her parents. I pray that she can see how much we loved her. And I hope that she can "see" the balloons we send up to her. I pray that she can feel the love her brother has for her. I wonder if he can see her and talk to her. Because sometimes, I swear he is talking to someone... He adores her so much.

I have so many thoughts bouncing around in my head.

So many things I can't put in to words...

So many things I have to do but don't know how to start.

For now I am going to snuggle on the couch with my sweet baby boy, and reflect on my baby girl's life.


<3 My sweet Leila. I love you so. I carry you with me in my heart everywhere I go. I pray for your peaceful rest. I love you, my sweet angel. <3

Hanging in There.

Everyone asks me how I am...
They say I look great and comment on
"how well I am grieving".
On the outside, I smile at them.
I say "I am hanging in there".
And I am.
By a thread.
What they don't know is that
they don't know anything.
Inside I am dying.
Inside I am reliving the moment
you died, over and over
and over again.
The second your heart stopped beating
a piece of mine died.
It dies over and over.
On autopilot, like the rest of me.
There is nothing strong about me.
Nothing strong about the way I am grieving.
I am just doing what any mother would do.
I am "mothering".
Sometimes I want to scream at people,
but I don't.
Sometimes I want to crumble and break apart,
but I can't.
I have this purpose, even though you are gone,
I still have a purpose.
I am still a wife and a mother,
and that is all I know.
So while my heart is breaking over and over again,
my hands are folding laundry and fixing dinner,
my eyes are carefully watching your big brother
as he explores the world around him, running,
jumping, climbing, falling...
doing every thing you will never get to do.
my mouth is kissing "owies" and scolding "no-no"s
and singing lullabies, and saying things like
"I'm hanging in there"
my feet are moving forward, my legs carrying me
to the next destination,
but my heart is broken.
Frozen in time.
In that one moment.
Hanging on by a thread as you took your last breath.