March is Pregnancy After Loss month. This is a month that we celebrate our pregnancies and birth after pregnancy of infant loss. A baby born after a loss is often referred to as a Rainbow Baby. At first, this is what I used to call my baby when I was pregnant, but now I have a love-hate relationship with calling him my Rainbow Baby.
When I was pregnant after my loss, I downloaded a pregnancy tracking app. I was more than paranoid and anxious throughout my pregnancy. When I signed up for the app, it asked me what I wanted to name the baby. Because I didn’t know the sex, I named (him) Rainbow.
Until my subsequent pregnancy after loss, I had never heard of the term “Rainbow Baby”, but I liked it. It was positive and I hadn’t had much of that since my twins’ death. As I got further along in my pregnancy I began to incorporate rainbows in his nursery, in his outfits, and I often referred to him as my Rainbow Baby.
I was still grieving my twins’ death. They were everywhere to me. But my living baby was my happiness. He was my pot of gold after the storm and at the bottom of the rainbow. My baby was going to survive. I held on to hope that he would be lucky and make it to the earth-side.
He arrived, healthy, strong, and beautiful beyond any imagination. My baby, my Rainbow Baby was absolute perfection and he was here. When we brought him home, he was wearing a custom onesie with a rainbow pattern, he had rainbow diapers, and his nursery had a few nods to rainbows. It was rainbow overload. When I look back at it now, it was ever-consuming.
After a while, my Rainbow baby and I grew attached to each other and the guilt began to rear is ugly head. My baby who had a name started his life in the shadows and past of his dead siblings. How would he feel growing up and knowing that he was “after” them.
Then began the love-hate relationship of calling him our Rainbow baby. When someone would mention the term Rainbow baby, I would correct them and remind them that he had his own identity. He is separate. My baby who I gave birth to after my devastating loss is a gift and an absolute blessing.
There is a place for the term Rainbow Baby, I whole-heartedly believe this to be true. This term of Rainbow brings hope and we pray for luck, especially after a a death. We need something to look forward to, something positive, something that brings us peace and love.
But I want to be clear, his life has nothing to do with their deaths.
He WAS my rainbow after the storm. But now he’s my sunshine, my little lover, and life is so much brighter with him in it (and coincidentally, his name means happy-go-lucky).
If your little Rainbow Baby gives you peace and hope and you will continue to call your little sweet your Rainbow, I encourage you to do so. If you feel the same as me by having a love-hate relationship with the term Rainbow Baby, I’m good with that too. It’s a constant internal fight to understand and organize your feelings of having a baby after your child’s or children’s death. There is no clear answer. This is your path and your journey, I wish you peace and love as you find your way.
Death cannot be compared. Grief cannot be compared.
My babies’ death will always be mine. For as long as I am alive, my miscarriage will always be my biggest loss.
The way I see it, grief is like a snowflake. There are similarities but there is no two the same. Grief is a slow descent; it hits the warm ground melting into a water droplet creating space. But sometimes the water freezes making it difficult to move, becoming stuck like ice. So this is my grief , it’s the ice, and it’s stuck.
Pain is not meant to be compared, it’s meant to be shared
-Ashley Stock
I saw a quote from another grieving mother on Instagram, her name is Ashley Stock. She lost her three year old daughter, Stevie to DIPG, a form of relentless cancer. In an Instagram post she writes, “Pain is not meant to be compared, it’s meant to be shared”. This struck a huge chord in me because she’s right! I have a right to be in pain. It’s ok for me to grieve. I don’t need permission to be sad over my twins’ death. I want to share my story. They mattered, so did their deaths. It all matters when we walked down this path of parenthood that didn’t happen on the earthside. We have to stop comparing our grief.
For so long, I had guilt about missing my babies and compared my grief to other stories. I buried it. I always wondered, “how can I hang on to pain for so long when I didn’t feel them?” , “people must think I’m crazy because I talk about them so much”, “maybe they’re right, I am lucky I wasn’t too far along”. But then I come to and realize that thinking that way is crap. Complete and utter crap. We shouldn’t compare our losses because we should be comforting each other. Comparing a loss is just cruel. It’s minimizing life. It’s lessening the importance. Regardless, if your miscarriage happened at 3 weeks or 30 weeks, that child is loved, wished for, dreamed of, and so important.
I have a right to grieve. It’s ok that I will never get over my children dying before me. I should be able to talk about my miscarriage and not worry about comparing another miscarriage and wondering “oh, they had it worse off than me”. It’s this type of thinking that’s toxic and I am over it. I should be able to miss the four hands I never got to hold. The two voices I never heard. The two faces I didn’t get to kiss. This is what I miss. It is what I grieve. This is my loss.
My story is mine. It is unique.
My hope for you is that you give yourself permission to cry and find the opportunities to miss your child or children. I hope that you grieve your loss as long as you need to. I really hope that you stop comparing your grief. Stop comparing your sadness to mine, to someone else’s, or allow anyone to minimize your loss. Your grief and your loss matters. Feel it, embrace it, and heal with it. Use your experience to do some good in our world.
This is your story. It is unique.
A Short Story
I am going to tell you why my miscarriage matters.A few weeks ago, I was out for a walk with my 8-year-old and 1 year old. An elderly neighbour couple stopped us, and we spoke for a while. After several minutes of talking about my boys (older people love talking about the kids), they asked me about the age between my boys. They continued to ask why there was such a large age gap. I always dread these questions. I take a deep breath and tell them that we lost twins in two separate miscarriages.
They looked at me with empathy. Almost, embarrassed and unsure of what to say next…or so I thought.
I thought that would be it for the topic, but then came the dagger, “….how far along were you?” I let out a big sigh and though I didn’t need to, I explain that we suspect 8 weeks for our first baby, and we estimated 10 weeks for the second twin. She replies “oh, that’s good you weren’t far along”. It felt like a lightning bolt sending a shock through my body. I can feel myself get fired up with anger. I take a deep breath unsure if I wanted to scream, walk away, or explain myself. In that moment, I chose to end the conversation…though I wanted to tell them my painful story.
My Miscarriage Matters
My miscarriage matters, despite what she thinks. Despite what anyone thinks. My babies were special. They were loved. They mattered.
Sadly, this isn’t the first time this situation has happened to me. In fact, it happens often that my miscarriage isn’t important because I wasn’t “that far along”. You know what, screw you and your opinions. Because, I. DON’T. CARE. ANYMORE.
My miscarriages happened. It happened to ME! They happened a week apart. There was pain, there was devastation, there was hurt, there was heartbreak. There was trauma. Don’t YOU tell me, “at least you weren’t that far along” as if your words are going to make me magically feel better, because you know what, they actually make me feel one hundred times worse!
I wonder if her reaction or sympathy would have been different if my babies were further along?
My babies had heart beats…both of them. Then one didn’t. Then a week later, they both were gone.
If You Want to Say Something…
So here is what I really want to say, if you are reading this and haven’t gone through a miscarriage, please don’t ask the gestation of their loss. Be there for her. Listen to her story. Tell that mom that she is so strong. Don’t make it about you or your comfort. Don’t try to justify the loss or death. Just listen. Be empathetic. Offer a hug. Show compassion.
If you have suffered a loss and someone asks your gestation, ask them if it matters? Tell them what you need. Or don’t say anything at all. I have learned that people don’t respond well when they don’t know what to say. Or when they are put on the spot and don’t have an answer. People want reasonings and justifications. But most of all they want to fix it. I usually tell people that my babies were loved so much. Even if I only had 2 months with them, the love my family and I have for them is enough for a full lifetime. When my time is up earthside, I know that they will be waiting to greet me at the gates of heaven.
Please know that your miscarriage matters. Even if it happened twenty years ago, it mattered. If it happened yesterday, it mattered.
It will always matter.
They were both gone. I lost both of my babies. The space between my children became bigger.
The D & C procedure was happening the next day. The next morning, my husband and I took our son to school together. I had to say good-bye. That was so hard. He didn’t know what was about to happen. He was just happy to have his mom and dad with him taking him to school. Just so happy.
The Space Between My Children was about to widen
We arrived at the hospital. Waiting, we sat in silence and saw other people prepping for their day surgery – wondering “why they are here?”, wondering if they thought the same. Then it was my turn. I changed into those beautiful hospital gowns, moved to a bed where I had to wait. My husband was brought in where he could wait with me. He sat with me, holding my hand.
I didn’t want to do this anymore, I didn’t want any of it. All I wanted my babies. I wasn’t ready to say good-bye.
Then I heard a baby cry.
A baby!
A beautiful baby has just arrived and mine are being taken away! This wasn’t fair! It felt so ironic. But weirdly enough, as much as I was so sad, I was comforted to know that this new mom has an amazing new blessing and I was so incredibly happy for her.
The doctor came in to see me and was aware of my reaction to the new baby that was born. He turned around and I heard him in the hallway direct the nurses to move new mom into recovery. Avoiding any contact in the hall because of a “pregnancy loss”. Yep, I was sad, but he had it all wrong, though, later I had an appreciation of what he was trying to do.
My Turn was Next
It was my turn. The nurses had to say goodbye to my husband, they started to wheel me away. I kept my gaze on my husband, I could tell he was trying to keep it together, I finally saw the affect this all has played on him.
The panic set in, like full-blown panic.
“Nope… I don’t want to do this…”, he kissed my hand and I was wheeled away. I wasn’t in control, once again.
When we got into the room before surgery, I laid there. The nurse seemed nice, she had kind eyes behind her mask. I said, “I need to ask you something…”. She looked at me and said “sure”. I asked in a whisper cry “what happens to my babies?”. She knelt beside me and told me (this would not comfort me, instead, the fact is they were considered “tissue” and not babies), then wheeled me into the operating room, where the fate of lengethening in the space between my children awaited.
There, I laid on the table and people moved around me. I tried to see what everyone was doing, but there were too many. My arms were put out straight, they secured my hand to the table. I began to cry, big tears were streaming down the side of my face. I felt constrained, like I was being punished. The kind nurse came by my head, held the top of my head, and then she put the oxygen mask on me. I am claustrophobic and said, “I don’t want to do this…don’t make me do this…I want my babies…I am not ready to say good-bye”. There was a coolness in my left hand and then nothing…
That was it.
What happened next…
I woke up and couldn’t get out of that hospital fast enough; I needed to be at home. They told me to take it easy and rest. I didn’t care what they wanted me to do. Nothing about me mattered at this point.
On our way home, I asked my husband to stop by my son’s school. This part of the story is a regret of mine. We stopped at my son’s school so I could groggily watch my son run laps for his local Terry Fox run. A teacher must have sensed something was up, she came over to us and asked if I was ok (later on, I was told that I was swaying as I was standing), she brought me a chair. I was still high on medication; she asked if I was ok. I literally blurted out, “I just had surgery to remove my babies”. Her face was shock and sadness. She held me and began to cry. She had to walk away to hide her own emotion. We left not too long after. I felt shame, embarassment, and regret.
As soon as I got home, I became sad. I missed my little bump, I missed my babies, I rested as best as I could. But I felt empty, I felt hollow, I felt alone.
The Space got Longer, the Gap Became Larger Between my Children…
The days went on. I continued to have friends check in on me. I received beautiful flowers. Phone calls. But those all faded. The time and space between my children still exists, along with the heartbreak.
I still have my sad days, the days of wonder, and “what –if’s”. Although, life is different, I still miss my babies.
One gift that I hold special to me is two silver pendants of baby angels. I took them everywhere with me and had blessed by our priest. These pendents and my ultrasound picture of my twins together is all I have. These are the two things that I cherish, still to this day.
My girlfriend said something to me that offered me the most comfort during one of my dark days, she said:
“…Through this storm of sadness there will be light. You will be a different mother from this day forward. Moments never taken for granted. Your precious angels still had a profound impact on your life and will never be forgotten”.
This is true, I am different. I am trying but I am so different. My losses changed me as a mother, it changed me as a wife, it changed me as a woman. Forever, I am different.
I am a Statistic, 1 in 4
I never thought that I would be a 1 in 4 statistic. This number is so high and I had NO idea that my experience and loss is so common. There are so many mom’s out there who feel empty. Those who feel hollow. Those who do not get to see or hear their baby’s heartbeat or take their baby home from the hospital. The mom’s who longs for her children but the space becomes wider and wider, with no closing in sight.
My heart breaks for all the fathers who just don’t know what to do or how to grieve. I feel so sad for those who have to face the sadness that comes within the space of tragedy of losing their children before they can be “ok” enough to be “ok”.
I wish I could give you any ANYTHING to help make this pain any easier, but I know first-hand – there is A LOT of good intentions offered during this period, but nothing will make it any easier. What I have been saying to people who do not know what to say or maybe unintentionally say the wrong thing was, “Thank you. But nothing you say will make me feel better.”
This sucks! I wish I had the answers, I wish I knew what went wrong; I wish I had my twins. No one should have to endure this emotional pain. I wish I knew how long it would take to heal. I wish…
Here is what I can share with you:
Take your time. Cry. Write. Sing. Grieve unapologetically. Do whatever you need to get to tomorrow. Hold the love for you babies and all of our babies! You won’t forget. You won’t fully heal. That scar will be there forever, but you will learn to smile again. You will learn to laugh and be happy. Give yourself the space. The guilt and shame is normal, but you have to know that your children want you to be happy. They want you to remember them. They want you to hold them tight in your heart. Be ok with how you feel today, then decide how you want to live tomorrow.
This is part 2 of my story of the pregnancy loss of my twins, describing the the hope, then pain endured within the space of my children.
My follow-up ultrasound was scheduled one week later; until then I would sit, wait, pray, hope, and wonder if my second baby would survive.
We came home from the hospital.
Home…
It felt empty.
The air felt cold.
I felt lonely.
I put on my brave mommy face and tucked my son in for the night. He knew something was different. I told him that I was fragile and I couldn’t lift him (he didn’t know his mommy had babies in her tummy). I had to protect Twin B and I was going to save my baby.
That night, I called my parents. This pregnancy was going to be a Thanksgiving surprise, but I needed them to know NOW. They live 4 hours away. This conversation was heartbreaking. My mom wanted to come to me that night, but I stopped her. But I kept telling myself everything was going to be ok. That is what I believed.
My husband was awesome. He took time off work, he sat with me in silence; we talked about how awesome it would have been to have two babies. About how awesome Twin B will know that he or she has their very own angel. We spoke about our faith, our life, our future, our children.
Following the doctor’s orders; I slept in, napped, binged on Netflix, no more running and exercising, I ate healthy and took short walks, I prayed so hard, I grieved my lost baby.
Within the Space of waiting…
That week went by painfully slow. I noticed the spotting stopped, so did my pregnancy symptoms. No more nausea, my hair was falling out, I was not as tired. But I kept the faith and thought it was my head playing games on myself…because Twin B was going to be fine. I read online that sometimes with twins one baby does not have a heart beat and the other does…then at the next ultrasound both are beating. Strong beats. Two healthy babies. I told myself “that was going to be my story”; I just knew it and I had to believe it!
My close friends checked in on me, brought us food, texted, all the love helped melt some of the loneliness away. But sometimes I didn’t want to talk, or didn’t reply to texts. Sometimes, I just hid in my room. Sometimes I just stopped being a mom. I didn’t feel worthy of the title “mom”. How could I?
Life went on and I was numb…
My son’s 5th birthday party was that weekend, we had 18 kids gracing us with their squeals and energy. We HAD to be ok. But I wasn’t. The party was planned, it was happening, so we got ready, and we were distracted. I was there in body, but my soul was dreading what was to come…
Ultrasound Day…
It was a Tuesday. The day I had my ultrasound. My husband came with me, despite asking (and knowing the answer), he was not allowed in. Not being able to help it, I cried during this ultrasound as well, this time the tears fell silently.
Without being able to help it, I stared at the technician who was taking a lot of pictures. She didn’t look at me one. She didn’t speak. Never asking how I was. She did nothing. While she was finishing, my crying became louder. Between sobs I asked…no, I pretty much begged, “is there a heartbeat?”. She said that she is not able to disclose any information and would need to have a radiologist look at the results. She quickly left the room, she just left. I knew…I just knew. Just before the door was closed behind her, I collapsed. I fell to the hospital floor. I cried and I cried loudly. From the floor, looking at the screen, it was blank. The computer was off. How cold she was that she couldn’t even give me a picture of my baby?? Literally, I have nothing from that day.
Never given the chance to say good-bye.
I ran out of there, sunglasses on, my husband knew. I needed out of there…again, having to run through a mass of people waiting in the Emergency room witnessing the second biggest loss of my life…I just wanted to be invisible. Inside I was screaming at everyone to stop looking at me. Panic, fear, so much immense pain.
Running to my car, my husband was a stride behind. My faith left behind.
It was over…when it had only begun…
In the car it was more crying…until I couldn’t cry anymore. We drove….just drove in complete silence. My husband called our doctor’s office, they booked me in immediately and we were to be seen in 2 hrs. We got there an hour early. My eyes were puffy and my sunglasses left on. We waited. More people looked at us while we waited. Babies, pregnant women, sick pre-teens, the elderly. We sat in silence. I have never felt so obvious, yet invisible at the same time.
Now, it was our turn. Our doctor told us the news we already knew. We are so damn lucky, we have a husband-wife medical team. They have empathy, compassion, and show comfort. On this day, we saw the husband. He offered his condolences, that’s when I realized, they were dead. Without any rush, he listened. He explained that we will never know why this happened, he told us that the baby appeared to grow further, but sadly died too.
We discussed what we would need to do. He stated that I had the option of a D&C (Dilate and Curretage) or let the miscarriage happen naturally. He explained that allowing myself to miscarry naturally may come with complications. Continuing to say, that I may only pass one baby or neither naturally. He left us with the information and stated that we would have another consultation with an OB who would explain the procedure, if we chose that path…there would be more waiting.
Our son needed us. He needed me.
After the appointment, we picked up my son from school. My husband went in (sunglasses still on) and my little guy came skipping to the car “hi mama!”. I could barely muster “hey baby”. We got home and I rushed to my bedroom. I held on to the ultrasound from the first scan, crying. Unable to do anything else.
While I was crying into my pillow, my little man came in with his daddy. Together we sat on my bed. I wiped my tears and my husband and I told him that mommy had babies in her tummy, but they died.
He was puzzled, this must have been so confusing for him. He asked where the babies were, we told him that they are in heaven. My son saw a painting of his hand that is hanging in my room he had given me the first few days of school. This picture is to represent the book “The kissing hand”. He kissed his palm and put it on my belly and said “my love will bring the babies back, right?”. We told our little, innocent, loving, happy-go-lucky, (almost) 5 year old that once you go to heaven; you can’t come back. It stung to tell him this truth. Looking at us, he said “ok…” and off he played. I am so grateful that he did this.
Another day, the same reality
Unfortunately, my nightmare wasn’t over. The next day was my consult with the OB to again discuss my “options”. When I arrived at the Dr’s office, I saw one of my closest friends, in the waiting room. She had no idea that ANYTHING had happened, but she knew something was up. She said, “you don’t look impressed…” I sat beside her and told her why I was there. She held me and we cried together until she was called in for her own appointment.
Then It was our turn. Meeting with the OB he was as good as he could have been; he explained the procedure and I stated that my husband and I had decided on proceeding with the D&C. The Doctor was very patient and answered my questions about the procedure and about the twins. He was confident that my babies were fraternal (which means there were two separate fertilized eggs). He also reiterated something that I had heard many times during this ordeal (though, not believing it) that “there was nothing (I) could do”. Sorry, but no matter how many times I heard that, it still doesn’t make me believe it. Of course, this didn’t make me feel better.
Continued to Within This Space Between My Children part 3…
Can we talk about post-partum after you lose a baby in pregnancy? I mean, how do you live after the loss of a baby?
When I was home after my losses, I found NOTHING on the internet that was remotely helpful when going through the post-partum grief. NOTHING. Friends or family didn’t know what to tell me. Or what they said wasn’t what I needed.
It was extremely frustrating. I knew that millions upon millions of other women have gone through similar experience, yet no one wants to talk about it. Well, I’m going to talk about it.
Let’s talk about the hormones
Let’s talk about the pregnancy hormones for a second…despite losing one of my two babies; I was still pregnant with my second baby. Pregnancy hormones + grief. Let’s try an organize that first. But wait, I was told and I knew that this second baby wasn’t going to survive, so let’s throw on a dash of hopelessness and a sprinkle of hope that the doctors are wrong! Let’s see what happens. Then, I was encouraged to stay calm, stay positive, stay healthy for baby number two…which they had already told me wasn’t going to survive. Talk about being absolutely confused in a place of already immense confusion.
Then my second baby died.
Here come the post-partum pregnancy hormones crashing down on an already overwhelmingly, oversaturated, immense feeling of guilt, grief, and shame.
It is so messed up. There I was, bleeding, crying, cramping, doing all the things that a woman who has just delivered a baby does. Then comes the leaking of the breasts. The hair loss (yep, that still happens). Then those post-partum hormones do a nose-dive. It was exactly like I had delivered baby, but without the babies.
Here’s what happens next…
Then about 4 weeks after that, Flo shows up. Yep, she’s a bitch! So just before that I was PMS’ing hard! You know, trying really hard to see how good things are, when really it’s complete shit!
By this point, my body doesn’t know up from down. I went from pregnancy highs and hormone lows, to grieving a baby and hanging on to hope for the survival of #2, to then post-partum hormones with the loss of two babies, to getting my period about a month that the ordeal began.
Riding the wave of emotion
To this day, I’m not sure how I walked out of it. What I want from writing about this is for anyone who has had to go through or is going through this to know… it sucks. This whole up and down wave riding sucks! Let it suck. Don’t let anyone tell you “it’s for the best”, or “you’ll get over it”, or whatever other “reasoning” someone wants to say to make themselves feel better… the roller coaster of emotions is real and it sucks!
Feel it.
Live it.
Survive it.
Once you come out of it, you will be a new person. What that looks like, I’m not sure. I just need you to read and know that it’s real. But mostly, you aren’t alone….YOU. ARE. NOT. ALONE! I am proof that you can live after the loss of your baby. It may not feel like you can, but yes you can and you will!
