Pregnancy and Parenting – Page 5

Peru Part Uno

September 28, 2023 3 Comments

It has been a LONG time since I’ve written a travel blog, so I’m excited to bring you new, world-traveling content this week (and next!). My original plan was to split this blog into two: one where I talked about all of the positives about traveling, getting away with friends, exploring new places, seeing amazing scenery, eating local delicacies, etc., and one where I talked about the difficult co-existing emotions of going on a trip during this #veryhardyear. Then, I was chatting with one of my loss-mom internet friends and she said it was inspiring to see me “finding joy amongst the griefyness,” and that’s why I decided to write this instead as a fully integrated post. The good, the fun, the sad, and the complicated. However, a 2-in-1 post means this one is a pretty lengthy, so strap in. It’ll be posted in two installments, but stay tuned, I included pictures.

Let’s start at the top. Many months ago, my therapist asked me what used to bring me joy so I could try to find it again. I could barely remember, but I told her I guessed it was traveling with friends. She suggested I start small, like a brunch. But I didn’t want to go to brunch, and I didn’t want to see my friends.

In my past life, I traveled in the early autumn every year because I always had extra time off from work. 4 months ago, when I realized I wouldn’t be tied down with a baby this season, and when I realized I’d have three friends having babies in September (blog about this coming soon), I requested a week off from work mid-September. My time-off request was approved. A group of my friends started talking about possible places to go. My therapist was so proud of me. Many, many messages and ideas were sent back and forth. Then in July, I fell off the face of the earth. I deleted my social media and I stopped answering any texts. The trip planning ceased, at least on my end. I couldn’t think in advance even one day, nonetheless a few months ahead, and I couldn’t fathom booking activities when I was just trying to get through the current hour.

Then in August, since I hadn’t been on any group chats, I fired up a group message via text and asked if anyone was still up for going on a trip. I was honest about my lack of planning abilities. I said I’d still be down to travel, but that I just needed someone to tell me where to book a flight and that I’d be mostly useless on planning. Ideal travel buddy, right? Thankfully, my friend stepped up and suggested Peru. It seemed like the ideal location because there were nonstop flights from NY and FL and only a one hour time difference, which was great since we had about 9 days total and didn’t want to deal with jetlag. My friends booked flights. I couldn’t get my act together until the next day, when flights went up $150 but it is what it is. It’s just money #thingsprivilegedpeoplesay.

Anyway, we settled on Peru and we started planning. By “we” I mean, not me. My main contribution was asking other people for Peru recommendations and throwing them in a google doc. The one thing I did was book us an Airbnb for Lima. My friend liaised with a travel group in Cusco and did the extremely heavy lift of coordinating everything with the travel agency. The agency took care of everything from tours, airport pickups, train and hotel reservations, and anything else we could have wanted, like advice on how much to tip drivers. Did I mention this was all done 3 weeks in advance? We had extremely low expectations given that this was a slapdash, last-minute trip, and we were all extremely pleasantly surprised.

Our trip started with three girls (including me) in Lima, and we had zero plans. We had a few lazy days exploring the city. We slept in, left the Airbnb around 11 am, got iced lattes, and went on a few free walking tours. We explored the Huaca Pucllana pre-Incan ruins that are right in the middle of the city. We also did some solo exploring, first at the nearby John F. Kennedy Park. The strangest thing about this park is not that it is named for a US President, but that it houses hundreds of stray cats. One of the friends I was with is obsessed with cats, so of course me made multiple visits to the park. These are not just dirty street bodega cats, thankfully. There is an association, Gatos Parque Kennedy, that cares for, feeds, and provides sterilization for the cats living in the park. There’s even an adoption process in case someone wants to take one home. I don’t think you’re allowed to transport cats across the border, otherwise my friend may have tried to smuggle one home (she did not).

We went on a tour of the historic city including the Gran Hotel Bolívar, the Plaza de Armas, the House of Peruvian Literature, and the Santo Domingo Church. At one point, we passed a woman dressed as a zombie bride holding a dead bloody baby, and she had 3 other bloody babies at her feet. I’m not sure if anyone else on the tour noticed her, but I did. At first, I thought I was making it up so I brought it to my friend’s attention. I said “do you see all those bloody babies?” It was not in my head, they were indeed there, but they were dolls. At another point we went into the Church of San Francisco, where our tour guide said “see all those little toy cars by the statue of Jesus? Each one was put there by a parent for their dead child. Ok! Let’s move on.” He was a fast-moving guide. It took me a few moments to shift gears.

We ended the tour with a Pisco tasting in a souvenir shop, where we tried 8 types of Pisco, and then we were hustled into buying souvenirs (we got adorable pom pom hair ties).

The next day, we went on a free walking tour of Barranco, which started out with a bang because we had to take a local bus there with the tour guide. We were surprised to find out that the buses do not actually stop at stops, but instead just open their doors while moving and expect you to jump out. What an adventure. Thankfully we all survived.

Barranco is known as the artsy neighborhood of Lima filled with murals, street art, and lots of great local food. In Barranco, you can also find the famous Bridge of Sighs, where legend has it, if you’re able to walk across the bridge while holding your breath, your wish will come true. I won’t tell you my wish, but I bet you can guess.

Throughout my trip to Peru, you’ll see that eating was a main theme. Lima has become a bit of a food destination, and it’s often called South America’s culinary capital. While we didn’t do any of our fancy eating until the last few days of the trip (stay tuned!), we did a good amount of eating throughout the trip. On the front end of the trip, we ate a lot of street food. I was thrilled to be traveling with fellow adventurous eaters, so we tried and shared a lot of Peruvian delicacies, starting with antichuchos (beef heart). We also tried a classic dessert called picarones, aniseed-flavoured doughnuts with mashed squash. We bought a caramel-filled churro from the street, as well as an ice-cream-looking cone, but it was more like marshmallow fluff? Later in Cusco, we tried alpaca and guinea pig (I’ll save you the pictures). Alpaca tasted like bison, guinea pig was a little bit like rabbit. We knew we had to try the classic rotisserie chicken, but since we like to go big or go home, we went to a chicken place and got chicken three different ways. All three were amazing. We also sampled Inca Cola, which I hated, but I don’t like soda so I wasn’t surprised.

In between our eating, we got our steps in by exploring the city. We walked to the shoreline along El Malecon, a cliffside walking path. There’s a mall there as well, called Larcomar. We walked around and chatted while we sat on a bench and were approached by many locals who wanted to practice their English (and ask us for money). It was beautiful and peaceful. There was also a “Love Park,” which was dedicated on Valentine’s Day. It features a massive sculpture of two people embracing, and it’s surrounded by mosaics with romantic lines from Peruvian poems.

On our final day in Lima we decided to book an excursion to the Palomino Islands. According to TripAdvisor, they promised we would see Humboldt penguins and sea lions, and that we’d get wet suits and have the opportunity hop in and swim with them. The reviews were less stellar. Most of the recent reviews said that the sea lions were extremely stinky, and that the water was too cold and the sea lions wouldn’t get in. We decided it was worth a try anyway. I don’t know why, but I expected we’d see maybe 10-15 sea lions. I am not exaggerating when I say there were THOUSANDS. I’ve never seen anything like this in my life. We donned our wetsuits and were told to put our feet up in front of us to show the sea lions we were not aggressive. Soon enough, the sea lions were hopping into the water off the rocks and swimming all around us. It was absolutely breathtaking, and not just because they were smelly (they were). Our guide had goggles he passed around, and when I looked under water, they were all around us. Hundreds of them were swimming below and alongside us. It was insane. Truly one of the coolest experiences I’ve ever had. In theory, sea lions sometimes come up to you and kiss/lick your feet, but none of them did this to me. I was a little disappointed but also relieved because they are HUGE up close and intimidating. It was a real adrenaline rush.

In our $2 Uber back to our Airbnb to shower off the sea lion smell, I couldn’t stop thinking about how amazing the experience was, and I started getting soooo sad. My thought process went like this: “wow that was the coolest experience ever. I can’t believe I got to do that. I wish I hadn’t been able to do that. No, that’s not true, I’m really glad I got to do that. I had so much fun. I wish I hadn’t had fun. No that’s not true. I’m glad I had fun. But I wish I had a living child instead. If I had a baby, I wouldn’t have been able to do that. I’d rather have a baby. But I don’t get to choose. I wish I could choose. Why don’t I get to choose? Everything is so unfair. Why am I upset every time I’m happy? Why am I like this? Why can’t I just be happy? I hate who I am now. I don’t want this life.” Etc. etc. in circles. It’s really frustrating to be mad at myself every time I’m happy. Some may call this survivor’s guilt, but it isn’t really guilt. It’s more like a consolation prize. I’m happy I got a prize, but it pales in comparison to the real prize, the one I really wanted. And if I had a choice, I’d give up the consolation prize in a split second for the real prize. But I don’t get to choose, and that just fucking sucks. This was the first of many times during this trip that these spiraling thoughts happened to me.

There were many nights where I cried myself to sleep, but I am a pretty quiet crier, and I think mostly no one noticed even though I was sharing a room. Mornings used to be hard, back when I’d first wake up and realize my life wasn’t all a bad dream. But now, nights are the hardest, especially when I’m away from Chris, the one person who I feel truly understands what we have been through. Even he doesn’t always understand how I feel, but he understands best.

As we prepared to go to Cusco, which is approximately 11,500 feet above sea level, we were told to buy altitude sickness medication from a pharmacy and to start taking it one day before arrival. Since Manhattan is about 250 feet above sea level, I thought it would be smart to be prepared. However, as I googled the side effects, I realized that there may be some contraindications with my blood pressure medications I’ve been on since my pregnancy. I scrambled to message two of my doctors and hoped they would write me back. Thankfully they both did, but one of them recommended I down-dose my other meds, depending on what my blood pressure was reading at high altitude. I probably should have brought a monitor, but I didn’t. I spent the next 4 days worried I’d pass out in the street and end up in a Peruvian hospital. Thankfully, that did not happen, but the constant low-grade anxiety was not ideal. These are all just fun continuing repercussions of having a dead daughter, I guess.

The next morning, after taking two doses of altitude meds, we headed to the Lima airport to take a short, 80-minute flight to Cusco, where we would meet our fourth friend and begin our hiking adventures. Don’t get it twisted, we did not do the Inca Trail 4-day hike, we took a train to Machu Picchu. But we did do a good amount of walking and stairs over the next few days. We saw some of the most amazing landscapes I’ve seen in my life. I don’t usually go for blog post cliffhangers, but this one is already long, so get ready for Cusco and Sacred Valley adventures next week!

Can you see how many sea lions are behind us?

Grief and Pregnancy Loss

Big Talk About Small Talk

September 5, 2023 No Comments

I used to be the queen of small talk. Also, I used to think everyone could small talk. That is, until I met my dear, beloved husband. He was the first person who pointed out to me that it is a skill, and not a skill everyone has. He, in fact, does not possess it. Don’t get me wrong, he’s extremely friendly, but he really doesn’t know how to talk about nothing. If you get him going on something he loves or has a passion about, say, the newest Apple product, or international politics, or police brutality, he can wax poetic and it’s difficult to get him to stop. But ask him how his day was? He will say “good.” End of conversation.

This blog isn’t about my sweet husband, though, it’s about me, and I have seemingly lost this important gift. I mentioned that Chris was the first person to tell me I was talented at small talk, but many other people have said similar things in different ways to me before. My best friend always used to say, “it’s so easy to take you places because I never have to worry about you, you make friends everywhere!” This is also why I make a great wing-woman. It isn’t really making friends, though, it’s just mindless chat, and finding little things in common with people so you can fill the time with a drink in your hand. I honestly never gave it a second thought, it’s just something I did with ease.

That is, until 6 months ago, when all of that changed. Small talk is hard now because it’s small. And what has happened in my life recently is HUGE. I can’t possibly think about the weather because I’m thinking about my dead daughter. I can’t think about someone else’s work drama because I almost died. I can’t think about how frustrating it is to deal with airline customer service, because all of my friends are pregnant and I am not even allowed to try to be.

I remember two events specifically where I realized I had lost the gift of small talk. The first one happened a few weeks after I left the hospital. I agreed to go on a walk in Central Park to see the cherry blossoms with a few friends. I was pretty nervous about it. It was the first time I was going to see a group of people, and the first time I was going to see a lot of these people post-baby. Walking there, I figured out a strategy: I didn’t want to talk about what happened with me, so I would ask a million questions about them. That’s exactly what I did. And the truth of small talk is that really only one side needs to talk, and the other side can just listen and ask a lot of questions. The main problem with this is that the question-asker is supposed to care about the answers, and I simply did not. For almost two hours around the reservoir in Central Park I heard about my friends’ dating woes, their job interviews, their vacation plans, all of the little things in life. But they were all just that: little. Meanwhile, all I heard in my head was the BIG thing in life. My empty uterus.

The issue is, when you don’t care about little things, but you don’t want to talk about big things, it makes socialization really difficult. The second event I remember, again I was in a group of people. We had planned a low-key short walk through a street fair and gelato outing. But it turned into a multi-hour affair. I didn’t want to talk about “the big thing” but I realllly didn’t care about everyone’s small things. All I wanted to do was go home and cry. And sleep. It was so exhausting feigning interest while also being constantly on edge that something about me might come up. I danced around it to try and remain engaged. I remember one person talking about their extremely high medical bills and I chimed in to mention that I had already hit by $5750 out of pocket max for the year. Besides that, I don’t remember any of the details of the conversations, since I was mostly thinking about going home, but not knowing how to remove myself from the situation.

When I leave events like that, and I realize I’ve basically blacked out my friends’ conversations and details about their lives, it makes me feel like a horrible friend. But the reality is, I just don’t care. In the grand scheme of things, all of the small things just feel so small! My therapist always chides me for my newfound social isolation, but it feels like a lose-lose situation when I’m around people. The cycle goes like this: I ask questions, I try to care, I fail at caring, and I feel like a shit friend.

I have noticed that this phenomenon is even more magnified when I speak to my pregnant friends. I, unfortunately, have 3 pregnant friends. Four before last weekend, but now I have three pregnant and one with a newborn. I could write a whole blog (or series) about how I am navigating these friendships, but for now, let’s just say, small talk is EXTREMELY difficult. For them, the main thing in their lives is being pregnant, having a baby soon, and the complete role-adjustment of becoming a parent. For me, the main thing in my life is not being pregnant, having a dead baby, and the complete role-adjustment of being an almost-parent, to being an empty, baren, not sure if I’ll ever be the parent of a living child. My pregnant friends don’t want to talk about their big things because they don’t want to upset me, and I don’t want to talk about my big thing because I don’t want to terrify them with my story. So, what does that leave for conversation? Small talk. Dumb work drama. Photos of their pets. Weather. Memes. It all feels extremely meaningless.

I actually pointed this out a while ago to my pregnant friend. Last November, she had gone through a pregnancy loss, and I was still pregnant. I planned not to talk about my pregnancy at all when we had dinner, but she kept asking questions, so I followed her lead and answered them as tersely as possible. When we saw each other in July, she was pregnant again, and I was not, and I was asking her questions. She said she hadn’t been talking to me about it because she didn’t want to upset me, but I explained that I had no interest in talking about the weather and I wanted to know how she was really feeling. This is all extremely complicated to navigate, and as the loss mom, I know I have to drive the conversation since I am the one whose feelings are being protected.

As for my non-pregnant friends, I have been trying as hard as I can to come back to my friendships and care about their lives. That sounds bad in writing. I find myself more and more like Chris, trying to get into deeper conversations that feel meaningful. Surface-level conversations now feel empty to me, so I have been working to have more one-on-one time with friends where we can actually talk about the real stuff. I’m seeking out spaces where I feel comfortable laughing, but also feel ok if I shed a tear. Maybe I don’t care that their Instacart order delivered the wrong milk, but I do care that their egg freezing cycle wasn’t as successful as they had hoped. Maybe I will zone out if they tell me that their husband left his socks on the floor 5 days in a row, but I will try hard to listen and relate if they tell me that their in-laws are driving them insane because they haven’t visited enough. I don’t want my friends to shy away from talking about their problems because they know my problem is HUGE. I may not be the queen of small talk anymore, but I am working toward being the queen of empathetic listening.

I am going on my first girls trip in 10 days. If I told you I was excited and not anxious about it at all, I’d be lying. It’s a huge step for me to hang out with multiple people for multiple days, with many many hours of conversation. As I move forward, I am trying to cultivate time and space with friends who can be there for both ups and downs. I know that all of my friends have their own struggles, and that we can hold space for both complaining about a long hike, and talking about grief and loneliness, all in the same sentence. For that, I’m grateful.

Grief and Pregnancy Loss

Say Something. But Not the Wrong Thing.

August 30, 2023 8 Comments

After we lost our baby, we heard from a lot of friends and family. We received calls, texts, emails, flowers, Instagram DMs, you name it. Some things that were said were great, and some were… not so great. I’ve been waiting for a while to write this post so I could base this on my own experience of things I heard, instead of the usual list. I’m almost 6 months post loss, and I have heard it all. That said, I have to shoutout to my absolute favorite podcast ever, As Long As I’m Living. They did an episode called “I Can’t Imagine,” which goes over a more general list of do’s and don’ts, and in general, I agree with everything they said. There’s one place I differ but I’ll get to that later.

This post requires a very important preamble. I want to thank EVERYONE who reached out to me. I know it is far easier to say nothing than to say anything. If you read this and you identify yourself as someone who said the “wrong” thing, do not fret. Death and mourning and grief are complicated and we, as a culture, do not talk about it openly. It is uncomfortable and it is hard to know what to say. But you know what’s worse than putting your foot in your mouth? Not acknowledging the loss at all. It means so much to a grieving person to hear from friends and family. And sometimes when I heard from a friend on a particular day, absolutely nothing felt like the right thing to my ears, but a week, a month, or 6 months later, I do remember each person who texted to check in, commented on my Facebook post, or sent me a 5-pound bag of gummy bears.

I am not writing this post to chastise people who put themselves out there and tried to console me. I also know that unfortunately, I am not the only person you will meet in your lives who will go through a loss, whether it is a child, parent, sibling, or close friend. I am writing this as a first-hand account of what felt best to me, so you can take this advice and use it in the future. I want this to be a practical and useful tool.

I will be the first to admit that before this happened to me, I had NO idea what to say. I look back at the way I acted when I had friends lose parents and I cringe. I did not understand. I said the wrong things, or I said nothing at all. I forgot important dates. I didn’t acknowledge how hard Father’s Day must be for them. Etc. etc. etc. I hope that my own experience can deepen my empathy for others and help me react in kinder ways in the future to help my friends and family.

I am not an “expert.” But I can tell you what made me feel slightly better, and what made me feel slightly worse.

What not to say:

For starters, PLEASE do not call. If you are very close family, I understand calling, but anyone else, please text. In the early days, I was fielding so many calls from unknown numbers: doctors, hospitals, pharmacies, social workers, support groups, peer counselors etc. I felt that I needed to answer my phone no matter what, and I was often not in the mindset to be screening the calls. It put me in an extremely awkward position when I picked up and all I wanted to do was hang up. I once had a call from a distant family member who called from her work number. Her work, unfortunately, shared a word with the place where our daughter was being buried. I saw the caller ID and I picked up thinking it was a call about the details of burial. I was stuck on the phone for 5 minutes. Eventually, since I was mostly answering in one-word answers, she understood and ended the call, but it was excruciating.

Now on to the actual words you may say. Let’s start with the worst and most common mistake of all. DO NOT SAY “AT LEAST.” There is no “at least.” At least nothing. My child died. I almost died. I find that people start off strong with “I’m so sorry” or “This is horrible,” then they go on to the “at leasts.” As my favorite podcast hosts Judith and Alina say, don’t say anything that could end with “…so don’t be so sad.”

At least you didn’t die! … so don’t be so sad.

At least you can go on vacation now! … so don’t be so sad.

At least you have a partner who loves you! … so don’t be so sad.

At least you’re young! … so don’t be so sad.

At least you know you can get pregnant! … so don’t be so sad.

At least you have more time to save money! … so don’t be so sad.

At least you won’t be super pregnant in the summertime! … so don’t be so sad.

At least you never got so big or got stretch marks! … so don’t be so sad.

I could sit here and go down that list individually and tell you why NONE of those were “at leasts” in my mind, but as a general rule just don’t say it.

Don’t say, “you’re so strong.” This one is my personal pet-peeve. I absolutely despise this. DESPISE. If you take one thing away from this blog, please, please don’t say this. One griever to another can say this but a normal person to a griever cannot. I heard this so much, and I started to get so upset that I started saying in response, “what’s the alternative?” I was always met by crickets. This is my life now. My reality. I wake up every day and this is what I am faced with. Is that a choice? Am I strong for waking up? I guess that means the alternative would be… not waking up. It doesn’t seem like I am “strong” when you put it in that light. When someone says that I am strong, it feels as if being strong is a choice. You choose to go to the gym, you choose to lift weights, you want to be strong. Well, I didn’t choose this. In fact, I’d choose anything BUT this. Don’t say this.

Unless you are very close with me, don’t cry. If you are family or a best, best friend, it’s ok, we can grieve this loss together. It is a loss for both of us. If we are not that close, please don’t cry. It puts me in an awkward position where I become the consoler. Where I have to say, “it’s ok,” and it’s not ok. Also, it makes me feel like I should be crying. Don’t get me wrong, I cry a lot. But in a moment where I am not crying, where I am maybe relaying the news to the 300^th person, it feels strange to have the other person cry without me.

Here’s another one reserved for only close family or friends. Do not say, “call me if you need me.” I won’t. Why would I? It’s strange to say, “I’m always a phone call away” if I have not called you in 10-14 years since I was charged per text message. There’s a big exception here if you have gone through a similar loss. I want to leave interpretation up to you on what “similar” means; if you had a great grandmother die at the ripe age of 92, that is not similar. But if you had a nearly 3^rd trimester pregnancy loss? Even if we aren’t too close, I may very well take you up on the offer to chat.

I feel like this goes without saying, but I heard it a few times, so I will say it: do not comment on appearance or body shape. It is irrelevant and likely hurtful. I know people may mean well when they say I look thin, but all it reminds me of is how I should be bigger. I am aware I have been subsisting on gummy bears and naps, but there is no need to mention it. I have no baby bump, no “mommy pouch,” no external reminders about what happened. That is hard. And even if I did have those things, it would be hard, too! Would I rather look like I was pregnant and not have a baby? Or would I rather look like I wasn’t pregnant and not have a baby? Neither! I’d rather have a baby. Even saying, “you look great” carries huge emotional baggage. Should I look worse? What does a person who loses a daughter look like? Am I not sad enough? There’s no reason to talk about appearance.

Here are a couple quick things not to say, ripped from the headlines a.k.a. things people actually said to me. Do not ask what happened in a public forum. I will tell you if I want. I certainly will not tell you if you comment on a public Facebook post. If I wanted to talk about it there, I would have put it in the caption. Do not ask me if it was a difficult pregnancy. My baby is dead. That feels like the most difficult pregnancy around, no? If you are asking me if I barfed every day, I can tell you, I’d rather barf and have an alive-baby. Do not say congratulations. Read the caption, y’all. If I was announcing a living child, I would have said that. I had one person who commented this, realized her mistake later, and messaged me directly to apologize. Of course, I knew she had written it in error, but I still appreciated her private message when she realized her mistake. The other three people who wrote it probably still think I’m at home with a newborn.

This seems obvious, but for the sake of comprehensiveness, I’ll remind you that platitudes are annoying, pointless and hurtful. I’m not going to waste any time here explaining why you should never say “she’s in a better place” or “everything happens for a reason,” or “God needed another angel.” My eyes could not roll higher into my head. Do not say any of those things.

I’ll close with the only thing I disagreed with Judith and Alina on. They say not to say, “I can’t imagine” or “I can imagine.” Personally, I’m fine with “I can’t imagine,” because truly, you cannot. As bad as you think you imagine it is to be hopeful and excited one moment and then be devastated and almost dying the next, it’s worse. Saying “I can’t imagine what you’re going through” is a fine thing to say. I’d say, “yeah, I hope you never have to.” You cannot imagine, nor do I want you to!

So, if you aren’t supposed to say any of those things, what can you say? I’m so glad you asked. I have thoughts.

What to say:

If you text or email, don’t expect a reply. I saw all of the messages in those first few weeks and I “hearted” or replied when I could. Every text that came in would set me off crying again, and sometimes I just needed to hide my phone under a pillow until I could handle it. Include the words “no need to reply” in your text. It gives an easy out. And if I feel like replying, I will.

Another related piece: it’s never too late to reach out. A lot of people will text in the first few weeks, but a grieving person will be grieving literally forever. For as long as they live and their person isn’t living, they will be grieving. Don’t feel like you missed the window. It is never too late to check in and say, “I have been thinking about you.”

Do say, “I’m so sorry.” This is an easy one if you are uncomfortable with loss. It’s a full sentence. Do not follow it up with anything else. Just “I’m so sorry.” I will probably say, “thank you.” The end.

Another great easy one, “this is so terrible/horrible/painful.” Acknowledge how bad it is. It’s bad. There’s no way around it. Having someone recognize how bad it is helps. For me, hearing someone say this helped me take a step back and be like, “Yea you know what? This IS fucking horrific. I am totally justified in becoming one with the couch and going through a whole box of tissues in a day.”

Related… curse. Yep, I said it, use those expletives. Maybe this one is more me-specific, but the one Facebook comment that made me laugh out loud and then be like “YESSS!!” was when someone wrote “FUCK Emily I am so so so sorry.” I was like “THIS IS EXACTLY HOW I FEEL. FUCKKKK!!!”

Do mention the person’s name who died. I haven’t shared our daughter’s name yet on the blog, but I will eventually. I have a whole post coming about how and why we decided to name our daughter. For most people who lose someone, you will know their name. Use it! I remember the first time I heard my daughter’s name come out of a friend’s mouth, it made me cry happy tears. I was so thankful that she was acknowledged as existing. Sometimes it feels like this whole pregnancy and loss happened in my mind, so to hear her name, and know that she truly existed, it meant the world.

Finally, ask me if I want to talk about it. Most times, people tiptoe around the subject. They don’t know if I want to talk about it, or if I want a completely baby-loss-free coffee date. But trust me, if you’re awkward, I can sense it. The easiest thing to do is just ask. “Do you want to talk about it?” The answer may be different on one day than it is on another. My moods fluctuate and sometimes I want a “normal” happy hour, but sometimes all I can think about is my daughter and all I want to do is talk about her. If a grieving person does choose to talk about it, thank them for sharing. It takes extreme vulnerability to talk about loss (cough cough, like this blog), so to know a friend is listening and wants to hear more, and recognizes your bravery in talking about it, it’s meaningful.

I hope this post was helpful not just for talking to me, but for talking to anyone else in your life going through a loss. Three rules of thumb to take away:

Don’t call! Text 😊
Saying something is better than saying nothing
In conversations, let the griever lead, and listen

Grief and Pregnancy Loss

Death by a Million Cuts

August 17, 2023 4 Comments

TW: Pregnancy Loss

People sometimes ask or ponder what it feels like to lose a baby. There are thousands of metaphors on the internet. Grief is like the ocean, some days have large waves and some have small. Grief is like a black hole that never fills, but you build around it. Grief is like a big black ball in a jug, where the ball doesn’t get smaller, but as you heal, the jar gets bigger. I could go on and on. But most of these descriptions and similes have to do with grief, not with actually losing a part of yourself. That’s what losing a baby is. My daughter’s entire existence was within my own body, and then she was gone. If I could describe what it’s like, it’s like dying yourself, but not in one fell swoop in a large dramatic event. It’s like death by a million tiny cuts.

Obviously, there is one huge gaping wound, and I mean that physically and metaphorically. But the tiny cuts almost hurt worse because they are completely unpredictable, and it seems like they are always right behind a dark corner. Nowhere is safe.

The first cut came the same day I got home from the hospital. I went on Instagram, which is a mine field even on a good day. I saw a post from a friend who I knew was pregnant and due the same month as I was. Her lizard died and she was devastated. Her lizard. She posted a photo of it in her hand. Meanwhile it made me think about how little my baby had been. Would she have fit in my hand in an 8×8 box in a similar staged photo? What if I posted that on Instagram? This girl still had a baby in her stomach, how dare she be upset about a reptile???

The next cuts came from a doctor’s visit. Twelve hours after leaving the hospital, I had to go into the doctor’s office to have blood drawn for labs and to calibrate my meds. I was really hoping for a video appointment so I wouldn’t have to sit in a waiting room full of pregnant people, but the only availability was in-person, another tiny cut.

I was sort of prepared for the waiting room, and I was so glad Chris was with me, but I was fully unprepared for the next part. I was originally supposed to have my 26-week appointment that day and take a glucose test. Even though all of my upcoming appointments had been deleted from the system (thanks to my sister for handling this for me), there must have been a miscommunication. The nurse asked me if I drank the glucose drink. I said no. She asked if I already did the blood sugar test. I said, “I’m not doing that test anymore.” I couldn’t bring myself to say why. The nurse then handed me a packet of papers and told me there was information in there about “how my baby is acting and measuring at 26 weeks.” I looked to Chris and I said, “what the f*ck is going on??” I thought it was some sort of cruel joke. I was waiting for Ashton Kutcher to jump out from behind the door and say I was being Punk’d. I was speechless. Chris said, “we’re not pregnant anymore” and I burst into tears. Of course, the nurse felt horrible and ran out of the room. When the nurse came back with tissues, she handed me an EDPS survey to measure post-partum depression. Another small cut – how could I be post-partum with no baby?? She proceeded to take my blood pressure and of course it was sky-high.

Then, I had to get more blood taken (a physical small cut), and the phlebotomist asked which arm I preferred. My arms were COVERED in bruises, so I said, “how about I show you my arms and you can decide which is better.” She told me she was pretty confident in her skills and had seen some bad bruising in her time, but when I freed my arms from my long sleeves, I believe her exact words were, “damn girl! Those are impressive!” I had green, yellow, blue and purple gnarly bruises spreading from my tops of my hands, to my wrists, all the way up my arms almost to my shoulders. Looking at them through the phlebotomist’s eyes took me immediately back 7 days to my initial few minutes in triage where 8 nurses and doctors were running around trying to get a needle in my arm as fast as possible, trading off to the next nurse after each one failed. Over the next few months, every time I had blood drawn at the doctor’s office, that same phlebotomist remembered me and my bruises.

10 days later, more metaphorical small cuts came at the doctor. I checked my chart online first, to make sure it wasn’t showing a 28-week appointment or anything like that. Instead, it was coded as “post-partum,” which, technically, was correct. I was hopeful there wouldn’t be any mishaps. Again, I waited in a room full of pregnant people and sat in the corner with sunglasses on, listening to a podcast, trying to breath normally. Again, Chris was with me to try and allay a panic attack. We were called into the room, and the nurse started asking all these questions about my delivery, how I was doing with the baby etc. This time I was able to say out loud “there’s no baby” and of course immediately started crying and losing control of my breathing. Again, she felt awful. And again, she proceeded to take my blood pressure and it was sky high. When the doctor came in, I asked her to PLEASE put in caps in my chart that there was no baby and I started crying again.

Two days later, another tiny cut came in the form of stomach problems. One of the main side effects of the medication I was on was stomach issues. Thankfully, I hadn’t had any. Until now. It felt cruel that just as my body was starting to normalize and stop bleeding, it would let me down again. I canceled all of my weekend plans because I felt terrible. And to be honest, I didn’t want to go anywhere anyway. There is nothing worse for your mental health than when your physical health is bad as well.

I was pretty sure my doctor had to be sick of hearing from me, but I messaged her again asking how to fix my stomach. She wrote me back the next day and good news (irony) was that since I wasn’t pregnant anymore or breastfeeding, I could basically take anything I wanted. While I was thankful and hopeful it would work, I remember chugging the medicine and crying, extremely angry that I was even allowed to take it. Another cut.

At least my body wasn’t bleeding anymore, right? Wrong. My body just continued to blackmail me. Two weeks later, I was bleeding again. And again, I messaged my doctor, “is this normal?” Good news: it was “within the range of normal.” Bad news, the doctor said “normal” was that my body could be messed up and out of whack for three months. EYE ROLL.

I took two weeks off work, but I was going stir crazy at home. I wasn’t allowed to work out, which was another tiny cut. I decided I should go back to work because being alone with my thoughts wasn’t helping. But the second week back to work, I opened a Zoom and boom, it was a woman holding her 3-month-old baby. I felt like I was stabbed. In my job, I help people find new jobs, so she was lamenting to me about all of the terrible things that had happened to her in the past year, and why she wanted to look for a new job. All the while, she was bouncing and holding her (very alive and healthy) baby on camera. I’m not sure if she could sense my silence or uncomfortability but she added “of course having this little guy was amazing and the best part of our year.” Then she made some baby noises at him. At that point I just blacked out. I have no idea what I said to her. I was just trying to survive and get through the call. Eventually it ended and I gave up on work for the rest of the day so I could cry.

I haven’t even mentioned the endless tiny cuts caused by social media. As a 35-now-36-year-old female, I know a LOT of people getting pregnant. It felt like a new person every single day. A bump pic. A pregnancy announcement. I only have four cousins, and one of them had a baby the exact same day we lost ours. So of course I saw photos from them and from other cousins. Also, from my aunt and uncle, proud grandparents 3 times over. Just when I thought the social media barrage was done, all of a sudden somehow my baby cousin was 1 month old, and I saw more pictures and a reminder that it had been exactly one month since we lost our daughter. I realized that for the rest of that child’s life, every single milestone would be a reminder of what we don’t get to have. I immediately muted my cousin’s social media.

One of the issues with losing a baby so far along in a pregnancy is that people know and word travels quickly. Soon, it’s not just the people you told, but the people they told. That also means that you don’t necessarily know who knows or when it will come up. Danger is around every corner and you’re left with two options: mention it first and create a very awkward situation, or don’t mention it and hope it doesn’t come up or hope that they don’t know. A million cuts waiting to happen.

Two months to the day after I left the hospital, I was in the elevator in my building with a friend of my neighbor and her 4-year-old daughter. The doors closed and she excitedly said, “you’re having a baby!” I was stunned and momentarily speechless. Then I finally said, “I’m not.” And she said “Oh!” Another awkward silence. Then I said, “I was, but now I’m not.” Thankfully, the doors then opened on my floor, and I walked out.

In a twisted sense of fate, I had told my neighbor we were expecting the week before I went into the hospital. Of course. The universe has a sense of humor sometimes. When I came home from the hospital, I didn’t tell her what happened. I didn’t have the words to tell anyone, but I had asked a few friends and family to spread the news on my behalf. Of course, they didn’t know to tell my neighbor. After my elevator run-in, I walked into my apartment and collapsed on the couch to cry. It was so unexpected and that made it even worse. I was mad at myself for letting my guard down and leaving the house. Nowhere was safe, not even the elevator to my home. Worse, I knew I’d eventually hear from my neighbor once her friend wrote her and probably yelled at her, “how could you not have told me! I felt so bad!” I just curled up into a ball and waited for her text, another small cut.

Sure enough, an hour later my neighbor wrote to me and was so sweet and empathetic. She really couldn’t have written a better message, but it still wrecked me. She said she was so sorry and that she had no idea we were mourning a horrible loss, meanwhile she was picturing us nesting and getting ready for a baby on the other side of our shared wall. I couldn’t stop thinking about that: what could/should have been happening versus what actually was. I started thinking about what was happening with my other friends who were due the same month as me. Instead, in our apartment, it was just Chris and me and a silent house filled only with blank spaces where baby things used to be and punctuated by sounds of my cries instead of a baby’s.

The little cuts never stop coming. It’s the lake house my family booked for a week that was driving distance to New York City, because we thought we’d be driving with our baby. It’s the trips we can now take because we have no reason not to. It’s the weekend mornings when I sleep ‘til 11 am, and wake to an empty and silent room. It’s my friends asking to go to happy hour, and me knowing I can drink as much as I want because I’m not breastfeeding. It’s every friend who has a baby who will now be older than any future baby of mine for the rest of their lives.

I wish that this was a one-and-done loss, but unfortunately it seems like the gift that keeps on giving. Just when I think one cut has started to scab over and heal, I hit something else sharp, and a wound opens again. I hope a time comes when the cuts are fewer, and I have more healed scars than open wounds, but that time is not now.

Grief and Pregnancy Loss, Miscellaneous

Highlight Reel

August 8, 2023 3 Comments

TW: Pregnancy Loss

Last week I talked about social media and how I have been taking a break to get away from the “highlight reel,” which constantly makes me feel like my life is filled with lowlights. This week, I wanted to switch it up and show you some of my own highlights.

I want to be clear that I’m not doing this to show you that I’m ok. I’m not. I also don’t want to give the impression that in these moments, I forgot about my daughter. I didn’t. But emotions are complicated and layered, and they don’t fit into an easy box. So many different things can exist at the same time: happiness and sadness, joy and anxiety, laughter and fear. That said, here are a few times I felt better than other times over the past 5 months. And for my parents, I included photos as #proofoflife. Sometimes I smile, and some of those times (not all times), it’s actually genuine!

(Friends, family, if I have seen you in the past few months and you are not included in this post, please realize that it has nothing to do with you. It’s not easy to get out of my head and feel happy, so if my time with you is not on this list, I was probably having a bad day. There are more of those than good days. Sometimes I appreciate company on bad days even more than on good days.)

Speaking of highlights, my first positive thing that happened was getting my hair colored. For some reason, whenever I am going through some sh*t, I have this feral need to change my hair. I remember after my first horrible breakup I dyed my hair DARK to reflect my mood. This time, I was hoping for a fresh start, so I went super light blonde for spring. I’m including a photo here but don’t judge my ghastly dark circle eyes appearance, this was 3 days after leaving the hospital. You can see the full color transformation video from my stylist’s Instagram. #NewHairNewMe

I was looking forward to maternity leave and bonding with my baby. I was not looking forward to weeks on the couch recovering from a long hospital stay with no living baby to show for it. Two highlights from my recovery: gummy bears & a Friends coloring book. In those early days, I received cards and flowers and succulents, and ubereats gift cards, and all of them were appreciated. But I wasn’t really thinking about food in terms of meals. I was thinking more in terms of what I mindlessly put in my mouth while sitting on the couch barely comprehending Modern Family. I ate literally 10 pounds of gummy bears those first two months. Five pounds of those were sent from my friend who also sent comfy PJs. I lived in those pajamas for days on end while I consumed pure sugar. I wasn’t allowed to work out, and there’s only so much staring at the wall you can do, but I loved my Friends coloring book. It was mindless but it kept my hands busy instead of scrolling social media. Flipping through the coloring book and remembering all of the scenes where I had laughed out loud reminded me of some of the things I loved and found funny “before.”

Six weeks after losing our daughter, Chris planned a surprise staycation for us. We stayed at the Beekman hotel downtown and it was the perfect low-stakes way to have our first night out of our apartment together. We took a quick Uber ride downtown and it was as if we were transported to a different time. I didn’t have to sit at the same table where I was sitting when my doctor told me to come into the hospital. I didn’t have to stare at the empty spot in our living room where the baby swing had been set up. I didn’t have to look at my empty fridge door that used to be filled with ultrasound photos. I just got to sleep in a luxurious king size bed with the man I loved, eat delicious food, and be together. We came home from dinner (one elevator ride away) and put on the thick, plush hotel robes and watched Marvelous Mrs. Maisel. It felt so nice to get out of our apartment and have a change of scenery.

My first major outing after I came home from the hospital was to a Heat playoff game. I’m extremely lucky that one of my closest friends has amazing work perks, and one of those is VERY good seats to events. Since we are both big Miami Heat fans, and they happened to be playing in New York against the Knicks, she got amazing tickets. As I mentioned last week, it wasn’t without its anxiety and pre-outing worries (do I even bother putting on makeup when I’ve only cried once today so far?) but overall, I had a blast. I was able to have a few hours where I could focus on the game and remember what it was like to be out with a friend having fun. We went out for a drink after, and I made it through many hours in a row with company and no tears. I knew I was hitting my maximum of breakdown-free social interaction, so I left before dinner, but it was fun to dress up and leave the house again.

Somehow, throughout these past few months I have been #BookedAndBusy with my braiding side hustle. I am honestly extremely impressed with myself that I have been able to manage any of the jobs I took. The administration of back-and-forth emails, communication of rates, deposits, and then showing up on a specific date and time to carry out a task? Herculean. But I did it. Time and time again. I have had more than 20 clients and events this year. Every time I finish a job, I feel not only a sense of accomplishment, but I am so proud of myself for doing something I used to do with ease “before.” There is nothing like the look in a young girl’s eyes when she sees her hair in ribbon braids for the first time. Again, this hasn’t been without hiccups. Braiding adults and children ALWAYS leads to questions about whether or not I have kids and comments about how good I am with kids. I usually have to do serious mental pre-work before any kid’s party. I braided a mother and daughter for a family photoshoot just 6 weeks after I left the hospital. The topic of kids came up when I was braiding the mom and I was prepared. I said, “we just recently went through a traumatic loss but hopefully someday.” It was a succinct way to tell the truth, and it cut off any follow-up questions. Unfortunately, later when the dad came home with the daughter, he hadn’t heard that conversation and he also asked, talking about how great I was with kids. When I left that client, I was extra proud of myself for being honest, for holding it together, and for being professional. I felt like it was a highlight because it was the first time I told the truth and I felt good about it.

Last week I mentioned how fraught our Jamaica vacation was, but I didn’t mention the main highlight: our anniversary. Chris has been a rock for me these past few months, but as some books say, a grieving person is a selfish person by necessity. I haven’t had the capacity to look after anyone but myself for many months. I really wanted to do something special for Chris for our anniversary, but I knew I didn’t have it in me to order, buy, and hide a unique gift. I didn’t even pack for our trip until 10 hours before. But somehow, I had the idea to email the hotel and have them orchestrate an anniversary surprise. With a few emails back and forth, I paid for them to have champagne and a bubble bath in our room when we arrived. They went above and beyond, with chocolate dipped fruit and rose petals everywhere. It was a big highlight for me before I finally felt like I had done something for someone else, and I wanted to make sure Chris knew how much I appreciated him.

The next week was my birthday. I won’t say my birthday itself was a highlight, I was a mess and I cried that morning after I went to the gym. But my parents decided to come into the city to visit that day, and Mother Nature showed off. My birthday can be extremely hot, but this year it was sunny and bearable! My sister hosted a Memorial Day BBQ, so my parents and husband and I walked up to my sister’s place along the Hudson River. It was so nice to show my parents my usual walking route, to be outside, and to have a brief distraction from the fact that I wasn’t 38 weeks pregnant. I always feel proud and happy when I can show people the little things I like about New York (hint: it’s not the crowds or the traffic).

Some of the MANY braids I’ve done this year.

Chris and I love to celebrate our many anniversaries. Ok, maybe only I love to celebrate them. For our wedding anniversary we were in Jamaica, but for our meetiversary Chris scheduled another surprise trip. This was his belated birthday present to me, and we went to Chicago for the weekend. The timing was perfect because it was also Father’s Day weekend, which we were happy to have a distraction from. The entire weekend was a highlight. We stayed in beautiful hotels, we ate AMAZING food, and again, the weather was absolutely perfect. We got to do our favorite activity together, Segways! Since we had done them a few times before, we wanted a unique experience, so we did a night tour and got to see fireworks. It was a blast (literally).

Slowly but surely, I’ve been getting myself back into the world. I’ve been trying to socialize in safe spaces, which is often with family. Many highlights have been just going on walks with my sister. Doing nails. Talking about normal things without having to act. Two weeks ago, I went to my great aunt’s 90th birthday party. It was so nice to see family. It was not without a breakdown in the middle of the luncheon (why did I bother wearing makeup!?) but overall, I was so happy to see family I hadn’t seen since before Covid. This past weekend, I went to Texas to visit my nephews and in-laws. It was so refreshing to spend a weekend with family having fun. Sitting in my apartment makes my mind wander, and it is usually not to bright places. In Texas, my brother-in-law, a two-time-purple-heart Army vet, took me to the shooting range because he said I needed to “let off some steam.” Concentrating on a target and learning a new skill left no room in my head for other thoughts. What a rush. I came home feeling lighter than I have in months. Being with family, going bowling, getting blizzards at Dairy Queen, I felt like I did last year.

Writing these blogs has been interesting for me, because I have had a chance to reflect on both the good and the bad. There have been both, and sometimes at the same time. I’ve been writing a lot, and I already know that the blog I will publish next week is a doozy of reality, and it’s not uplifting. But between those moments, there have been good ones. Sometimes I have to look harder for them now, but they’re there. Here’s hoping for many more bright spots and highlights in the future.

Grief and Pregnancy Loss

Social Media and Grief

August 3, 2023 12 Comments

TW: Pregnancy Loss

I’m on social media hiatus. I know it’s hard to believe, but Little Miss 4 Instagrams, 3 Facebooks, and 2 TikToks has gone dark. I haven’t been on the apps in almost 2 weeks, and I have to tell you, I feel free and light.

I’ve taken a break one other time since my loss and it was around Mother’s Day. I left social media for 5 days and felt great about it, and then the moment I opened Instagram for the first time I was bombarded by yet another pregnancy announcement. I regretted it immediately. Of course, the ultrasound and bump photos are extraordinarily terrible, but it’s not just that, it’s everything.

I remember a few months ago, I mentioned to my therapist how tired I was. She asked me if I was sleeping well, and the honest answer was, I was sleeping great! More than ever (hello… no baby to wake me up!), and with amazing quality. She dug into my statement a little more, and asked if I was tired like sleepy tired, or something else. I had to think about it, but the reality was, I was just mentally exhausted. Something people don’t talk about enough is that grief is extremely exhausting. There was the anxiety piece – I was always worried that something I didn’t want to talk about would come up – and there was the fear that no one understood me, but there was also the main problem: it takes an exorbitant amount of energy to “act fine.”

When I explained to my therapist that I was mostly tired of pretending I was ok, she again pushed and asked why I was pretending. Part of it was that I felt no one wanted to be around the “sad girl” and I had already lost so much, I didn’t want to lose my friends, too. Another small part was that I was hoping I could almost will myself to be ok, in a “fake it ‘til you make it” mindset. But the main part was, I felt like I was the only sad person in the world. It seemed like everyone else was happy and thriving, and I was… not.

In May, Chris and I went to Jamaica. We took some photos, although nowhere near as many as usual. I could have posted the picture of my nails around my pina colada in the pool. But the truth of that photo was that I was crying behind my sunglasses because I saw a pregnant friend on Instagram, so I was staring blankly at my Kindle and I couldn’t process the words. I could have posted the view of the 5 pools at the resort, but the truth was that I was barely functioning, staring at the water thinking only that we wouldn’t have been at that resort or looking at those pools if I was 37 weeks pregnant like I was supposed to be. My main activity during vacation? I had telehealth therapy twice while we were there. I thought about posting a selfie of us on the shuttle to the airport and captioning it “can’t wait to sleep in my bed,” but the truth was that an old friend texted me that morning while we were at breakfast to “check on me and the baby” and I cried when the TSA agent asked me to open my passport to the photo page. I couldn’t stop crying until an hour into the flight, and the reality was, I “couldn’t wait to cry in my own bed,” not sleep in it. I struggled posting anything happy on Instagram, because I knew how unrepresentative it was of the whole picture.

I realize that Instagram is a “highlight reel,” and people are showing only the best parts of their lives. The app literally has a feature on your profile for “highlights” and no one is ever talking about lowlights. There have been some ups and some downs in the past few months, but it feels fake to talk about the ups, when the downs are so far down. For example, I went to multiple Miami Heat Playoff Games, but when I see those photos, I remember debating whether I could put on mascara or if I would cry it off. I once was talking about social media with my sister-in-law, and she said, “of course everything on my Instagram is fake and highly curated.” But I never ran my social media like that. I tried to be as real as possible, showing highs and lows in my stories, complaining about the dentist, showing my gross sweaty self while waiting for the subway in the summer, not putting filters on my face, etc. I knew I was in the minority, and it became even more clear when I was seeking to find anything real or any sort of struggle as I was dealing with my own, and I couldn’t find it anywhere.

When I explained to my therapist how tired I was of acting fine, she encouraged me to “bring people into my grief.” She said that real friends would be there with me if I invited them in. She gave me some homework to try and make a genuine connection and open up with a friend. I tried, and you know what, that b*tch (my therapist) was right… to an extent. I hate when my therapist is right, but unfortunately it happens a lot.

Chris and I eventually decided to share about the loss of our daughter on social media, and I was ready for empty platitudes and stupid replies, but I found that was not the response. Most people said what they could, because what could you say? I have a blog coming soon on what to say and what not to say, but the reality is, nothing helps. A few people said “Congratulations,” so I recommend reading the caption before commenting, y’all. (“Congratulations” definitely doesn’t help.)

It was relatively cathartic to come out of hiding with my grief. I found that people were willing to share things with me one on one. Sometimes on the very same app where they were posting happy smiling kids and spouses, they opened up to me in my direct messages that those same smiling kids were sick and up all night. Or they had 2-month NICU stays. Or their happy family actually had a member who was struggling with deep depression. Or despite their 2 happy kids on the ‘gram, they had 2 pregnancy losses before them. I started to feel a bit less alone, but I still couldn’t get over an overwhelming feeling of fakeness.

I was working so hard to be authentic, to open up my whole self and show my hurt, my depression, my endless tears and panic attacks at doctors. And then I would go back to the main feed and I saw highs and highs and more highs. I heard all of the “right” words in private conversations, but no one was sharing the way I was. I found out that someone was hiding a pregnancy for months while at the same time, I was throwing my heart on the table. I wasn’t able to balance what I knew to be true through conversations, and what I saw in those happy smiley photos. I knew I needed a break. Sharing things is a delicate balance, and some people are far more private than me. I wear my heart on my sleeve, and often expect the same in return. Unfortunately, social media doesn’t work that way. People share what they want, when they want, in the way they want.

I was recently journaling trying to figure out what I needed in friends, whether it is coworkers, super tight best friends, acquaintances or Facebook “friends.” I came to the realization that I need people I can relate to, people I have things in common with, and people I can feel like I’m in a relationship with 2-way sharing on similar levels. I am fine with surface-level pleasantries and highlight reel-type interactions from people if I do the same toward them. My real struggle is when there is an imbalance, and when I feel like I open myself up to a person and it isn’t reciprocated.

I realize this is a hilarious oxymoron, as I am currently pouring my heart out on a blog that is read by over 100 people, but often gets 0 comments. Writing on a blog feels different than social media because I am writing into blank space. I don’t need a reply, and I don’t need to see anyone else’s thoughts or “perfect” lives. There is an understanding that a person is reading this only if they want. Social media feels like a constant imbalance where I am pushed things I don’t want or need to see. I am sure that I will eventually be back on Instagram and Facebook, maybe even tomorrow if I’m driven to it, and I’m sure I will see things that upset me. My hope is that I’m able to find genuine connections, as well, to balance these surface-level ones. While some people are extreme introverts and are ok without deep connections on a regular basis, I know I am not that person. I crave closeness from others, and I have been working hard to find people who I can relate with, share with, and who I feel will share back. It’s a work in progress, but for me, I know I need that balance before I can dive back into social media.

Grief and Pregnancy Loss

I Couldn’t Care Less. Really.

July 31, 2023 2 Comments

People use the phrase “I couldn’t care less” pretty liberally. Once something horrible happens to you, though, you really do start to care less. About friends. Family. Work. Everything. And yes, I’m aware this is a symptom of depression, but those aren’t the things I will be talking about here. I’ve been publishing a lot of super depressing blogs, and everyone loves a light-hearted listicle, so here is a list of things about which, as Cody Rigsby from Peloton would say, are “not that serious.” Care less.

I could not care less about:

Hard clothes – Let’s be honest, clothes with zips, buttons, and no stretch were left in 2019 pre-Covid. But now for sure. Why would I wear something that isn’t comfortable? Like what is the point; who am I trying to impress? Zoom doesn’t show my boobs, why would I wear anything besides a sports bra? No one sees me from the waist down, so hard pants are a hard pass. Related:
Makeup – Makeup is problematic because it is far too close to your eyes. It is sometimes literally ON your eyes. When your eyes double as unpredictable waterfalls, it really makes no sense to put anything on them. What a waste of time and waste of sleeves when they are ruined as you wipe your eyes with them. Also, who am I trying to fool? Makeup is usually used to cover imperfections, but it isn’t covering anything in my case. You can read my face like a book and no amount of CC cream is going to cover it.
The size/shape of my body – Almost all women, nay, ALL women think about the size and shape of their bodies at some point in their lives. Some think about it at all points in their lives. I must admit, I did too. But I have also done some serious work the past 10 years trying to unlearn those thoughts and behaviors. And I’ll say something here: if there’s one thing that being on the verge of death teaches you, it’s that the container size of your body does not matter at all. Like not one single bit. If your organs work, you are Gucci, as the kids would say. I have a LOT to say about body size/body image/body changes in pregnancy, but for now I will just keep it at this – it doesn’t matter and I couldn’t care less.
Leaving the air conditioning on – Climate Warriors come at me. I used to care about this. I was so conditioned (pun intended) to turn off the AC when I left the house to save electricity. First of all, it saves money. Second of all, it saves the planet. But realistically, it’s only 3 months of the year that you need it. That’s not too much money. And I’d rather be comfortable. Not much nowadays brings me a modicum of comfort, and this is one of the things that does. There are so few things in this world that are predictable but one thing is for sure: I hate the heat and I am far more irritable when overheated. Summer is the worst season. I said what I said. If I can do something so minor like leaving the AC on when I go to the gym so it’s still cool when I come home, it’s worth it. I also used to turn the AC off in the room I wasn’t in. Nowadays, I move around a lot. Namely, I move from curled up in a ball crying on the couch, to curled up in a ball crying in my bed. I need options! All rooms must be cool and ready just in case.
Cancelling plans – Sorry not sorry. If I don’t feel like it, I’m not going. I’d rather be miserable at home than miserable out and wanting to go home.
Making the bed – In 2022 I had a goal to make my bed every day. Everyone loves to climb into a freshly made bed. But when you’re in and out of bed so often, it loses its luster. Let’s be honest, I’m climbing in there whether or not the sheets are pulled up. Also, how many times in one day can you make a bed? Waste of time.

There are many more things I don’t care about, but these are my top 6. Are there any things you all don’t care about? Life-altering trauma or not, I think these 6 should rank high on everyone’s list.

Grief and Pregnancy Loss

Memories (or lack thereof)

July 28, 2023 1 Comment

TW: Pregnancy Loss (some studies suggest trigger warnings aren’t helpful, but I personally find them helpful so I’ll be trying to remember to use them)

Next week I am starting EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing). If you haven’t heard of it, EMDR is a psychotherapy that enables people to heal from the symptoms and emotional distress resulting from trauma. Some studies show that 84%-90% of single-trauma victims no longer have PTSD after only three 90-minute sessions. Those are pretty amazing numbers. And since I’ve already hit my out-of-pocket maximum on my insurance like 20 times over, I figured I’d try anything for free. In my mind, it’s a little like hypnosis and a bit too woowoo for me, but most articles say it’s very different than hypnosis and plus, the research shows it works.

But there’s a catch. EMDR depends on a patient’s memories. The way you reprocess is by evoking vivid visual images related to the memory, and then you think about your negative beliefs about yourself and the related body sensations and emotions, then start to reprogram those beliefs and sensations that are related to the memories. This obviously poses a problem if you have no memories.

In preparation for EMDR, I’ve been trying to remember everything that happened in the months leading up to my hospitalization and loss of our baby, but I have a lot of gaps. First of all, it’s hard for me to pinpoint anything happy. It’s as if my brain remembers how horrific the week in the hospital was, and it has deleted and reconfigured any happy emotions I had at all the entire pregnancy. I’ve been meaningfully trying to remember being happy and excited, but now it’s all tinged with fear and extreme depths of depression.

When we told my parents about the baby, we had created a whole fake story so that we could get their reaction on video. It’s really hard to watch that video now. My mom cried. There were so many happy tears. But I watched that video trying to remember how happy I was and now as I watch, it feels fake. Was I really that happy? It seems like I’m watching someone else have those emotions. On a deep level, did that girl know what would happen? They say hindsight is 20/20, well now it feels like hindsight is just SAD.

Since I haven’t actually started EMDR, I am not sure if we will focus on the whole pregnancy, or only on the hospitalization and loss trauma. But if we focus on the hospitalization, I’m in even worse trouble because I have even fewer memories.

A couple of weeks after I came home from the hospital, I started writing a never-to-be-published blog about my experience and I realized I couldn’t remember a lot. I went through all of my hospital records trying to remember. I had 118 unopened test results in the app. I had pages and pages of doctor notes. From the moment that my OB told me to come into the hospital, my fight-or-flight reaction was triggered. I won’t get into all of the science, but basically when there is trauma, your memories can be affected. Add that to the fact that I was on a magnesium infusion for a week, which causes confusion, and also add the fact that I wasn’t allowed to eat food, and I have major memory gaps. Not to mention the later epidurals and the Ativan. Between the psychological issues and medical interventions, my brain feels like Swiss cheese.

Last week, Chris and I were trying to go through the timeline of what happened at the hospital. There were certain things that I thought happened on Wednesday but he said they happened on Friday. Some of the conversations that happened throughout the first night when we had a revolving door of neonatologists, maternal fetal medicine specialists, residents, doctors, nurses, etc., I don’t remember at all. Even in that moment, I recognized that my memory wasn’t great and I had my sister taking notes on her phone to report to Chris, who was on a last-minute flight back to NYC.

Two weeks ago, I started going through my text messages and phone logs to try and reconstruct what happened. Most of the calls made from my phone in the hospital were made by my sister. I was in no shape to make phone calls, I was mostly sobbing the entire time out of fear and sadness and confusion. My sister called some coworkers to let them know I would be missing meetings and that I wouldn’t be at the strategic planning meeting the next week in Texas. She called Chris and my mom many times, but those calls were mostly made from her own phone.

Then in my call log I saw one call from my best friend that came in at 7:18 pm on my first full day at the hospital. I hadn’t slept the night before because doctors and specialists were in and out of the room every 5 minutes, so I was awake approximately 36 hours by that point. According to my call log, that call lasted 17 minutes and 59 seconds. I have 0 memory of it. None. Not a single memory. I don’t remember it happening. When I saw it, I didn’t even believe it. Even though it was in black and white right there in my palm, I still thought maybe it didn’t happen. I took a screen shot of my call log and I texted my friend. I said, “Can I ask you a really weird question – did I talk to you when I was in the hospital? I’m trying to like put my memories back together and I saw this in my call log and I have literally 0 recollection of this.” She wrote back immediately, “Yes we did talk!”

17 minutes and 59 seconds gone. And the worst part is that I saw that date and I realized it was the last full day that my daughter was alive. And I don’t remember it. Not only are the memories of my pregnancy now completely overshadowed and tinged with sadness, but my final few hours pregnant with our first child are missing from my brain. I’ve been working on giving myself more grace, but it feels unforgivable that I just don’t remember those last few days. What kind of mom forgets the last few hours of their kid’s life? These are thoughts for my therapist. I realize this isn’t necessarily my fault, and that a body’s trauma response is not rational. I realize that this wasn’t a choice. And if I’m completely and totally honest with myself, I’m not even sure I want to remember those days. They were terrible. Every single minute of those days was horrific and if I forgot 17 minutes and 59 seconds of one of them, that could be viewed as a blessing. Some days it seems that way, and some days it feels like a curse, adding insult to injury.

We have so few things to remember our girl by, and the fact that I don’t even have reliable memories feels extra cruel.

p.s. I originally thought I’d talk about physical mementos in this post, but that’s for another blog, if I get to it. I am also trying to give myself grace on these posts. I’m figuring out what I want to share, and what I want to keep for ourselves. There are so few things. And while I think our daughter deserves her own space in the world, I also selfishly want to keep her for ourselves. There isn’t much to go around.

p.p.s. Some of these blog posts won’t have tie-in-a-bow endings. My story isn’t tied in a bow. Not only is it ongoing, but it’s messy. If it feels like a post ends abruptly, it’s probably because I left my computer to crawl into a ball on the couch and cry. This is just real life now.

Grief and Pregnancy Loss

Very Superstitious, Writing’s On the Wall

July 24, 2023 9 Comments

TW: Pregnancy Loss (some studies suggest trigger warnings aren’t helpful, but I personally find them helpful so I’ll be trying to remember to use them)

Last week, I opened a new Listerine. I put some in my mouth then tried to fit the bottle into my drawer in my bathroom. It wasn’t fitting. As I was gargling the super minty concoction, I started fiddling around with everything in the drawer to fit it in and that’s when I saw them: two pregnancy tests in the back of the drawer staring at me in the face. I nearly swallowed the Listerine. I almost took the tests out and put them directly in the trash but something stopped me dead in my tracks. I looked at the expiration dates: 12/23. Would throwing them out mean I for sure wouldn’t be pregnant again before the end of the year? Do I even want to be pregnant by the end of the year? Will throwing them out somehow tell the universe I don’t ever want to be pregnant again? Are my thoughts that powerful? I fit the Listerine snugly into the drawer and closed it without doing anything with the tests. As I write this, those tests are still in the back of that drawer. But closing that drawer hasn’t made me stop thinking about those tests. Every time I wash my hands, I know they’re in that drawer, waiting to be used, or waiting to not be used as time continues to march on and that expiration date comes and goes.

Meanwhile, I can’t stop thinking about superstitions and ultimately that’s what drew me back to the blog. Everyone has superstitions, or at least I used to think people did. I never considered myself a very superstitious person, but as I take stock of my life, I’m realizing maybe I have been. The stakes were so much lower before, so I never took my thoughts too seriously. Growing up, I remember jumping over cracks in the sidewalk to avoid “breaking my mother’s back.” But that was just a childhood game, right? Maybe. In college and in the years after, I had this orange and blue underwear set I had to wear when the Gators played a football game. I didn’t necessarily think that I CAUSED them to win if I wore them, but I figured, “it’s worked before, it can’t hurt!” Just last year, the Miami Heat lost in a playoff game to the Celtics on my birthday. I remember exactly what outfit I was wearing. Again, this year they faced off against the Celtics in the playoffs on my birthday and I made sure not to wear that same jersey. But I didn’t think it would necessarily be my FAULT if they lost, they were coming off 3 losses and I was convinced it was their fault if they lost again. They deserved it! But if I could do this one small thing to help them by wearing something else, why not? And guess what, they won.

According to Merriam-Webster, a superstition is a belief or practice resulting from fear of the unknown, trust in magic or chance, or a false conception of causation. I was recently talking about my superstitions with my husband, and he said he just called these things “quirks.” My therapist, on the other hand, called them “physical manifestations of my anxiety.” Maybe all of those things are right. I told my therapist that rationally, I understand I’m not causing anything to happen, but it’s nice to feel I have some sense of control in a world that is so completely out of my control. I think she was proud of me for this insight, but I don’t think she would be proud of me if I told her I for sure would not be throwing those pregnancy tests out any time soon (or ever) JUST IN CASE. Why anger the universe when I can just keep them safely tucked into the back of my bathroom drawer, collecting dust until they expire?

Those pregnancy tests require a bit of a back story. When I got pregnant, I was thrilled and surprised. Could it be this easy? My best friend was pregnant and we were going to have babies so close together! It was a dream. With the advent of social media and people being open about fertility struggles, I was well aware that conception was not as easy as the movies make it out to be. Having sex does not equal pregnancy. I knew too many people who struggled to get pregnant. But maybe I was a lucky one and it was easy for me! Three weeks after that thought, I was shoved back down to reality when my best friend lost her pregnancy. From that moment on, I became more realistic about the possible outcomes.

At that time, I called myself “realistic,” but what I realize now is it was extreme anxiety. I was convinced something would happen to my pregnancy, too. It’s one of the reasons I never wrote about it on my blog! At my first doctor’s appointment, I made my husband come with me and I remember looking at my Fitbit and seeing my heart rate was 120 bpm. Literally double my resting heart rate. And that anxiety never fully quieted. I made my husband come to every single appointment.

Most people announce their pregnancies around 12 weeks because they are “out of the miscarriage window.” I never felt comfortable announcing. I was sure something would happen. I remember we finally decided to tell my parents at Thanksgiving, and we wanted to give them something cute as part of the reveal. But my 12-week ultrasound wasn’t until 5 days before we were going to see them. I wanted to buy something unique from Etsy, but I was way too superstitious to buy anything in advance of that appointment. What if, by buying those things in advance, I would cause something to happen and then I’d have those items in my house with no baby to announce? I waited until the appointment went well, then I ordered something kitschy and dumb on Amazon Prime to arrive the day before we left. But even after we announced to my parents, my superstition was high. We took photos together, and my mom wanted to post them on Facebook. I told her absolutely not. What if something went wrong? We couldn’t tempt fate. We couldn’t taunt the universe. What if we had to UN-announce? I couldn’t bear to think about it.

I was with Chris’s entire family for Christmas on December 21 when my phone started blowing up. My mom had posted about us being pregnant on Facebook. By that point I was 16 weeks pregnant and we should have been in the clear! But I was angry at her and nervous. Now everyone knew and what if we weren’t in the clear. I walked outside to call her. It was a frigid 9 degrees in Atlanta, but I needed to step away from Chris’s family. My mom explained that she had forgotten that I told her not to post about it and was just excited. She said she hadn’t tagged me, so it would be ok. She offered to take the post down. But it already had so many likes, so many eyes on it, everyone had seen. And more importantly, the UNIVERSE KNEW. We were too excited. Unrightfully so. I told my mom it was too late. I couldn’t figure out how to explain why I was so nervous. Most people would have been so happy! I wouldn’t let myself get too excited. In my rational mind, of course I know the Facebook announcement didn’t cause any of the events to come, but in that moment my superstitions took over.

I had made contingency plans for myself. The weekend before I found out I was pregnant I had two friends over to watch the new Hocus Pocus. Being the basic b*tch I am, I am obsessed with everything pumpkin so I had gone all out. I bought 5 different kinds of alcoholic pumpkin cider, I had ten different kinds of pumpkin flavored sweets. A few days later when I found out I was pregnant, I posted all of the leftover pumpkin cider on Buy Nothing to give away. At the last minute, I decided to keep two cans of my favorite cider. I figured since it was a seasonal cider, if I lost my pregnancy I’d want some sort of consolation prize and by then the cider wouldn’t be in stores anymore because it would be winter. How hilarious that I thought 2 cans of my favorite cider would be enough to make me feel better if I lost my baby LOLOLOLOL.

For months and months of doctor appointments, those ciders stayed in my fridge. The outside of the door of the fridge started filling up with ultrasound photos. The entire door was plastered with our baby at 6 weeks. 8 weeks. 12 weeks. 16 weeks. 18 weeks. 20 weeks. 24 weeks. And still, inside that same fridge door, those ciders sat on the bottom shelf “just in case.” Around 20 weeks, I started to convince myself I wouldn’t be drinking them until they were expired and I had a living baby in my arms. But despite the expiration date, I couldn’t bring myself to throw them out. What would that mean? Would I be tempting fate? What if I still needed them?

When I was in the hospital, I had so much support from family. My sister was with me the whole time and my mom drove in from Philly. All of Chris’s siblings flew up to NYC to be with me. It was the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for me. When I found out I’d maybe be discharged, Chris’s family mobilized and went back to our apartment to cook for us so we’d have fresh, home-cooked food. Not only did we not have groceries, but I hadn’t been allowed to eat in nearly a week. I remember the full-body sense of relief coming home. I remember sinking into the couch and being so thankful it wasn’t a hospital bed. And then I slightly remember seeing Chris’s little sister drinking one of my two contingency pumpkin ciders at the table. I had been on a lot of drugs for a very long time, so it didn’t totally register at the time. A few days later when I opened my fridge and saw only one cider there it hit me.

I told Chris about my secret superstitious ciders and he asked me if I was upset that one was gone. I wasn’t. Who was I kidding that a cider would make me feel better? Nothing could make me feel better! My whole world had fallen apart and the last thing I wanted to do was drink something alcoholic to remind myself of everything I didn’t have. Alcohol was a reminder of everything I had given up for six months just for it to be taken away.

Four and a half months later, that one single pumpkin cider is still in my fridge. What would happen if I drank it? What would happen if I threw it out? Would the world be mad at me? Would I never get pregnant again? What if I need to do IVF? Would it affect my egg count? Will we get denied for adoption? Surrogacy?

Do I actually think my drinking habits have anything to do with any of those things? No. I don’t. When I’m in my most rational state of mind, I realize nothing has anything to do with anything. The world is random. I was unlucky. Every doctor says what happened was “so rare and unlikely.” They say there is no explanation. There was no known cause. Did saving those two ciders have anything to do with it? Absolutely not. Will drinking that single cider that’s still in the fridge affect any future events? Also no.

Recently, I think my superstitions/anxiety relating to other people and pregnancy has become worse. Last weekend, Chris’s friend had a baby shower. There were many reasons I didn’t feel I could go, but one (maybe abnormal) reason was fear. I was nervous that my presence alone would somehow trigger the universe’s wrath and make something bad happen to his friend. Two weekends ago, my best friend, who is pregnant again, was in town and I had the exact same feeling. I wanted to go see her, but I had to call in advance to warn her. I said, “if you think that my presence will in any way jinx you, please tell me and I promise I won’t be offended and I won’t come.” None of that makes sense. I am aware in my rational thoughts that my mere existence in a certain space will not set bad events into motion. But just in case, I wanted her blessing before I visited.

My favorite podcast recently did an episode about “manifestation.” Manifestation is the opposite side of the superstition coin. This has become such a huge buzzword recently. People believe we can just will things into being. But if I’ve learned anything, it’s that we cannot. It doesn’t matter how much you want something, sometimes the world is just unfair. Do people with food insecurity just not want food enough? I’m thinking no. Do people who are downsized and laid off from their companies just not want to be employed enough? No. Do people with fertility issues not want a baby enough? Definitely not.

After writing this whole post, I wish I could tell you I went directly to my fridge to throw out that cider but I didn’t. It’s still there. And guess what, it’s almost pumpkin season again but I probably won’t buy that cider again. It’s too loaded with sadness and guilt. And drinking it would feel like literally consuming and causing more of that sadness and guilt. I guess that’s superstition too.

I wish I could tell you that my superstitions will completely stop, but I know that isn’t true either. As I said to my therapist, whether or not they are healthy habits, having a miniscule sense of control over a world that is so out of my control can feel helpful. And if that means having expired pregnancy tests in the back of my bathroom drawer forever, then I’m ok with that.

Grief and Pregnancy Loss

Welcome Back to Me, My Brain Is a Mess

July 21, 2023 11 Comments

TW: Pregnancy Loss (some studies suggest trigger warnings aren’t helpful, but I personally find them helpful, so I’ll be trying to remember to use them)

Hi everyone! It’s been 8 months and 2 days. I used to apologize for “long” absences without posts, but I never could have predicted an absence as long as this.

I’m still here, but a lot has changed. Or nothing has. Most importantly, three things:

I was 25 weeks pregnant.
I am not pregnant anymore.
I do not have a living baby.

I haven’t posted on this blog because back in November, December, January, and February, being pregnant was the biggest thing in my life, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to post about it. Then in March, we lost our daughter, and I certainly wasn’t sure if I wanted to post about that. I am still not sure. And I will not be sharing the story here now. So if you’re here because you want to rubberneck a disaster, I invite you to text me because I am, in fact, a hot mess. But if you’re here now on the blog because you want to read about my hospitalization and the downfall of my hopes and dreams, you won’t find it here.

That’s another reason I haven’t posted. Because if I’m completely honest, my life is not fun right now. I started this blog to document my life though, and this is my life. That is just honest. So, I decided two things:

This blog is about me, and I can write whatever the heck I want.
If you don’t want to see it, you don’t have to read it.

You may be wondering, if I’m not telling the story of the loss, what will I even say? Well, I have a lot of thoughts. I should warn you in advance, these thoughts are not well-planned or logical in their order. That’s because my brain is currently not well-planned or logical in any order. I feel like one of the “secondary losses” that people don’t talk about much is the loss of orderly thoughts. I used to be a big planner. Type A. Set schedule. I had a weekly reminder in my calendar to send out my blog newsletter. As a great example, I STILL have a weekly reminder to send out my blog newsletter. It went off yesterday. It goes off every week and every week I ignore it. But I haven’t deleted it! Everything in my brain now is in shambles and I just wake up every day like an adventure. Who knows what will happen or when or why or how? I certainly didn’t expect or plan for THIS to happen, so why expect or plan for anything? If you were wondering if this makes work and my professional life complicated, it does. Keeping track of tasks is a lot more complicated than it used to be and I need lots of technological aids.

Anyway, as you can see from that previous paragraph, expect some rambling. It’s a struggle. If you’re surprised that I decided to come back to the blog even though I can’t form cohesive thoughts, I’m surprised, too. But last night I had this strong urge to write about something and I couldn’t quiet it. I started the blog because I loved to write, and that is still true. I’ve been writing this whole time in a never-to-be-published blog and in a journal. But there’s something different about putting thoughts into the world for people to see. The possibility of having someone else read my craziest thoughts and relating to it gives me hope and purpose.

Personally, throughout the past few months, I have so appreciated the podcasts and Instagram accounts and Facebook groups of people dealing the same struggles as me. It’s terrifying to see how common it is, but it’s also extremely heartwarming to know I’m not alone. Sometimes I don’t want to see them and I put things on mute, but sometimes they are the only things that make this feel bearable. If a community holds a loss together, they collectively can carry more. Those are two more of the reasons I decided to come back to the blog: to find community and to bring people into my new (and often depressing) reality.

More coming soon.

♥ ,

Emily

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