Grief and Pregnancy Loss, Pregnancy After Loss

The Anger Zone

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Anger is not an emotional state I typically find myself in. Not before my first pregnancy, not ever. This is not to say I never get mad, but I don’t usually sit in a space of anger. Recently, that has changed.

I noticed a drastic shift in my mindset toward anger in February 2024. The days were slowly moving forward toward Maliyah’s 1st birthday, and I could not stop myself from reliving my February 2023. Every day in February 2024, I found myself logging into the hospital app on my phone and obsessively rereading my old medical records. I read doctor’s notes, ultrasound tech annotations, and blood test results. I was back and forth, furiously switching apps between Epic and Google, searching every single medical definition. I went into my blood pressure app and looked at my readings day after day from the year prior. Truly masochistic behavior, day after day after day.

I got madder and madder.

We all know the saying, “knowledge is power.” Well, in my case? Knowledge was anger. Knowing what I know now, when I looked back at my charts from last year… I became increasingly angry every day.

I found my anger directed more inward than outward. I did not blame my doctors. I truly think they were doing the best they could with the knowledge they had. I have learned over the past year that doctors have specialties, and often, despite our common belief that doctors know everything, it’s truly a misconception. Doctors know their field. Doctors know how most cases resolve in their field, and how most bodies react to certain things, they know means and averages and medians. Unfortunately, as I said two weeks ago, I was an EXTREME outlier. I do not blame my doctors for not expecting I would be the .00001 case.

However, I found myself in February in an anger spiral, extremely angry at myself. The reason I was so mad, was because I know now that I had a lot of red flags. I had yellow flags, and they were flags I raised to my doctors. However, because the yellows don’t usually transform into reds, my concerns were dismissed. Now, knowing what I know, knowing the ending of my story, I am extremely livid with myself for not pushing harder. In my rational mind, I know this is not fair to me. I know that I did my best, and all I knew last year was to raise any concerns I had, and to trust my medical team’s expertise. But now that I know what I know, I find my blood boiling.

I mentioned a test last week called an AFP test. I am not going to get into the details here, but the short version of my story is, my test result was high. Not just high-ish, but HIGH. Now in 2024, I am an AFP expert. At the time, I was not. At the time, I raised my concerns, my doctor did a scan, said it was “unexplained,” and I threw up my hands. Now that I know what I know, I see my records and I say, “why didn’t I insist on seeing an MFM immediately?” I’ll tell you why… because I literally didn’t know what an MFM was last year.

I chastise myself now for not reading my charts during my first pregnancy. At the time, I was told specifically not to check the ultrasound reports or notes, because they said the baby’s sex, and we were keeping that a secret. My doctor told us that she would tell us verbally if anything was wrong. I really did not question this. I naively thought that medical notes were meant for a doctor’s own records. Yes, I knew I could access the notes on my app, but why would I? Wouldn’t my doctors say everything aloud to me that they put in there?

It turns out, that answer is no. There were many notes in my chart that were either inaccurate to the information they said aloud, or were just excluded from our 1:1 conversations. I know now, that notes are often not added to a patient’s chart until 3-4 days after the appointment. I know that, because nowadays, I refresh the app constantly after appointments, and I read the notes religiously and thoroughly.

What happens between the appointment time and the notes-entering time? I really can’t say. But I imagine that sometimes, a doctor looks over what they saw, observed, felt, heard, etc., and then later, they put those pieces of information together and write down some theories in the chart. Also, days later, when a doctor is seeing patient after patient, it’s very possible they told one patient something that they didn’t tell me, but 3 days later, how could they remember what they said to whom? Also, just like in any profession, doctors have specialized knowledge that they may inaccurately assume patients also know.

One glaring personal example is that no doctor ever mentioned pre-eclampsia to me after 12 weeks. At 12 weeks, my doctor told me to start taking one baby aspirin a day because it was proven to reduce the risk of pre-eclampsia, and I had two risk factors of pre-eclampsia: being 35 years old, and the fact that it was my first pregnancy. I started taking that one aspirin daily, as suggested, and nothing else was ever said. I didn’t ask what pre-e was, what to look for, how early it could begin… I didn’t ask anything. I just took the pill daily, and lived my life. And that word was never said again to me until I checked myself into the hospital.

Imagine my surprise when, in February of this year, I opened up an ultrasound report from 5 weeks before Maliyah was born, and found the note “close monitoring for preeclampsia.” I don’t know what “close monitoring” was meant to entail, but first of all, it was never said out loud, and second of all, I never saw a doctor in 3D between when that note was written, and until I was in triage with stroke-level blood pressure readings. But I didn’t know. So when I saw that note, I was mad. Very, very mad. Also included in that same notes section of the ultrasound was this: “We reviewed the association of an elevated AFP with adverse maternal and/or fetal outcomes including but not limited to stillbirth, fetal growth restriction and preeclampsia.” None of this was true. I mean, the actual risks are true, but they certainly did not “review” that with me. Nobody ever said the word “stillbirth” to us.

I felt so blindsided when I saw that note, that I asked my husband. I don’t remember being in a heightened state of anxiety such that I would have forgotten such a dire possibility being mentioned, but I was glad I had an additional witness. Sure enough, my husband confirmed, this was never stated to us.

Of course, hindsight is 20-20. I’d like to think that if I had seen that note, if they had said those words aloud to me, I would have asked more questions and I would have done more googling. I’d like to think that I would have advocated for myself more when, 3 days later, I had a video appointment with my doctor, I told her my blood pressure was rising, and she said, “that’s normal in pregnancy because your blood volume is increasing, it’s not high enough to medicate.” I didn’t know what that could mean back then, and I didn’t even know that I had already been flagged for pre-e. But now when I read those notes, and relive all of the events that followed, the what-if voices in my head are loud, and they are incessant.

Five weeks after that video call, as we were pleading with the doctors in the hospital for 1 more week, 5 more days, 3 more days, it’s impossible for me not to think, “WHAT IF I had just started on blood pressure meds a few weeks prior? What if I had actually been monitored closely and had even one routine blood draw?”

I’ll never have those answers, and it’s infuriating.

I had months of anger about my previous pregnancy, and what I should have done, if I somehow could have known. Then, I thought I was through my anger phase. Things continued to progress smoothly through pregnancy #2. I had a week where I had two very big appointments: first, an appointment with my MFM, then, an appointment for an anatomy scan, which is often the most detailed scan a pregnant person has throughout their entire pregnancy. I was extremely anxious (as usual), because I could have learned about many possible anomalies, or likelihood of preterm labor. I also could learn if my baby was growing on pace.

Everything went extremely well, and I was so incredibly happy that I screamed it from the rooftops! I announced baby #2 immediately on social media and excitedly told all my coworkers!

PSYCH!! I did none of those things.

I took the bus home from the hospital and cried. Then took a hot shower and cried. Then I laid in bed and cried. A lot. And I wasn’t even sad, I was MAD. Truly furious.

I couldn’t understand why everything was going so well. Of course I wanted it to go well, but why did one of my babies die, and this one was just… hunky-dory? I wanted to be so happy but I couldn’t get over my comparison and frustration.

I dug into my brain and went through everything that I was doing differently this second pregnancy. There were a lot of things. I had pre-conception consultations and tests. I’m taking some different meds. I’m taking two aspirin daily instead of one. I’m overseen by a team of doctors who are extremely knowledgeable.

On a good day, those things give me peace and solace. On a bad day, like I was having around 19 weeks, 5 days, it made me furious. Here’s why: the things I’m doing differently are so easy. SO EASY. They’re so easy, that I cannot possibly grasp why I didn’t do them last time. The most invasive thing I’m doing this pregnancy is giving myself one injection a day. Needles don’t bother me, and if I’m honest, I don’t mind the injections at all. It’s not like I had a massive surgery or reconstructed my uterus. I’m taking 1 additional aspirin a day! Those pills are so small I routinely drop them on the ground. The things I am doing are SIMPLE.

And yet, I wasn’t told to do them last time.

If I had done those things, would I have a living child at home? If I had, would our baby boy be able to meet his sister instead of just seeing her handprints? I just cannot make sense of the fact that I had to lose a baby when it seems so SIMPLE to have an uneventful pregnancy. Like I said before, the what-ifs are loud, and they are incessant. I absolutely hate when people in the loss community say “if you didn’t have baby 1, you wouldn’t have baby 2” because it’s just simply not true. We always wanted more than one baby. And I very easily could have had both alive. But I don’t, and I will never know why. It’s unfair, and it makes me angry.

I know anger is one of the classic stages of grief, and somehow, I hadn’t found myself there until recently, but here I am, and who knows when I’ll see myself on to a different stage. Everyone says, “grief is not linear,” and I’m here as a shining example, finding myself back in stage 2, after I made it through the other 4. If you need me, I’ll be at the nearest rage room.

(Written at: 20 week 4 days)

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Grief and Pregnancy Loss, Pregnancy After Loss

My First Pregnancy Was a Dead Baby

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Last week, I wrote about how difficult it is to be excited about my new pregnancy. That’s because it seems impossible to believe that things will end well.

Before this new pregnancy, I used to say, “100% of my babies are dead.” That was true. That was also why I was terrified to consider another pregnancy. Based on the only evidence I had, when I got pregnant, I almost died, and my baby died. That was the only example I had.

I am a very realistic and logical person. If X, then Y. If not Y, then not X. It’s basic algebra. The contrapositive. When I got pregnant, my baby died. Therefore, in order for my baby not to die, the only way to ensure that, was to not get pregnant.

I may catch some serious hate here, but I’m saying it anyway: losing your first pregnancy is worse than losing a later one after having a living child. I know, this is extremely controversial, but hear me out. When your first pregnancy is successful (as in, it results in a living child), you had one glorious naïve experience. You not only had the absolute freedom of joy in a pregnancy, but you had unadulterated excitement in a birth. Also, you have at least one example of how things can go right.

Once a dead kid comes out of you, you have lost naivety forever. Every single bit of the journey is tinged and you know every little thing that could go wrong. This is true for every stillbirth, no matter the birth order. But when it’s your first, it is impossible to consider something breathing leaving your body. You have no reason to believe things can go well, because they quite literally never have.

When Chris and I talked about possibly growing our family, it meant completely suspending my sense of reality. My reality was: get pregnant, nearly die, baby dies, birth a dead baby. Don’t get me wrong, I know for other people, pregnancy, labor and delivery don’t end that way. But for me, with my body, it does. And it did. I have the evidence. I’m sure you’ve all heard the saying misattributed to Albert Einstein, “insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting a different result.” To me, when I thought about considering another pregnancy after loss it was exactly that: insanity. Entering the space of considering a different outcome felt entirely unrealistic and plain stupid to me.

I remember when Maliyah died, people called me strong a lot. People don’t say that to me as often anymore. The irony is, the true strength is happening right now. The idea that I would consider entering this beast of pregnancy again, knowing what I know, with the evidence I have… THAT is strength. That is bravery. And that deserves recognition. I always think about other types of trauma, and how most people would never consider willingly and knowingly putting themselves in similar situations again, making themselves vulnerable to the exact same type of repeat trauma. If you were bitten by a shark, would you willingly and excitedly open-water swim ever again?? But for PAL (pregnancy after loss) moms, we do it time and time again.

Last week, I promised the story about my breakup with my therapist. Our conscious uncoupling was about this very issue. I could tell immediately from her reaction to my pregnancy announcement that we were operating on different emotional planes. Despite my months of prepping her for my storm of emotions that I knew would come with a next pregnancy, she didn’t seem to understand. Week after week, things came to a head because she was so extremely excited for me, and I was… confused and scared.

Eventually, after weeks of her excitement and my hesitancy, I received a test result that had me terrified. It was the exact same elevated liver enzyme that went haywire last time, which was the second indicator that my body was going to shut down from my pregnancy. Staring at the test result, seeing that exact same elevation AGAIN, was even more evidence to prove my theory that being pregnant would cause both my death and my baby’s death.

We got into a huge fight. Raised voices and all. She kept saying “what if everything is fine and you have a healthy baby?” For me, that was an absolute impossibility. The conversation was not productive, and I did not think we could ever be on the same page. She didn’t understand my fear, even when faced with scientific indisputable (later disputed due to lab error) evidence. I knew we needed to separate.

Later the next week, I repeated our conversation to my other therapist. We usually focused on EMDR, but I felt like I needed to disclose that I had parted ways with my other therapist. Also, I wanted her opinion on the conversation. I wasn’t necessarily seeking validation on my “side” of the fight, but I was looking to see if I was unfixable by therapy. I wasn’t sure if my “inability to be optimistic” (quote from ex-therapist) disqualified me from therapy. I figured I would check before throwing more money down the drain. (Thank you, American healthcare system.)

We spoke for a while about affirmations. Specifically, she talked about phrases people write on their mirrors and repeat to themselves every morning until they believe them. Sometimes they work. But sometimes, the phrases are so incredibly outlandish, that they are impossible to imprint in one’s thoughts. They are just too far-fetched to become reality. She used a simple example: the difference between saying, “my body is beautiful and I like myself,” versus, “I am as beautiful as Beyonce.” The first one is more likely to “take,” because it’s easier to believe, and closer to a person’s current truth.

For me, the idea that “everything is going to be completely fine and I’ll have a healthy, full-term baby” seems like an insane thought that is so far from my current truth. There are hundreds of hurdles to get over and past before we get to that point. I cannot possibly wrap my mind around it. My EMDR therapist said, “that makes sense. It’s hard to believe because it’s never happened before. So, what can you believe?”

Since then, that has been my motto. What can I believe to get me through each day? Can I believe that I’m doing my best? Can I believe that I’m taking my meds and monitoring my health, and going to all of my appointments, and that’s all I can do? Can I believe that it’s only 4 more days until I can get visual confirmation that my baby is still alive? And can I believe I will get through those days, one way or another? Can I wait 24 more hours to take my blood pressure again, and feel peace that it’s exactly the same as it was the day before? Then, can I maybe believe that it will also be the same the next day? I may not be able to fast-forward 5 months and believe that it will stay steady 180 more days, but I can maybe allow myself a couple days of peace at a time. For now, while it doesn’t seem like a lot, it will have to be enough.

I can no longer say 100% of my babies are dead, because I have an alive one right now. I think. And I’ll get confirmation of that again next week. And maybe… just maybe… my second pregnancy will not be a dead baby. I am not sure I can believe that yet, but hopefully, someday, I’ll have evidence. In my arms.

(Written at: 12 weeks, 0 days)

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Grief and Pregnancy Loss, Pregnancy After Loss

Invisible Grief

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lonely woman walking up a road filled with shadows of people

Maliyah’s birthday is coming up, which means I’ve been living in the grief and loss community for almost a year. It seems crazy to think how long it’s been, and it’s been a blur.

There are so many terms I’ve learned in the past 11 months. A lot of them are medical, like Diluted Russell Viper Venom Time (not related to a snake), but some are death and grief-related. Something that comes up time and time again in this community is the concept of  “disenfranchised grief.” According to WebMD, the Wikipedia of medical issues, disenfranchised grief is when a person’s grieving doesn’t fit in with the larger society’s attitude about dealing with death and loss. There are a lot of examples of this, like when a person’s pet dies, and society thinks it isn’t a “bad enough” loss. Or when someone dies from suicide or addiction and society says that it’s the person’s “fault.” Other examples include loss of something that isn’t a death, like divorce or loss of a job. Society tends to think these things aren’t “as bad” so you don’t have the “right” to grieve them in the same way.

Most people agree that losing a child is REALLY bad. But what if the child is someone who never lived outside your body? Then it doesn’t count.

I sometimes think of late term pregnancy loss as disenfranchised grief, but more often, I think of it as invisible grief. It’s something that no one else sees, both literally and figuratively.

I feel like the one good thing about typical grief is that it brings people together. There’s a whole concept in Judaism called shiva where people come together for seven days to discuss their loss and accept the comfort of others who maybe knew the person who died. But in the case of late-term pregnancy loss, no one knew the person who died. No one met her. No one saw her, not even in photos. Some people may share photos of their uterus but that’s not really my style. In a lot of cases, people didn’t even know Maliyah existed!

I recently went to a work conference that was full of land mines. I work for a membership organization with more than 1500 members. I never announced my pregnancy to the members, and there was no live birth, so most of them had no idea. The last time I saw most of them, I was pregnant, but in secret. There were so many conversations that began, “how was your past year?” Or “it’s been so long! What’s new?” Or my favorite, a person who called across the hall to me, “everything good, though, right?” NO. Everything is NOT good. Everything is shit, actually. But you can’t say that to tangential colleagues, especially because nobody knew what happened, nobody knew the person who died, and some people wouldn’t even have considered her a person.

It’s less hurtful to have people ignore or not see your grief when those people are minor characters in your life. It’s a lot worse when it’s close friends or family. The hard part is, I know it’s not intentional, but it’s hurtful nonetheless. And since the grief is invisible, the hurt is, too.

I had an example of this at Christmas. I brought Maliyah’s ornaments with me to Texas, where I was celebrating Christmas with my in-laws. We celebrated Christmas with them last year when I was 4 months pregnant with Maliyah. Everyone in 2022 knew I was pregnant. Everyone talked about it a LOT.

When I arrived in Texas this year, I told my sister-in-law that I brought ornaments to hang, and she instructed her son, my 15-year-old nephew, to hang them. He took one look at her name and said, “who’s Maliyah?”

Here’s the thing, I know he’s a kid. I also know that it’s quite possible her name was never spoken in their house. But if she was alive, he’d know who she was. They’d be first cousins! They are first cousins. And yes, it’s very possible he never even knew she was born. I know people are weird around death, dying, grief, and kids. Some people think they can’t handle it. And I get that he never met Maliyah, but he knew all about her the year prior when she was in my body, and the next year… POOF. No recollection.  When he asked who she was, I just said simply, “remember how I was pregnant? She was my daughter who died.” End of conversation. I could have ignored it, but he asked a direct question and I wanted him to know the answer. For me, the hole in the family is gaping. For others, it’s not even visible.

I held off on publishing this post until I broke the news about my new pregnancy because now, Maliyah and my grief about her death is even more invisible. I follow enough loss accounts on social media to know that this is common. I know that most people believe a new pregnancy “fixes” the previous loss. This seems absurd if you think about your baby as a person. No other humans are just replaceable or interchangeable.

I saw a post on Instagram that said, “this is how it would sound if we responded to every loss the same way we respond to baby loss.” There were six slides after that, where they went through different scenarios, like if someone’s father died, and someone said, “it’s ok, you can always find another dad,” the way people say, “you can always have another baby.” Or if someone says their sibling died, and someone answered, “at least you know you can have siblings” the way people say “at least you know you can get pregnant.” There were 4 more examples, equally as disturbing, but equally as true. I heard all of those things.

It was less than one month from Maliyah’s death when people started asking if we had considered “trying again” or if we were allowed yet to “try again.” The “again” word, as if we could just replace Baby 1 with Baby Version 2.0.

My grief has become more invisible as people now think of Maliyah as a stepping stone on the way to our happy eventual family. I heard concrete examples of this in the reactions I heard from people after announcing our new pregnancy.

There is an added wrinkle here, which is that to others, there is an extreme sense of déjà vu. My new pregnancy is less than two months off from the previous one, so when we told family before Christmas last year, then this year we were at Christmas again, announcing a pregnancy again, it seemed like Groundhog’s Day. I understand that it seems repetitive to others, and that it seems like the same thing.

To me it’s not. It’s a new pregnancy. A different baby. I repeat a mantra to myself every single day, “different pregnancy, different baby, different placenta, different outcome.” But to outsiders? It’s the same.

When we started to share the news of this new pregnancy, we received messages and phone calls, people saying they were praying for us, that they can’t wait to celebrate with all of us together next year, including the new addition. But, they said the exact same thing last year. Same prayers. Same hopes for a Christmas with a new addition. And then there was no new addition. And no mention of her whatsoever. Nothing. All I saw in church at Christmas was the baby in the row ahead of me, and the baby missing in our row. But to everyone else, they saw the same old Emily and Chris, with no living child and the same possibility of one growing.

People like to look forward, especially when the present is uncomfortable. People like to have hope and belief that things will improve. But for me, I need to hold both. I have the loss of Maliyah in my mind still, and I always will. Of course, I hope for a different-looking holiday season next year, but I also hoped for that last year, and I didn’t get that, and no one acknowledged that. I didn’t forget last year, it was only a year ago! The “yes, and” is STRONG in my head, like the dialectical thinking I mentioned last week. Yes, I’m pregnant. Yes, I may have a baby next year. AND, I still have a dead one. Forever. And I remember what everyone said last year. The hopes and the excitement that people seem to have forgotten. I haven’t forgotten.

I had a full breakdown on Christmas Eve. I explained to Chris how I know people don’t think they have memories with Maliyah because she was never outside of me, but I think of all of the times I had with friends and family when she was with me as memories I have with her.

I have 150 days of memories with her. 150 days of memories of her. I have 150 days that I still think about. But no one else does. It’s strange to feel that those memories are completely invisible to others. It makes ME feel invisible. I’m working on this feeling, trying to feel less invisible, or make my feelings more visible so it’s less lonely. This blog is part of that. I’ll take you with me, whether you like it or not.

(Written at: 11 weeks, 3 days)

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Grief and Pregnancy Loss, Pregnancy After Loss

I’m So Excited! … I’m So SCARED

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I have some news…

That’s always how these things start. They’re usually followed by uterus photos (if the “news” is delivered by text) or high-pitched squealing from the receiver (if the “news” is delivered in person).

It’s true, I am pregnant. Notice, I didn’t use an exclamation mark. That’s because I’m not exclaiming it, I’m not necessarily excited either. When Chris and I started sharing the news, we mostly said we were “cautiously optimistic,” because my main doctor said exactly that, she’s “optimistic.” But if we’re being completely honest, “cautious” is operating a hell of a lot stronger than “optimistic.”

When Chris and I decided we were going to attempt to have a living baby, I tried hard to prepare and pump myself up. I talked to all of my therapists about how I wanted to be excited. I wanted to be less nervous this time. I wanted to “cherish every moment.” I wanted to be grateful for every day I had with my new baby. I thought I could think these things into being. I thought I could just erase a year + of trauma. It’s not that easy. I haven’t gotten there yet. I’m trying, but I’m failing.

I was explaining recently to my one remaining therapist (other-therapist-breakup-story coming later) how I felt like such a failure not being able to get excited. I’m in this infertility/loss community now where I know many women would be so grateful and excited to be in the spot I am in, but all I can do is be scared. My remaining therapist said, “maybe being ‘excited’ is too much to ask of yourself.”

Right now, it’s true, excitement is too much to ask. My real feelings are: I’m scared, I’m anxious, I’m worried, and I’m nervous. If you didn’t catch the reference in the blog title, it’s from Jessie Spano’s popular caffeine-pill-induced breakdown on Saved by the Bell from November 3, 1990.

While I have consumed zero caffeine pills, I definitely feel the same. I can tell myself a million times that I’m excited, but right now, I’m really just scared. I am also happy. For now. Every time I say I’m happy, I get the nagging feeling like someone is tapping on the back of my brain, and saying, “but for how long?”

At one of my doctor’s appointments, Chris was out of town and couldn’t come. I knew myself, though, and I needed a chaperone, so I brought a friend. As I casually had a borderline panic attack in the waiting room and my Fitbit logged 33 “activity zone minutes,” my friend tried to distract me. When we went into the exam room, and everything looked great with the baby, I was crying, as usual. The doctors said, “it’s ok, everything looks great!” I couldn’t speak because of the tears and the snot and such. My friend said, “it’s just… she’s been here before.” She took the words right out of my mute mouth.

In recounting this story to my therapist (can you tell we talk a lot?), I said, “sure they say everything looks great… for now!! Meanwhile I was just thinking, ‘yea well everything looked fine last time… until it didn’t. So, when is sh*t going to hit the fan this time around?’”

She reminded me about dialectical thinking, which I struggle to use as a default, but I’m trying to train myself to think more consciously about it. I try to shift my thoughts from “yeah but…” to “yes and.” Instead of, “yea everything looks great now, BUT when won’t it?” I try to make a minor shift to “everything looks great now AND someday it might not. For now, though, it does look good.” The minor shift from “but” to “and” helps me think a little less negatively. Yes, things may go south. AND for now, they are looking good.

There have already been many comedies of errors. First, a 2.5 hour wait at the doctor that led to me almost missing a flight. Then, a pharmacy called to say they didn’t carry my meds and hung up on me. Then, there was a lab error on one of my blood tests which led me to believe I was heading into liver failure AGAIN. Then, the lab where they sent the replacement test lost the vial of my blood. Then, I had an ultrasound where they couldn’t see anything and I thought the baby was gone, but eventually with an internal ultrasound everything looked completely fine. It’s been a roller coaster and I’m barely in the second trimester.* After the initial lab error, I said to Chris, “I had tricked myself into thinking that I deserved a pregnancy that was smooth sailing, but I guess that was too much to ask.” He agreed, we were not likely to have an uneventful time.

When I broke my pregnancy news to a friend recently, she asked me when I was due and I wasn’t even sure. My doctor has never mentioned my due date to me, I had to look in my chart to find it. Thinking to the future to a full-term baby, that’s way too far away. “Full term” is not the goal. “As far as I can get,” is the goal. “Staying alive” is the goal. “A living baby” is the goal. I remember last pregnancy, I hoped I wouldn’t share a birthday week with my baby. This time around, I just hope our baby gets a birth day that isn’t the same week as a death day. To say my expectations are different with my second pregnancy is a gross understatement.

The best thing people have said to me when I share the news is just, “congratulations,” because then I can simply say, “thank you.” Some people have asked me how I am feeling, which is a very difficult question to answer. Physically, pretty good. But mentally? I’m a wreck. I’d need a novel (or a blog) to explain that, so I usually just say, “so far so good,” which is definitely a lie. According to the notes in my chart from my doctor, I have “significant anxiety.” I wonder why…

Despite my millions of doctor appointments and the ever-present sharps container on the table and ultrasound photos on the fridge, it’s still difficult to believe. Will I get what I want? Do I deserve it? Does anyone NOT deserve it? Who even am I to get what I want? These are all existential questions and I have no answers.  

I am taking things one day at a time. Sometimes I’m at the hospital three times in a week. But everything will be worth it if it is worth it. And I can’t tell the future, so I will just operate in the present. Feel free to extend your congratulations, but don’t ask me how I feel, because I honestly don’t know and it will probably be different tomorrow.

* Writer’s Note: I wrote this blog when I was heading into my 2nd trimester. Despite what I thought I would do, mentally I couldn’t bring myself to share about this new pregnancy until I made it through Maliyah’s first birthday. I’ve pre-written many, many blogs about this pregnancy as I felt the urge to get my thoughts on “paper,” and I will be sharing them in the coming weeks, even if the language and my thoughts no longer align with the timing completely. Therefore, at the end of each blog, I will share the gestational age of baby #2 when I wrote the post.

(Written at: 11 weeks, 6 days)

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Grief and Pregnancy Loss

A Letter For Maliyah

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In the early days of my grief, I started to read a book called Saying Goodbye. It’s a 90-day support guide to walk you through baby loss and grief. On Day 11, the task of the day was to write a letter to the baby you lost. When I read that, I thought it was crazy. I could not imagine what I could write. She was gone. What else was there? She’d never read it, she’d never grow up, she’d never know. And I barely knew her. But the more I thought about it, the more all of those reasons seemed like reasons I needed to write the letter. I sat with it for a few months. More and more thoughts came to mind. I thought of memories of her, memories of us, memories of happy times. Sometimes, I feel that since I know the end of the story, it negates all of the pages before. But as I struggled to try to remember the days of hopes and dreams, I realized that there were times of happiness. I didn’t want to forget them. In June, I started to write.

Today, in honor of Maliyah’s first birthday, I want to remember the happy and hopeful times. Since I never posted on my blog about those exciting moments, I am going to share my letter.

Dear Maliyah,

I have so many things to say. I have a lifetime of things that I will never get to say to you while you’re physically with me. A lifetime of memories, both the ones I had before you, the ones I had with you, and the years of memories I will have after, but that you will always be a part of. I like to think you’ll hear/read/see this somehow, wherever you are, hanging out with all of your friends, hopefully having a lot more fun than we are in your absence.

Usually, in a eulogy, people talk about their memories they have of the person who died. When I first sat down to write this, I thought I had none. You never existed on your own, you were always part of me. But then I realized, I actually am fortunate, because I have every single memory you have. We were one. My memories of you are your memories too. For every second you existed, you and I were together. While I wish you grew up and had your own life and memories of your own, experiences, friendships, romantic partners, you will never have those things.

But during the time we were together, we had a lot of great memories. You were a world traveler. Your first place you visited was Sweden. I had no idea you were with me then, but your dad decided to be spontaneous and book a trip for the weekend. We ate meatballs and learned about the Nobel Prize. We saw Viking ships together, and danced and sang in the ABBA museum. The number one review of the ABBA museum said not to go alone, but I didn’t care, I went anyway. I thought I was there alone, but it turns out I wasn’t.

A few weeks later, after I knew you and I were on this ride together, we went to Australia. Together, we saw koalas and wild kangaroos, we watched as wombats came out at dusk. We saw the Sydney Opera House. We walked over the Sydney Harbor Bridge. We jumped out of a plane together. I wonder what you thought of that. Were you as nervous as me? Did you laugh when our tandem diver asked if we would have a beer after? I did. But you were still my little secret then, so I chuckled to myself. We were partners in crime. Together, we saw the Great Barrier Reef, one of the 7 natural wonders of the world. I remember feeling like I was The Little Mermaid, truly part of the ocean world. I wonder now if that’s how you felt about me, part of my world. Did you know that you would be part of my world forever?

We went all over the United States together too. We were in Los Angeles, we were in St. Louis, we were in Philadelphia, we were in Atlanta, and we were in Fort Lauderdale. You met coworkers, friends, family, and so many strangers. In all of those new places, I wondered if you would be friendly and extroverted like me, or thoughtful and intellectual like your dad.

At first, you were my little secret. I sent a photo of the pregnancy test to my friend. Those two lines were the first proof I had of your existence. But even before that, I had a feeling. I knew something was different and that’s why I took the test. Something changed in me, and I knew it would be changed forever. People say that when you are pregnant, your DNA makeup literally changes. I know my spirit has definitely changed, and maybe my physical composition has, too.

Slowly, I started telling people about you. I had more partners in crime, a friend who drank my wine at a birthday dinner so people wouldn’t notice. She ordered us a gin and tonic (hold the gin) during the Halloween pub crawl. Most of my friends had no idea you were hanging out with us during all of the important events of the fall. You were there at Halloween, while we watched the marathon, at the Macy’s Parade, during Christmas. I am usually a pretty good secret-keeper, but it was SO hard keeping you a secret.

I took pictures of us, but I didn’t post them. You and I had our own little world no one knew about. At the Macy’s Parade, there was a first-time balloon of a dinosaur and their kid little dinosaur. I had my sister take a picture of me and you, with the family of dinosaurs behind us. We took pictures at Christmas where your dad and I tried to make a heart at my belly. Right where you were. We were so excited for the next year to add a third to our matching pajamas tradition. I remember on Christmas Day I sat at the table and ordered us matching sets for 2024. And then at my friend’s wedding in Florida, when my best friend was pregnant too, I took a picture of the four of us. It would be the only time we all got to meet.

I wish I had real or mental pictures of you growing up and meeting and playing with my friends, laughing at their funny faces when you were a baby, or laughing at our old clubbing stories and rolling your eyes at us when you were a teenager and far too cool for us. The only memories I have of you and my friends are when they found out about you. I remember their excitement. I remember how they said they couldn’t wait to meet you. They bought you gifts and checked in on me (and you) often. I remember them thinking about how you would look and act, a combination of your dad’s big eyes, and my super tall self. I remember them joking about how some kids are no-screen kids, but you’d be an all-screen kid with a baby iPad because your dad lovesss his electronics so much.

I remember hating women who used to touch their bellies all the time, but it was so exciting to know you were in there. I refused to be “one of those people” in public, but I remember always feeling my stomach in the shower, making sure you were still safe in there, happy to be with your mom. I remember when I started to feel your kicks. It was really late in the pregnancy, and my doctor told me it was because of how you were positioned in my body. I only felt you moving around for a couple of short weeks. In hindsight, I think it was you protecting my heart. You knew that if I felt your presence for too long, it would be even more difficult to let go. I remember laying in bed at night feeling you dancing around, and putting my hand on my stomach to see if I could feel you from the outside and show your dad. Unfortunately, I never could. He never could. That used to make me sad, but now I prefer to think of you knowing, protecting his heart, helping him heal for the future. He never knew what he was missing.

Speaking of your dad, I remember the day I broke the news to him that you existed. It was his birthday. He loves when I write him little poems, and I used to write them all the time when we first were dating. I thought a perfect full-circle moment would be to write him a poem to tell him about you. I remember sitting across from him at dinner as he read the card. At first, he was confused, and then he was so excited that he cried. I remember him saying you were the greatest birthday present he could ever receive in his life. I remember the big hug he gave us. You should know your dad does not show emotion often, and definitely not in public. But your existence brought him to tears right there in the restaurant. Even while you were in my body, you had that huge power. You will always be that to me, the best gift ever.

I wish I could explain to the world how special you are. I wish I could tell them your favorite books, your favorite foods, your likes and dislikes. I wish I knew. The only thing I know is that you were in the safest place your whole existence. I was recently reading a text where someone signed it ILY. I Love You. I realized those letters are in both your name and my name. It was unintentional, but now that I know, it feels intentional. You had no enemies. Everyone who knew you, loved you. They loved the idea of you, they loved their hopes for you, and they will love you forever. Especially me.

Love,

Your mom

Last minute trip to Sweden, tiny little kanelbullar in the oven and we didn’t know!
Don’t go alone to the ABBA museum? Fine I won’t, I’ll take you with me.
The night I told Chris about you.
His smile before his birthday wish says it all.
Not so many little ones can say they’ve been to Australia!
Or to the Great Barrier Reef!
Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dum, and Tweedle Baby!
Me trying to stay Covid-free to protect you.
Dino Family plus my tiny little family.
Marathon Day!
Can you tell your grandparents were ecstatic to find out about you?
You had the same due date as my sister! So I had to make a matching shirt like the one your grandma had.
We tried a few times to get this picture.
We were so happy for you to be with us earthside next Christmas.
BUMP INCOMING!
Crazily, the only wedding we attended together.
Love you and miss you every day.
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Grief and Pregnancy Loss

Proud of Myself 2023 – Surviving Not Thriving

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I’m doing things a little backward this year. Usually, I spend my first post of the year talking about goals. I’ve never been much of a “resolution” gal, I’ve liked to reframe as “goals” instead. I talked about this wayyyy back in 2017. Then in 2018 I posted my top goals, and again I did that in 2019. Then the world fell apart, both for everything, and for myself.

This year, I am throwing my goals in the trash. Goals are for people with certain futures, or people who want to plan. Me, I’m just trying to get through the day.

So while most people are future-tripping through 2024 on day 4 of the year, instead, I want to pay homage to myself, and to the 365 days of 2023 I endured. I’m proud of myself. Let’s be clear, I wasn’t proud of myself every day. Many days where I cried 4 times before noon and couldn’t scrape myself out of the corner of my U-shaped couch I never would have said, “yes, I’m proud of me.” But now, in retrospect, I think I have things to recognize. Since this is a personal blog, I’m going to make y’all recognize ME with ME.

So, here are some things I’m proud of myself for in 2023:

I’m proud of myself for surviving. I did it. I got through. Some days I wished I hadn’t. It would have been way easier if a bus somehow made it to the 3rd floor of my apartment building and drove through the window, but that didn’t happen, and I’m still here.

I’m proud of myself for remaining married. Relationships are hard in the easiest of times. Relationships are even harder in extremely rough times. Some studies say 80% of marriages end after child loss, some studies say 16%. I must admit, I didn’t fact check these, and they are clearly wildly different statistics. That said, I know it’s hard. No two people grieve a loss in the same way, and in the case of a baby who was carried and birthed by only one of the spouses, it makes sense that their experiences would be extremely different. The experience of grief is a lonely one, and when you feel like you’re the only person in the relationship experiencing it in a specific way, it’s even more lonely. In 2023, I was not the perfect spouse, not even close. But I tried. I set up a special surprise for our anniversary. I suggested a trip as a belated birthday gift. I tried to leave the house for a date night here and there, even when it was the last thing I wanted to do because I hated people and the outside. And somehow, through communication and a lot of Chris listening to me cry, we have weathered part 1 of the storm. There’s still a long way to go (like… forever), but I’m proud we made it through months 1-10.

Our favorite activity – Segways!
Chicago Dateiversary Trip
Jamaica Wedding Anniversary Trip
Staycation in NYC Downtown
Date Night to see MJ on Broadway

I’m proud of myself for reading. I love to read. It never occurred to me the concentration it takes to sit down, get out of one’s own head, and enter another space for a period of time. When I first left the hospital, I thought I’d never read again. I took the book Someone Else’s Shoes out from the library in mid-February, and usually I’d finish it in a week. I brought it to the hospital with me when I thought I was going for a routine check, and that I’d have to kill time in the waiting room for a while. But I was immediately whisked into triage, and then didn’t pick up that book again for a month. I got a few late notices from the library. But eventually, I picked up reading again, and somehow I got through 36 books in 2023. For me, that’s not any sort of record, but I’m still proud.

I’m proud of myself for remaining active. I love to move my body. I like to feel strong and accomplished. But most of 2023, I wanted to move into a closet and live in darkness. But I didn’t. Somehow, I walked 4,319,734 steps. You read that right, I walked 4.3 MILLION steps. The only month I didn’t average over 10,000 steps/day was March, when I was in the hospital. And that month, I averaged 8,705 steps/day. I went to 116 classes at Orangetheory and I got 2,376 splat points, despite being pregnant for a few months of the year AND not being allowed to go for 6 weeks. I am proud of myself for prioritizing my health, even when my brain was screaming not to.

That’s a lot of splats
One big splat
Impressed with myself.

I’m proud of myself for keeping my friendships (although changed, and not all credit goes to me). I truly can’t believe I have any friends left. I tried my hardest, really, to keep up with my friendships. I tried to text back, I tried to recognize birthdays, send baby gifts, I tried to peel myself off the couch to go out on coffee dates. I was sometimes successful. Sometimes I was not. But somehow, I haven’t lost any friends in the last 10 months. Credit does not all go to me, except maybe in that I choose amazing friends. But a lot of credit goes to them. For checking in periodically, for offering alternative 1:1 plans when they knew a birthday brunch was just not going to happen, for Amazon-ing me 5-pound bags of gummy bears to keep me afloat. I have an amazing group of friends and I don’t take that for granted. I’m proud of me for trying my hardest, but even more, I’m proud of them for accepting my not-as-great-as-usual friendship.

I’m proud of myself for doing “the work.” I tried my damndest to “get better.” It has not been easy. Also, I’m not sure if it “worked,” but it’s not for lack of trying. I exhausted so many avenues. I had a peer counselor. I tried three therapists. I tried EMDR. I tried two different support groups online, multiple times. I tried a yoga class and art workshop. I tried a writing workshop. I reached out to random loss moms on the internet. I went to coffee and breakfast and happy hour with local loss moms. I joined Facebook groups (back when I was on Facebook). I followed innumerable Instagram accounts. I listened to hours and hours and hours of podcasts. I wrote many blogs. I kept a journal. It’s hard to say whether any of it “worked,” but I knew I needed support, and I sought it out. I’m proud of myself for that.

I’m proud of myself for trying to figure out and take care of my physical health. Unfortunately, this wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be. Sitting in the uncomfortable uncertainty has taken an extreme amount of patience (and tears). I found out this year that just because you want answers does not mean you will get them. Just because you are seeing the best doctors in the country, they may not be able to solve or explain everything happening in my body. There is still a lot that is a mystery. But I didn’t give up, and I have continued to seek answers. I followed doctors’ orders, I took all of the medications they suggested, I had all of the blood tests (and there were a LOT) and ultrasounds and I took my blood pressure every single day. These things may seem simple or easy, but when you endured severe trauma, even taking a medication twice daily that reminds you of that trauma is difficult. But I did it (and I still do it) and I am proud of myself for that.

I’m proud of myself for keeping my job (even being good at it?) This floors me. There were days I forgot the entirety of the work day. Like I had meetings and 1:1s, I went to conferences, I had work trips, I moved projects forward. And yet, I don’t remember a majority of the year. It’s almost as if I dissociated. I still have a job, and I often get positive feedback. This seems like a strange miracle? I guess I am a compartmentalizer extraordinaire, but I have somehow kept my job, continued to go day after day, and somehow I have been successful at that. While I’m flummoxed, I’m also proud.

I’m proud of myself for still doing my nails. This one is lighter, but equally as important. Somehow, I continued to have a hobby. This one for sure was part of my “fake it ‘til you make it” plan. On March 5th, I was discharged from the hospital, and on March 10th, I decided I needed to do my nails. I have completely fallen off posting them on my nailstagram (@manisinmanhattan) but my nails were done almost all of 2023. I am proud that I tried to have/feign interest in something (while not really caring at all about anything).

5 days post hospital
So many manicures I did for family
Friends and Husband out on the town to see another friend in an opera
Friends

I’m proud of myself for having my most successful year for my side hustle, Braid in Manhattan. Again, if you’re surprised, I’m even more surprised. I talked a bit about this in my post about Burning Man Braids, but somehow despite my extreme grief, dissociation and disinterest in life in general, I managed to have the most successful year to date in my business. I somehow braided over 100 girls’ hair while thinking about my dead daughter and the hair I’ll never braid. I somehow did hair for birthday parties thinking of the ones my daughter will never have, for family portraits of mothers and daughters that I’ll never take, and for Hanukkah parties of which I had no child to bring. I truly don’t know how I did it without crying in front of a single client (many tears after), but I am proud of all of that.

Finally, I am proud that I tried to find joy. I tried and tried and tried. I met up with friends. I went on walks. I did things I used to love. I traveled. I spent time with my husband. I did crafts. I went to the beach. I saw family. I tried. I can’t honestly say I was successful most of the time, because joy was excruciatingly hard to find, but it didn’t stop me from trying over and over again. I think there’s some pride to be had in the process, despite the mostly failing results.

2023 was not the year to start new things. It was a year to survive, not thrive. It was a year to persist and get through. It was trials and tribulations, not resolutions or celebrations. With all of that in mind, when I reflect, I think I did a damn good job. I’m not going to say, “this year will be even better!” because maybe it won’t. I don’t plan or even opine about things like that anymore. But at the end of this year, maybe I’ll reflect again and be pleasantly surprised. We shall see.

Most of my year, glued to the corner of my couch
Also most of my year, crying in bed with my first child, Purple Bear
2 of the 100 girls I braided this year (none my own).
Family Time
More Family Time at Brunch
Searching for joy down the shore
Swimming with sea lions
Singing my heart out to Blackpink!
Traveled to Peru to find joy. Found alpacas
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Grief and Pregnancy Loss

Signs, Sealed, Delivered

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(If you missed Part 1 or Part 2, start there!)

In my continuing quest for signs and strange things, out-of-the-ordinary occurrences started to stick out to me. In September, I was working from home when something bright blue caught my attention outside the window. I got up and walked toward it. It was a blue jay, sitting in the tree outside my window. Not only are there not usually blue jays in New York City, but there are rarely birds at all in our courtyard area between buildings. I kept watching as the blue jay flew around, landed back on the tree, flew around, landed again. I thought it was weird, but beautiful. I didn’t think anything else of it.

In late October, I started following a girl named Payal on Instagram. She’s a loss mom who loves to read, and she and I have similar taste in books. I was scrolling through her page when I realized that she also hosted a book club. I was intrigued. I went to the first meeting on Zoom and met 5 other loss-mom-readers from across the country. We all started following each other on Instagram. One of them, Carolyn, had twin girls, Camryn and Keeley, who died 7 weeks after Maliyah. Carolyn and I were DMing each other one day about different things we have to commemorate our girls, and she mentioned that she has blue jays on her desk, because she planted a tree for her girls and she used to always see blue jays in the tree when she first planted it. Of course, I had to tell her about the errant blue jay that hung out at my window the month prior. At the time, I had assumed it was something related to global warming, but it sure was strange to meet a loss mom 4 weeks later and have her tell me, completely unprompted, about her blue jays in a tree. Was it a sign? I wasn’t convinced, but it did seem like an odd coincidence.

Shortly thereafter, I decided to join an ornament exchange for the holiday season. As soon as I saw a post about the exchange on Instagram, I knew it was the perfect solution to my problem. You see, I wanted to celebrate Maliyah’s first Christmas, but I also couldn’t bring myself to buy her an ornament, it was just too damn sad. The perfect solution was to buy one for another loss mom’s baby, and then have someone else buy one for me/Maliyah. Enter: JJ’s ornament exchange. I filled out my Google form, and I was on my way.

Two weeks later, I received my assignment. Imagine my surprise when of ALL the people in the world (or, in the loss-mom-world), I was assigned Payal, the mom who started the book club where I met Carolyn! Even stranger, I had just had a conversation with Payal the day prior in the DMs. The DMs are filllledddd with loss moms talking to each other. I later asked how many people participated in the ornament exchange and learned it was more than 370 people. Woah.

I took my ornament-exchange responsibility extremely seriously. I knew that I wanted whoever was assigned to me to take their job seriously as well. I read the google form from Payal about 20 times. I started searching high and low on the internet, mostly on Etsy. I knew I wanted something fun for a kid, something meaningful, and something personalized. I had about 15 tabs open on my computer with different Etsy sellers, and I finally decided on one because the seller looked like she would hand-paint and personalize it.

I know this may surprise you readers because I share so openly here, but I’m not usually one to share my story with strangers, colleagues, or acquaintances. In this specific case, it was important to me that this ornament was done correctly, so I laid my cards on the table. I messaged the Etsy seller and I explained about the loss-mom ornament exchange and why it was so important. I told her I was a loss mom myself, and it was really imperative that this was special, so I asked if she’d be able to personalize the ornament. I remember sending the message and feeling unsettled. I felt it was an overshare, but I tried to tell myself, “what’s the worst that could happen?”

What happened next, I never could have predicted. I received a long message back, and she said, “First of all, I am very sorry for your loss. I lost my daughter as well. She was 16. It’s a heartbreak, unmatched.”

OMG. I immediately burst into tears. I couldn’t believe my luck/unluck. To find another loss mom… out of the 15 Etsy sellers I was choosing between. She wrote on to say that she would come up with something special for me, and if I wasn’t happy with it, I could send it back for a complete refund. I wrote back and told her I 100% trusted her judgment, and that I addressed the ornament directly to Payal’s son Zion because I truly knew she would come up with something awesome. She did, and Payal loved them (she ended up making her two ornaments, one for Zion and one for her other losses). Meanwhile, I’ve kept in touch with the Etsy seller; I wrote her a message on Thanksgiving to let her know I was thinking of her, and I plan to do the same on Christmas. Holidays are HARD and I always appreciate the extra love, I assumed she would, too. Again, I’m not sure if my choice of Etsy seller was Maliyah’s doing, but it did seem strange.

I love how she put this little ice cream cone on for Zion!
I burst into tears when I saw this one.

The next coincidence/sign was simply about the addressing of my ornament. As I mentioned, I had it addressed directly to Zion. I was a little nervous about this, because people have different opinions about receiving mail with their dead child’s name. I was hoping Payal would like it. The day after I ordered the ornament, she posted on her Instagram stories that she had ordered a drink at Starbucks with his name, simply because she likes hearing it sometimes and loves seeing it written. I replied to her Instagram story to say I was so glad she posted that because I addressed her ornament to him! She replied that she was so glad I did, because it’s rare for her to see and hear it.

I wrote back, “that’s kind of ironic, because I hear his name all the time since it’s my nephew’s name!” She was STUNNED. At this point we had been chatting on Instagram for about 8 weeks. She said, “WAIT WHAT?! You have a nephew named Zion?! How am I just hearing this?” She went on to say she had never met anyone with that name ever in her life. I thought back and realized I intentionally hadn’t shared that tidbit. I was wary to say, “your son is dead, but guess what, my very-alive-nephew has the same name!” I wasn’t sure how it would be received. Well, I was wrong. Payal was happy, shocked, and in awe. She took it as a sign from her Zion that I, with a nephew also named Zion, would be connected with her randomly by Instagram and then assigned to her as an ornament-buddy. When I started thinking about it more, I also thought it was stranger than I originally had thought – I, too, didn’t know a single other Zion. Also, it turns out they live 30 minutes away from each other. Another coincidence. Or sign.

The ornament I received from the ornament exchange didn’t bring any additional signs with it, although it is absolutely beautiful, and I plan to hang it up every year forever.

My ornament from the exchange
Lit up on the tree

But don’t fret, unbeknownst to me, more ornament-themed signs were coming.

A week after the Etsy-seller signstravaganza, my friend Danielle asked me to go on a walk. Nothing was abnormal about that, we love going on walks and I often try to get 45 minutes away from my computer screen midday. This particular day, Danielle had a gift for me. She had asked in advance if I’d like something for Maliyah, because she wanted to buy it but also didn’t want to presume. Considering the fact that I thought Maliyah would be live in the flesh with me this holiday season, but is far from it, I told my friend that yes, I’d love to include her any way I could.

I did not know how meaningful her gift would be. I also didn’t know it would leave me with tears streaming/freezing down my face in the middle of the afternoon as I stood on the street corner under some scaffolding. She, too, got me an ornament, and first of all, it is GORGEOUS. It’s a snowflake, with rhinestones and sparkles. I said, “it’s so sparkly!” and Danielle said, “just like her momma.” It has a silver disk attached to it, on one side it has Maliyah’s name, birthday, and time of birth, and on the other it says, “Beloved and Bitter,” which is what her name means. I was a complete mess.

But then she had a little speech. She wanted to explain why she chose a snowflake. She said that just like every snowflake is different, every baby is different, too. She knows that we still want a living baby someday, but she also knows that it won’t ever erase Maliyah from our minds and hearts. She also said that some people think of snowflakes as “kisses from heaven.” I hadn’t heard of that before, but I loved the idea. I told her that I had just seen a statistic that it hadn’t snowed more than an inch in New York for more than 630 days, a record! I also had read that it was supposed to be a big year for snow, so maybe I’d have lots of kisses from heaven. Again, I’m not necessarily on board with the whole “heaven” thing, but it’s a nice thing to think about.

Look how sparkly!
Unlit on the tree.
Lit up and sparkling like crazy.

I tried to dry my tears on my sleeve so we could continue on our walk, and we headed toward Central Park. About 5 minutes after entering the park, we started noticing something falling. We both assumed it was leaves, after all, it was pretty warm and it was still November. But soon enough, we started seeing other people doing the same thing we were doing, looking around, looking up, looking at their sleeves… it was snow. The very first flurries of the season. I made us take a quick break from our walk for a selfie. It was not heavy snow, so you can’t tell from the photo, but we know it was snowing, and that’s what matters.

It’s hard not to believe there is meaning in that moment. Do I believe it’s a sign from Maliyah every single time it snows anywhere in the world? No, probably not, that’s too broad of an assumption for me. But do I believe that 10 minutes after I received a snowflake gift and learned about the “kisses from heaven” meaning, that a random first snow of the season, on a warm day in November in the exact same city where I am taking a walk with the friend who gave me the gift is a sign from Maliyah? Maybe.

Holidays are hard. Losing people you love is hard. If believing they are still around, trying to help you power through is helpful, then I say LFG. I’m in. I still haven’t figured out what Maliyah might be sending me to help me through, but I’m going to continue to look. I’m not sure if I’ll be “asking” for help to see signs, but I will be keeping my eyes, ears, and DMs open for anything to help me get to 2024.

Selfie in the Flurries. How many people in this picture? Depends if you count Maliyah.
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Grief and Pregnancy Loss

I Saw the Sign… or Did I?

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(If you missed Part 1, start there!)

Some people see signs everywhere. In fact, I was guilty of this at first. I was looking for something or anything to believe in. As with my superstitious underwear, my first believed “sign” was the most cliché of all: 4:44 on the clock. I swear, every time I looked at a clock or my phone, it said 4:44. Except then I realized no, sometimes it was 3:33 or 11:11 or 8:88 (kidding) and I said to myself, “close enough!” But it wasn’t close enough, and the reality is, those first few weeks sitting at home, staring into space, spiraling in my own thoughts, I was looking at the clock a LOT. You know the saying, “a broken watch reads the right time twice a day?” Well, EVERY watch reads 4:44 or 5:55 or 3:33 twice a day. And the more you look, the better the chances are that you see it.

I decided to throw that sign in the trash. But I still see it all the time (and notice it!) Just yesterday I glanced at my phone and look what I saw. I took a screen shot.

Despite throwing out that sign, I did start to look for more particular things. Of course, you never know what the signs will be, so I just started to look for anything out of the ordinary. Now, living in New York, out of the ordinary is ordinary. Just last Friday I saw a man’s full butt hole 3 times before 10 am. NOT a sign.

I decided to keep my heart open to the possibility of signs, and my eyes open (to things besides butts). Sure enough, I started to notice very strange coincidences.

I love music. So it makes sense that when I think about things, a song always comes to mind. In this case, as this post is so aptly-titled, I started to think of the 1992 Ace of Base CLASSIC: I Saw the Sign. It played over in my head often. “I saw the sign, And it opened up my eyes, I saw the sign, Life is demanding without understanding…”

In August, Chris and I decided to go on a staycation to a hotel in downtown Manhattan. I was feeling sad (as usual) and lonely (as usual) so he wanted us to do something different and special. We checked into our room, put on comfy robes, and got into bed to watch a movie on Netflix. But first, for some strange reason Chris decided to turn on the radio. This was not a normal thing we did in hotels, so in hindsight, it made this even stranger. The radio came on, and it happened to be right at the beginning of a song. It started blasting Ace of Base. Not “I Saw the Sign,” another one of their classics: All That She Wants. For those of you who don’t know the song, or maybe haven’t heard it since its heyday in 1992, I’ll refresh your memory. The lyrics begin, “she leads a lonely life” twice over. I chuckled at this because… spot-on. You know how certain songs, you don’t know the lyrics, or you think you forgot them, but the second they come on, you remember every single word? Well, that’s what happened with this song. And imagine my surprise when “all that she wants is another baby” came through the speakers. Yep, totally forgot that those were the lyrics of the chorus. Now, in the song, she is talking about a romantic-suitor-baby, not a cry-all-night-sh*t-their-diaper-baby, but still. I thought that was pretty dang weird because we never listen to the radio, the song is nowhere near current, I had been thinking about Ace of Base constantly, and of course, I completely forgot those lyrics.

Months later, I published a blog called “My Own Worst Enemy” about having a panic attack and annoying swirling thoughts. Again, that blog was titled after a song with the same title by Lit (1999, I miss the 90’s, ok?). The week after I published that blog, I was at my parents’ house for Thanksgiving, and I took my mom’s car to meet a fellow loss mom for breakfast. I was having a tough weekend because another fellow loss mom had posted on Instagram that she was 28 weeks pregnant, and I just felt so far behind.

I never drive, because, NYC, but the main thing I miss about being in my own car is blasting the radio. It was Thanksgiving weekend, which meant one thing: Christmas carols! But for some strange reason, I scanned all of the stations and I couldn’t find anything Christmas! I was upset and I settled on an “80’s, 90’s and today station.” The second song that came on was, “My Own Worst Enemy,” the song from my blog that week. I thought to myself, “that’s weird.” but I didn’t think too much into it because it did fit into the theme of the station. Then, the song ended, and the very next song was “All That She Wants” by Ace of Base. Weird. Was it Maliyah? I’m not sure. But it sure was a STRANGE coincidence to hear those two songs in a row.

Now it’s been 3 weeks and I haven’t heard that song again since, but you can bet that I am listening for it everywhere.

While Thanksgiving weekend and the radio were giving me some pretty strong signals, I didn’t know that a few other signs and connections were already in motion. More on that later this week!

Chris and I on the balcony on our staycation, after the radio proclaimed, “all that she wants is another baby.” Too true.
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Grief and Pregnancy Loss

Lord Give Me a Sign

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The title of this post is a lyric from DMX, not a quote from me, but it’s topical. This week, I’m doing something a little bit different. I’ve wanted to write about signs for a long time, which means I have collected a LOT of thoughts. That also means that when I wrote this post, it ended up being far too long! Instead of posting it at once, I’m breaking it into three parts as we lead up to the end of the year.

Especially around Christmastime and New Year’s Eve, people tend to search for signs, miracles, or any indicator that “2024 will be their year.” In the spirit of all of those things, I give you installment #1.

I’ve heard people talk about “signs” from loved ones for a long time. The first time I remember truly thinking about them and believing in them was when my best friend’s dad died. I knew Stan well, both from my friend’s stories and because I had been on family vacations with them. When I was visiting Florida soon after he got sick, I went to visit my friend’s parents to hang out, even though my friend was back in New York. Her mom is a talker and she kept chatting with me and I remember him saying “Karen, stop it, she’s here to see ME!” We all laughed at that, but he was a character, and his outburst was completely predictable and on-brand. I had known him for 11 years when he died, and I was really sad for my friend when he was gone. But there was a sense that he was still around, and that he LOVED when we were hanging out together. It seemed like he was always looking out for us, and when my friend and I would do activities or travel, everything seemed to work out.

For example, we went on a trip to Costa Rica, and she had arrived a few days before me. The drive from where she was to pick me up from the airport was treacherous, and we later found out that the entire road was closed just days prior. But that day, it was open, and she picked me up with no problem. Later on that same trip, we went on a hike to a waterfall and found out that it was extremely muddy. Our hotel manager that morning said “you have rain boots right?” We didn’t. We also couldn’t find the trail head. Eventually we parked on the side of the road and saw a small sign, which led to us trekking through a private resident’s backyard. We were a little hesitant, but then this little lemonade-stand-type thing appeared with someone offering rain boots for rent. What??? How strange! We grabbed two pairs, and we definitely ended up appreciating them! Things like this kept happening.

Our open-air hotel
The middle of a VERY muddy hike.
We made it! The Rio Celeste waterfall (note the rain boots).

When we were planning the trip, we had really hoped to see a toucan. We knew they are native to Costa Rica, but they are also very rare to see because they dwell in rainforests, they sit at the top of trees, and they don’t tend to get close to humans. The 2nd day in Costa Rica, we were sitting at the open-air restaurant for breakfast when our server heard something completely undetectable to us, and ran from our table to grab binoculars. Sure enough: a toucan. He told us to run over to him and look through his binoculars. It felt like we were spotting a unicorn. How crazy!! 5 days later, on the tail end of our trip (pun intended), it was Superbowl Sunday. We discovered a beach bar with TVs right by our second hotel and we decided to go there for the game. As we walked through the hotel parking lot to the beach, we heard a bird call. It was so close, we thought it couldn’t possibly be a toucan. Also, we were on the beach, pretty far from a rainforest. But there, perched on top of a tree in the parking lot was a toucan. My friend looked at me and just said, “Stan.” It had to be him, right? Like, how do you explain that?

Many years later on her honeymoon, she saw another toucan and sent me a photo. I couldn’t even believe she had service deep in the jungle of Belize! I said that, and she replied, “toucan Stan!”

Look closely for a toucan at the beach!
Two drinks, one for my friend, one for Stan (actually for me).

Ever since our trip to Costa Rica, I’ve been a little more open to signs. For other people, that is. For me, I still can’t fully buy into it.

Here’s my main issue: thinking that there are dead people communicating to you through signs means that you think they are still out there somewhere. I’m not sure I believe that. I have a very fuzzy understanding of my own beliefs, but I’d say a rough outline is that I’m very far off from believing in a specific physical place like “hell” and “heaven” and definitely far off from believing there’s any sort of god-figure who is somehow meting out rewards and punishments.

However, since Maliyah died, I’ve been a little more open to thinking about “the universe” and the idea of karma. It’s still difficult, though, to see endless stories of tragedy and believe there’s some sort of justice involved. It feels completely unfair, and it’s almost better for my mental health to simply believe it’s all random. I do think there’s an extreme amount of solace in thinking someone is looking out for you, and everything is part of some long plan, and I often wish I was more religious for that reason, but that’s a whole different blog.

Anyway, I’ve been thinking about signs a lot recently, so I asked my friend about how and why she believes in them. She isn’t too religious (probably more than me but that isn’t hard!). First of all, she said her mom believes everything is a sign! Even pennies on the ground are signs to her mom, so she was raised to look for them (the signs, not the pennies… well, maybe both). Second of all, she said that the alternative was that there are no signs, and that believing that when people die, they are just GONE forever is too difficult. This resonated with me. The finality of it is too much. I definitely believe that a person’s body is not their person, which is why for me, cremation and having an urn was not important, but it’s nice to believe that a person’s spirit still exists.

You may have heard me say, “I hope Maliyah is out there somewhere, having a whole lot more fun than I am.” But what does “out there” mean, and how can I be sure? I have listened to some podcasts about signs, and they always say you have to “ask for them.” My issue with that is… if I don’t believe in jack sh*t, then who am I asking?? I have been going back and forth about this all year, but even without asking, I have experienced some pretty strange stuff.

Part II about that coming later this week!

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Grief and Pregnancy Loss

Anticipatory Anxiety

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There’s a lot of talk about anticipatory grief, when you know someone is going to die, and you grieve the loss before they are even gone. There is not as much talk about anticipatory anxiety. Maybe that’s because it’s just called “anxiety.” But this is a very specific type of anxiety, where you DREAD an upcoming day or event. What I’ve found, though, is that I have this impending dread for weeks and then, surprise, those days or events turn out to be not as bad as I made them out to be in my mind.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot in the weeks after Thanksgiving.

Leading up to Thanksgiving, I was a mess. I was worried about everything. I thought I’d break down at the Parade and cause a scene in front of 4-year-olds on the sidewalk at 6 am. I thought everyone would ask “where’s Emily?” and assume I was in a corner crying in a ball, when I turned down my sister’s invitation to her Thanksgiving dinner. I worried for WEEKS about if my parents would go around the table and ask us to say what we were thankful for.

I thought about that last one for weeks. I talked about it with my therapists. I listened to podcasts about boundaries. I discussed it with Chris. I really wanted to ask my parents in advance NOT to do this. Chris did not want me to ask them to opt out of the tradition. I imagined the worst-case scenario, where I was stuck at a table while everyone gloated about their amazing lives and then they got to me and I said, “my baby died and I’m thankful for nothing.” I thought about just getting up from the table and crying in the bathroom. I thought about what people would say when/if I left the table. The whispers, the looks, the knock on the bathroom door from my mom to check on me while I cried on the floor.

But guess what? None of that happened. I didn’t cry at the Parade. I didn’t scare any 4-year-olds. To my knowledge, no one asked why I wasn’t at my sister’s Thanksgiving table (probably because they knew why – to avoid the 9-month-old baby, born 4 days after Maliyah). And at my parents’ house, they didn’t even go around the table to ask what we were thankful for.

The best and most classic balloons
Bluey! My 2nd favorite Australian
Scariest largest clown you ever did see
Parade finish
Zero tears, zero terrified 4-year-olds.

You would think that I would have had a huge sense of relief after, but I didn’t. I had a sense of waste and regret. Why did I spend so much time worrying about these things that didn’t even materialize? What could I have been focusing on instead? Could I have transformed those negative thoughts into positive ones?

If I’ve learned anything from the past 9 months, it’s that it’s easier said than done.

This week, I met a stranger on a plane, and through a strange confluence of factors (no screens, broken wifi, empty middle seat, shared favorite drink that they were giving away for free), we got to talking. Something about the anonymity of knowing you’ll likely never see a person again had me sharing authentically and deeply about everything going on in my life. He told me that he couldn’t believe how “happy” and “light” I seemed given what I’d been through. I told him he was catching me on a good day. But he was also catching me on a day where I had been thinking a lot about my wasted time in anxiety. I told him that hindsight was 20/20, and I was trying my best to use my hindsight as foresight. I said that out loud, then I said to myself, “wow, that sounded prophetic.”

I’ve been trying to do this. Not always succeeding but trying.

I’ve started to think back to other “big days” I’ve had in the past year, and I’ve realized that this anticipatory anxiety happens to me a lot, and every single time, the things I worried about did not come to fruition, or weren’t as bad as I thought they would be. I think it’s common for others, too. On my favorite dead baby podcasts, they often say that the lead-up to anniversaries and big milestone days is worse than the actual day. I have found this to be true.

I DREADED Mother’s Day. I deleted social media 3 days before, I queued up many seasons of British Bakeoff, and I hid from the world. But you know what, it was 24 hours. It came, it went, it was over. Was it bad? Sure. But was it horrific-can’t-live-through-it? No.

The same thing happened for my due date. I agonized. What was it going to be like? Would anyone know or remember? What should I do to commemorate it? Should we light a candle? Make something? I thought for a long time about giving back to my Buy Nothing group who gave me so much baby accoutrements. I thought about buying Starbucks cards and giving them to the first 20 people who came to my apartment building from the group, or just handing out cash to people in line at the store. But then I realized that would require interacting with people and I had no interest. Also, it required foresight to buy gift cards or interaction with baristas. I thought about running a significant/symbolic number of miles in Maliyah’s honor. I thought about giving her a birthday party.

Spoiler Alert (3 months later), I did none of those things. And it didn’t matter. But I did spend hundreds of hours thinking about them. What I actually did was go to the gym, get a latte at Starbucks (and no gift cards), shower, and curl up on the couch to watch Friends.

Then the next week, I chastised myself for the amount of time I spent worrying about a day that came and went, just like every other day comes and goes.

This week I am facing a new challenge with a holiday party for Chris’s work. Last year at this holiday party I was pregnant. Last year, there was a lot of conversation around the prediction of the sex of our baby. We were choosing to be surprised but they were all SURE we’d have a girl. They were right, but no one predicted she would die. This year, I need to face these same people for the first time in a year. I was worried for months, going through every possible scenario in my mind of what they could say, and how I could react. Then last week I was on a support group and I brought it up, and they said “they’ll either bring it up, or they won’t; those are the two options.” This helped me. Then I brought this up to a therapist and I said well what if they do bring it up? What do I say and what if I say the wrong thing or they say something dumb? And she said, “these are basically strangers, right? You see them once a year? Why do you give a sh*t what they say?” She was right. I HATE when that happens.

I needed the reminder. The spiraling thoughts are not helpful. The party will happen and then it will be over. I’ve heard many insensitive things over the past year, and I’ve survived, there’s no reason to give mental space to the what-ifs.

As Hannukkah/Christmas/a new year approaches, I’ve been thinking about this even more. Instead of focusing on anxious thoughts, I’m trying to instead simply be aware of my thoughts and allow them to come and go, just like the days do.

I’m worried about spending time with in-laws and I’m sure it will be hard to have a holiday season that looks nothing like the way I wanted it to. But then it will be over and another day will come. Another year will come. Another milestone will come. And then they will pass. While I don’t think I am completely at peace, I’m getting there one slightly-less-anxious day at a time.

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