miscarriage – Page 2 – LongLegsBigCity

Gender Disappointment

May 3, 2024 2 Comments

“All I want is a healthy baby.” Everyone says that. It’s true, but it’s also not the full story.

The topic of “gender disappointment**” is a hot button issue in pregnancy in general, and in the “normal pregnancy” world it isn’t talked about much, but in the loss-mom-world, it’s talked about quite a bit.

In normal pregnancies, people have expectations and wants, they picture the little outfits, and the hairstyles, the sports they want to teach their kids, the dance recitals, the blue or pink nursery, and sometimes, they are disappointed when they find out what they are having. This is 100% normal and 100% understandable. Almost everyone thinks about their future and what it will look like, and it makes sense that if you find out it will look different than you imagined, it will be disappointing. That’s human nature.

With loss moms, it’s that, and a dumpster fire more. With loss moms, you not only had those dreams, but you had the baby! You possibly already had the clothes. The nursery. The pink carrier on your registry. And then, it’s all ripped away. Not just the tangible items but the hopes and the dreams. It was so close and within reach, and then it was so far. Therefore, the “gender disappointment” can hit even harder.

With my first pregnancy, we decided we didn’t want to know what the sex of our baby was. Chris didn’t feel as strongly as me, but he agreed with the decision, and he said he didn’t care, he would love them either way. I had my own reasons, and one of them was exactly that: I’d love them either way. But there were other, less benevolent and more rational reasons, too.

I always wished I had a big brother growing up. Or a little sister. Those were the two things I didn’t have. I had a big sister and a little brother. So I figured, if I had a boy first, I’d be elated! Then I’d have that possibility of having a family with a big brother and little sister! We could have a built-in someone to look out for her.
I knew I wanted “at least” one girl at some point. I literally have a business styling hair, I was MADE to be a girl mom! Plus, tutus and sparkles and headbands are kinda my thing.

For those two reasons, I knew it didn’t matter. Girl first, FAB, I get my girl. Boy first, FAB, I get my “older brother” dream. The third reason we chose not to find out the sex of our first baby was:

3. We wanted to be “surprised.” I figured, this was one of the final surprises left in the world, and I wanted to have that amazing moment in the hospital. Besides, like I said, I’d love them either way.

HA! We sure got a surprise. A dead one. Not exactly the surprise we planned for. But you know what they say about plans… We did love her, and do love her like we planned, but the surprise part? We did not love that.

Early on, post-loss, Chris and I decided we definitely wanted to learn the sex of our next baby. We decided this LONGGG before I was pregnant again, possibly even while I was still in the hospital.

We made this decision for a few reasons. Some were for Chris. We both wished he had more of a connection with Maliyah before she died. He came to literally every appointment and ultrasound with me (and there were a lot!). He knew all the facts, he sat (and slept) by my side in the hospital for a week. He spent time with her after she was born. But, the bond of a carrying parent is just not the same as the bond of the non-carrying parent during pregnancy. And since we only knew her during pregnancy, it felt uneven. We talked about how we could help him create a stronger bond, if there was a “next time,” and one of the things we agreed upon was knowing the sex. Knowing the sex would help him create more vivid and specific dreams of the future for his child. He could think about himself as a “girl dad” or a “boy dad” and what that meant to him.

As for the reasons for the decision for me, I knew for a FACT that I had enough surprises for a lifetime. I was full up on surprises. Done. Also, I know now that 99.9999% of pregnancy is completely out of my control. For an anxious control freak like me, this is not an ideal situation. Therefore, I knew I needed to control the controllables. I needed to gather absolutely every piece of information that I could. That included everything from reading scientific, peer-reviewed papers on placental health, and it meant learning the sex of my baby ASAP. I know now, I do not do well with surprises, and I needed time to adjust to the news. I did not want that “adjustment” time to be in the delivery room.

We knew we wanted to know, and we wanted to know FAST. Unlike last time, where I didn’t care which sex I was carrying, this time, I felt completely different.

I wanted a girl. Everyone says they “just” want a healthy kid. And that is not a “just” for me. OBVIOUSLY that’s what I wanted. That’s what I still want. I know it’s not a given. I know it’s out of my control. I know I’d do ANYTHING to get a healthy baby. But still… I wanted a girl.

So why did I want a girl? I asked myself this question millions of times. In my head. On support groups. In therapy. To Chris. Why did it matter to me? I listened to a few podcasts and learned I was not alone. It seems almost ALL loss parents want the same sex next baby as the one they lost. At first, it seemed so strange to me. I knew this next baby would never replace Maliyah. I knew she was gone, and I knew she was irreplaceable. A new baby doesn’t replace a dead baby.

But still, deep down in my soul, I wanted a girl. By the time I saw those two lines on the pregnancy test again, I had 9 months of images in my mind. Maliyah as a baby. Maliyah as a toddler. Maliyah as a teenager. Maliyah at her wedding. Those were all milestones I would never see because they would never come to fruition. I had a girl, but I didn’t get to raise her. I carried her and I birthed her, but I never got to dress her, create a bond with her, TALK with her, learn her hobbies, braid her hair, it was all missed opportunities. I felt in my soul that I needed a girl back. Not the same girl, but a girl. I needed a chance to do all of the things I had imagined for Maliyah throughout the previous year.

I’m not getting a girl. I had my girl, and she died. And now, we’re having a boy.

When we first received the results, I thought I’d have a lot more trouble with the sex. I thought all of the thoughts I had above would come to me in a deluge. It didn’t happen that way, they didn’t come to me until many weeks later. Instead, when we first received the news of our new baby brother, I just had trouble accepting he was a human. The more I thought of him as a boy, the more I thought of him as a person. Of course, I have no idea what his likes and dislikes will be, whether he will love laptops or lacrosse more, but just thinking of him as a person who HAS likes or dislikes was really troubling. I was so terrified to think of him as real. Thinking of him as a boy was TOO real. The more I thought about him as a person and not just a parasite, the more I was terrified to become attached. Those feelings lasted for a month, maybe more. We held on to the information without telling a soul (besides my therapist) for 7 weeks. I felt that sharing the news about him being a boy would immediately make me attached to him. But then, I listened to a podcast that said, if you’re afraid of becoming attached, it means you’re already attached. And I knew it was true.

Part of me is happy I am carrying a baby of the opposite sex. As I mentioned in a previous post, I am constantly looking for differences between this pregnancy and my previous one. I am trying so hard to see a different outcome, so any time I can hold on to a tangible difference between pregnancies, I am hoping that is more evidence that a different outcome is in our future. Is this rational? Absolutely not. There is literally zero evidence that Y chromosomes in general cause less pregnancy complications. But for me, I am trying to trick myself into believing that this marks an important change.

Sometimes, when I’m feeling less kind to myself, I think I caused this. Not just that I caused myself to have a boy this time around because I wanted a different pregnancy, but also that I somehow cause Maliyah’s death because I originally said I wanted a boy as my firstborn. I have been to many, many hours of therapy and I am very aware that my thoughts did not cause Maliyah’s death. But sometimes, I still let my mind go there.

Practically speaking, raising a boy terrifies me. I don’t know anything about boys. I barely understand my husband. I think about the different relationships of men and their mothers versus women and their mothers, and it makes me sad. I know I call my mom to chat 3-4 times/week, and I know my brother only calls when he needs something. I know I talk about my feelings constantly, and my husband pushes them down. I know most men don’t love a tutu and a bow, and I live for them. I don’t know how to teach someone to pee standing up. None of those things mean I won’t be a good mom, they just mean I may have a steeper learning curve.

There’s another piece, too. I won’t just be raising a man, I’ll be raising a black man in the United States. I know there are so many things about his experience in the world that I simply won’t be able to relate to. Not just that, but there are also fears. I know that the United States is not a safe place to be a black man. I know that while things are possibly moving toward equity, we have a longggg way to go. This is a whole other post that I don’t feel fully qualified to speak on, but I will just say, it’s something I think about a lot. I know that I am anxious in pregnancy because I fear for my boy and he’s inside me, and I know that fear for his safety is not likely to go away after he is born.

Since I found out about having the opposite sex pregnancy, I have been talking to a lot of loss moms and listening to podcasts about this, and I have realized that almost all loss moms who had girls in their first pregnancy, have a boy in their subsequent ones. I actually could not find one single person who had a girl who died, then another girl. I found a couple who had a boy and then another boy, but ZERO girl-girl. The good news about this is, I’m not alone. There are many stories out there for me to see, and there are many people for me to talk to. I have realized that all of my feelings are common. Many loss moms who had girls who died have talked to me about how they notice things they never looked at before, like moms and their sons of all ages on the subway. I have tried to look closely for these things, too. I need to reframe my whole schema of what my mothering relationship will look like, so I am seeking out examples. I find much more in common with moms-who-lost-girls-and-have-living-boys than just mom-who-have-living-boys. There’s this grief and sadness that pairs together with extreme happiness of living children that I find myself at the intersection of. This is another example of feeling “other,” like I talked about in my post on being a “loss mom not a regular mom.” I know this “mom-of-living-boy-after-dead-girl” seems like a small sample size, but now that I exist in these spaces, I know there are actually very, very many of us.

I don’t think my what-ifs will ever go away. I will continue to wonder if my only girl I will ever get to parent is dead. I will continue to think about my unrealized dreams for her. But I am also now looking to create new dreams for our son. I find myself constantly looking at old photos of Chris as a kid, and seeing how cute he was. When we have conversations, I look at his face and his gesticulation, and I notice little things in him, mannerisms and physical traits, that I hope our son inherits. I watch him snoring away at night, and wonder if our little boy will sleep as soundly. One thing I know for sure is that we will love him a LOT. He is already loved so much, and we can’t wait to meet him (but not too soon)!

**Sidenote: I know the term “gender disappointment” is a misnomer, since what we are actually talking about is genitalia and sex, not gender expression, but historically, the term has been “gender disappointment” so that’s what I used here. Also, “sex disappointment” reminds me of a whole other thing: what most women experience throughout their 20’s.

(Written at: 13 weeks, 3 days)

Pregnancy After Loss

I’m Not a Regular Mom, I’m a Loss Mom

April 29, 2024 6 Comments

There are so many things I lost when my baby died. I lost my baby, obviously, but there were a million secondary losses. One of the big losses was the sense of community. I was in the “expecting” community, then all of a sudden, I was not. If you are the type to join the “bump groups” on reddit or Facebook or anywhere, where you find thousands of women looking to have babies around the same time, all of a sudden you are left behind. Personally, I’m not that kind of gal, and those groups always made me a little uncomfortable. However, last year when I was about 20 weeks pregnant with Maliyah, I did join a local moms group, looking to see where people were signing up for daycare wait lists, what the going rates were for nannies in the neighborhood, and who was selling second-hand strollers, etc. When I came home from the hospital empty-handed and empty wombed, I immediately exited all of those groups and it was devastating.

But I’m pregnant now! I’m back in the club! The COOL MOMS CLUB! The regular moms club! Except… I don’t feel part of the club at all. In fact, I feel exactly the same as I did before, like I have a dead baby. Yes, I’m growing a new one, but I feel completely out of the club.

I didn’t realize just how “other” I felt until last month, when I saw an Instagram friend repost from Vogue Weddings the announcement that Sophia Richie Grainge was pregnant. The photo showed her in an unbuttoned, oversized men’s shirt and underwear, belly on full display. It had 1.9 MILLION likes. I saw it, visibly cringed and recoiled, and clicked away. I couldn’t look at it. I had to take a moment and realize my own reaction. Why was I so uncomfortable seeing a woman pregnant, when I myself was pregnant with a little bump of my own? I reflected on how I felt the week prior at my doctor’s appointment. As it happens when you go to a maternal fetal medicine specialist, most of the people in the waiting room, indeed are carrying babies. It’s why they’re there. But to this day, I look around the waiting room and I can’t stand looking at them. I find myself averting my eyes from anyone pregnant, even walking past strangers on the sidewalk.

After Maliyah died, when I had to go to my doctor for follow-up appointments, I was similarly disturbed and triggered seeing pregnant women. I thought this would be temporary because of grief and trauma, and that I would somehow find myself “fixed” and “back in the in-crowd” once I was pregnant again. I’ve been waiting for this moment, but it hasn’t happened and now I’m not sure if it ever will.

Whenever I think I’m in the clear and I’m feeling more part of the club again, I get shoved back into my place by random seemingly-innocuous conversations. Since I’m in my mid-30’s, of course more and more of my friends are expecting (living) babies. Therefore, many conversations revolve around upcoming births. I was feeling so much better about these conversations. After all, I have one coming up, too (hopefully). But recently, I realized my worries and complaints are just SO DIFFERENT from other expectant mothers.

Once you have a kid, if you have living parents or in-laws, you also make them grandparents. What a gift! I know my mom is dying to be a grandma with a new tiny baby to hold. I also know that some people have overbearing parents and grandparents. Recently, some friends were talking about their parents/in-laws and their involvement in their kids and lives, and I again realized how different my guilt and struggles were. Don’t get me wrong, everyone complains about their parents and in-laws, and I don’t want to minimize any of their struggles, but in 2022, I promised my parents they’d become grandparents and then I gave them a dead grandkid. Instead of visiting their new grandkid in the hospital, they came to visit me, babyless, hooked up to an EKG and 4 IVs. That’s not what I promised, and my extreme feelings of guilt for letting their grandparent dreams down by giving them a dead grandkid, they just don’t compare to all of the “regular mom” guilt.

Now, two years later, I am once again promising my parents another grandkid. Hopefully this one will be alive. My friends complain about how involved their parents are, imagine how uninvolved they’d be if your kid was dead? Imagine how hesitant they’d be to show their excitement if they weren’t sure if this one would survive? Or if they weren’t sure how you’d react to the excitement because you were so terrified yourself? My parents are scared to even ask about my pregnancy unless I bring it up. We have been very clear about not accepting gifts yet because of our extreme caution. I wish more than anything that I could be a “regular” mom getting gifts from excited grandparents-to-be, but instead, we just skirt the subject and wait with baited breath.

The subject of me feeling so incredibly “different” came up recently when I was talking with my husband. He asked who I told about the pregnancy, and I told him that all of my close friends and immediate family knew. He asked what they thought about it, and what they said. I said, “well, they said congratulations, but I don’t really talk to them about it. Who wants to know about my hundreds of appointments and blood draws?” He was pretty surprised to hear I don’t discuss my pregnancy with my friends, since I am so open and outgoing and extroverted usually.

For weeks, I thought about why I don’t feel comfortable talking about it, especially now that many of my friends have kids of their own. I think that is actually why. There are two groups of friends, the people who have babies now (many of whom I was SUPPOSED to have a baby before), and the people who don’t have babies. My friends who have never been pregnant don’t really understand, and those who have been pregnant but haven’t gone through an extremely traumatic loss, I feel like they can’t relate. Sure, I could talk about the scans or the tests to my friends with kids, and they would be able to speak knowledgably about them because they had the same ones. But I doubt they had panic attacks in the waiting room every time. I doubt they didn’t sleep for weeks as they waited for their metabolic blood panel to come back. I doubt they broke out in a cold sweat in the Uber on the way to the hospital. I doubt they literally sob EVERY time they have an ultrasound. I doubt their charts say “SIGNIFICANT ANXIETY” in all caps in the notes section.

I could share more with friends, but I don’t feel like anyone would get it. I’m not a regular mom, I’m a loss mom. Some of this could be in my head, and I like to think all of my friends are sympathetic people, so even if they couldn’t have empathy I think they would feel bad. But I don’t want my friends to feel bad, I want them to understand and it feels like no one can. That’s what the internet is for, I guess, to find other PAL moms who similarly have panic attacks in waiting rooms, and can suggest their favorite progressive muscle relaxation techniques when they feel the cold sweats coming.

My regular mom friends with living kids talk about picking baby names. One mentioned how they settled on a name months before the birth, but they wanted to reserve the right to change it if the baby didn’t seem to match the name. For me, I have a list of names, but then a backup list of names for if the baby is dead. I have my top favorite names, and then I think, “if this baby dies too, would I want to save that name for a living baby? Would I ‘waste’ it on another dead one? What is the meaning of the name, and would it be awkward as a memorial name instead of on a breathing kid? Like if it means energetic or ‘full of life’ isn’t that weird for a dead child? Does the name go with Maliyah’s name? How would it look on a memorial necklace next to hers?”

Regular moms don’t think about those things when they’re deciding names. Regular moms think, “Is this a pretty name? Do we like it? Are we naming them after someone? Does it go with the last name?”

Loss moms have a list of names that go with their last name, and a list of names that don’t, because last names don’t really matter when the baby never gets a birth certificate. Every single decision is made differently.

I’ve talked before about how my excitement is different than other moms-to-be because mine is complicated and tinged by 100 other emotions, and I had a perfect example of this a few weeks ago.

I mentioned to a friend when I announced my pregnancy to her, that I think my body looked at 12 weeks the way that it did at 24 weeks with Maliyah. When she heard that, she told me it made her want to see bump pics. I have a complicated relationship with bump photos to begin with, since I’m not 100% comfortable with my body changing outside of my control, so even with Maliyah, I didn’t take many photos of my changing body, and I certainly did not share them publicly.

When my friend asked me for a bump pic, I told her I didn’t have any. But then I remembered, I did. The morning of my doctor’s appointment at 10 weeks, I took photos in the mirror. I had completely convinced myself that I was going to find out that day that my baby was dead. I was sure. I told myself, “I better take a photo of myself so I have something to commemorate this baby.” I took a couple photos before I put on an outfit and headed to the doctor, where I found out that everything was perfectly fine.

I had actually forgotten about those pictures. I didn’t take them to flaunt or show anyone. I took them for future memories when I figured I’d be left with nothing else. Empty womb, empty arms, yet again. I needed something to put in the memory box.

Regular moms don’t do that or have those thought processes. Regular moms take photos for Instagram or to send to friends and family. Regular moms hold up avocadoes to compare their baby to an inanimate object. Loss moms think about putting photos and memories inside an inanimate object since that’s all they are left with.

I will admit, it made me really sad to realize that the only reason I was taking pictures was because I thought they’d be the only ones I’d have. I realized I had been doing that with other things too. For this pregnancy, I saved the pregnancy test (in a ziplock bag because ew), and I saved my wristband from the hospital from my 12-week scan. I worry that these are the only items I’ll have to remember this baby.

I have tried to think differently and get excited about this new baby, but as you read, it’s been difficult. I get very sad when I see happy and naïve people post pregnancy things because I’m jealous. I wish I had that excitement. I wish I could excitedly receive gifts. I wish I could confidently schedule a baby shower. I want to be a regular mom. But I’m not, I’m forever and for always a loss mom.

(Written at: 13 weeks, 0 days)

Pregnancy After Loss

Comparison is the Creator of Joy

April 24, 2024 1 Comment

two people holding pineapple fruit on their palm

“Comparison is the Thief of Joy.” This is a phrase that is thrown around a lot, and usually attributed to President Theodore Roosevelt, although that is likely a misattribution according to the internet. The point of the phrase is, if you compare yourself to others, you will likely be disappointed and it will make you feel like shit.

Going through baby loss, I can say 100% yes, this can be true. I spent a lot of my time in 2023 comparing myself to everyone else, and feeling like a complete failure, that the world was sh*t, that I couldn’t get myself the literal one thing I’ve always wanted in my entire life, and that everyone else just seemed to have it better. Then, I realized I was doing this toxic comparison stuff, and I felt like sh*t even more because, as the saying goes, I was “robbing myself” of joy. Comparison, however, is an extremely normal thing for humans to do. In fact, according to research in Psychology Today, more than 10% of daily thoughts involve making a comparison of some kind.

Recently, I’ve found myself comparing me to ME, though, and I have to tell you, it’s the opposite of a thief of joy, it’s almost the only thing that can CREATE joy for me now.

You may remember a few days ago, I talked about how my only experience with pregnancy resulted in horrific trauma and loss. Therefore, it’s only natural that I compare my current pregnancy with my previous one, since it’s my only point of reference. But every time something goes well that did NOT go well last time, I feel extreme joy and relief. Comparing my own personal past experiences to my present ones is the only thing that seems to bring this reaction.

In November 2022, I had an appointment for a 12-week scan. This is the first scan where they do an abdominal ultrasound, so they advise you to have a full bladder. What they did NOT advise me, was that they were running 2.5 hours late. Without going into the details, I will just say, it did not end well. Holding my bladder eventually shifted my organs so that I could no longer go to the bathroom. I ended up leaving the hospital without the scan because they closed for the evening, and then I ended up back in the hospital on the emergency triage labor and delivery floor later that night to try and empty and re-shift my organs back into place. It was traumatic, to say the least. The next morning, I was BACK at the hospital to try to have them perform the scan again. Again, I was greeted by a new receptionist who told me to have a full bladder, to which I just laughed, then I eventually did get the scan by an ultrasound tech I had never seen, in a dark room where she did not speak. I was terrified the whole time that the events from the night before had killed my baby, and I just waited and waited while she didn’t say anything to me until I finally asked, “is everything ok?” And it was. Then the attending doctor, who I had also never seen, came in and said “everything looks good” with no acknowledgement of the previous day and night, and they sent me on my way.

Four weeks later, I was scheduled for another scan. This time, I had to go to a different ultrasound facility I had never been to, again with strangers, for an early anatomy scan. I was told an early anatomy scan was necessary because I was ANCIENT, aka 35 years old. Again, I was laid down on a bed in a dark, silent room with an ultrasound technician, and this time, she was having trouble getting the pictures she needed. She kept shifting the bed up, down, angle up, angle down, asking me to shift to one side, lift my legs, do all sorts of things. Eventually, she told me to get up and walk around. This was also when she scolded me for not eating enough breakfast, which you may remember from my post about body image. I was terrified. What was she trying to see that she couldn’t see? I thought some crucial part of my baby was MIA. Again, it turned out everything was fine. But since this scan was done at a different facility, those scan images weren’t in my chart online. When, two weeks later, I had an additional scare that my baby might have spina bifida (she didn’t), my doctor wanted to see the photos from the scan, but didn’t have them. All I could say was that the tech had told me, “everything looked normal.”

When I think about my pregnancy with Maliyah, I usually say it was, “uneventful… until it was NOT.” But then I think about those two scans and I realize, it was kind of eventful. Those stories are just background to say, even before Maliyah died, things were not smooth sailing.

While of course, I wish my pregnancy with Maliyah had been nothing but great memories with rainbows and unicorns, it isn’t true. That also means that every single time something goes smoothly or easily with pregnancy #2, I am floored, and I am overjoyed.

Last week, I had my 12-week nuchal translucency scan for pregnancy #2, the same infamous bladder-uterus-shifting scan from 2022. I was terrified, but I was mentally prepared. To make matters even more complicated, it was the very first time I was to go back to the hospital where Maliyah died. The last time I checked myself in on those screens, I was pregnant. Then, six days later, I left very NOT pregnant. I was nervous about entering the hospital and having this scan for weeks.

I arrived, and the receptionist confirmed if I had a full bladder. I didn’t of course, because ONLY FOOLS MAKE THAT MISTAKE TWICE. But I lied, and kind of chuckled, and I said, sort of. She said, “ok good, because they’re about to call you.” Now, in my previous pregnancy, I had 4 scans on that same floor and they had NEVER been less than an hour behind, so that comment actually elicited a true laugh from me. I said, “oh yea? What does ‘about to’ mean?” And she said, “you’re next, maybe five minutes?” I went to find a seat with Chris, away from all of the other visibly pregnant people, and I said to Chris, “do you think five minutes means like 30 minutes? Or two hours?” We didn’t believe it for a second. Chris took out his iPad, and I took out my Kindle, ready for the inevitable long wait.

The second nurse who came out to call someone said “Emily!” I didn’t even believe it at first, I actually said it back to her to double check. Sure enough, it was me. We walked back to the room, one I had never been in before and had no traumatic experiences in, and she started the scan. Immediately she found our baby, she talked out loud the whole time to us. “There’s your baby! See baby dancing around?” Immediately she shifted to show us the tiny heart beating away. She took all of the necessary photos, while explaining aloud the whole time what she was doing, she even answered a question of mine. Then, she said everything looked good, but my doctor was going to come in and confirm. Within five minutes, my actual doctor walked in (a familiar face! Gasp!) and she knew my name, she knew I had seen my other doctor the week prior, she answered my questions, and she even knew the next time I was going to see her. We left the appointment feeling happy and relieved, and we were HOME within one hour and fifteen minutes of our appointment time, even taking the cross-town bus.

Later that night, Chris asked me how I felt. He was there with me at the scan, so of course he knew we had gotten good news, but he wasn’t just asking about the baby, he was asking about ME. It was only then that I reflected on why I felt so great. It wasn’t just the baby, it was the experience. It was a full 180 from our last experience at that same scan. There was no wait. There were no unanswered questions. The tech was kind and immediately showed us our baby and heartbeat without prompting. She was friendly. Then we got to have face time with our actual doctor. I must admit that it was just a happy coincidence that my doctor was on call there that day, but it made a world of difference. Dealing with a brand-new person every appointment who doesn’t understand the baggage and trauma I am carrying to every appointment is emotionally taxing. To see a familiar face, for the doctor to know the next time I would see her, it felt like I was actually being cared for. It felt like, if I had concerns, I had someone I could call. It felt so much less lonely than last time, when I had checked myself into the triage unit later that night without ever talking to my doctor.

When I reflected this back to Chris, I said how I wouldn’t even have known how amazing that experience was, if I hadn’t seen the polar opposite in my previous pregnancy. While comparison is sometimes the thief of joy, this time, a regular old scan, in comparison to the experience I had last time, was the creator of such an abundance of joy. I left feeling supported, feeling like I had a team, and feeling like maybe, just MAYBE things would go differently this time around.

While I think it’s still unhealthy to compare myself to others regularly, comparing myself to my own experiences can sometimes be a good thing. It’s not just about the results of a test or scan (although those matter a heck of a lot, too), it’s also about how I feel, who is around me, and those pieces of mental health are sometimes just as important. While I don’t love thinking about my previous pregnancy as “bad” and comparing it to the one now as “good,” sometimes when I look objectively, I can see major differences and that’s ok. It doesn’t mean Maliyah means less to me, it doesn’t mean I love her less, it just means I now have a great care team, and that gives me reassurance and an inkling of hope.

(Written at: 12 weeks, 6 days)

Grief and Pregnancy Loss, Pregnancy After Loss

My First Pregnancy Was a Dead Baby

April 19, 2024 8 Comments

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)

Grief and Pregnancy Loss, Pregnancy After Loss

Invisible Grief

April 15, 2024 5 Comments

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)

Grief and Pregnancy Loss, Pregnancy After Loss

I’m So Excited! … I’m So SCARED

April 9, 2024 12 Comments

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)

Grief and Pregnancy Loss

A Letter For Maliyah

March 4, 2024 6 Comments

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!

Grief and Pregnancy Loss

Proud of Myself 2023 – Surviving Not Thriving

January 4, 2024 4 Comments

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 3^rd 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.

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.

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 5^th, I was discharged from the hospital, and on March 10^th, 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).

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

Grief and Pregnancy Loss

To Post or Not to Post, That is the Question

November 28, 2023 2 Comments

It’s been months since I considered writing a blog about social media pregnancy announcements. It’s been since June 12^th, Maliyah’s due date, and the date we announced her existence (past tense) to the world. We did not make the decision to post about her lightly. In fact, months and months of discussions went into that post. If I’m completely honest, the conversation goes even further back, to October 2022 when we first found out I was pregnant.

Should we post, or should we not post?

If you are in your 20’s or 30’s, or if you have an Instagram or Facebook account, or if you just plain don’t live under a rock, you’ve probably been inundated with pregnancy announcements, gender reveals, birth announcements, or in some cases the hat trick – all three.

I am no stranger to social media, I have two TikToks, 4 Instagrams and 2 Facebooks. I used to post almost all of my meals to my stories. But with my pregnancy, I was terrified. This goes back to my post about superstitions, I was far too nervous to say anything on social media about my pregnancy at all and I didn’t want to hurt anyone. What if something went wrong? What if someone was struggling with fertility and my post made them cry? I posted exactly nothing about a pregnancy. In fact, I posted a blog in November where I talked about how my bucket list would need to go on hold “if” I got pregnant… but I already knew I was. I didn’t want to say anything and jinx it. I didn’t know what I would do about posting photos as I started showing, but I had already taken a step back from posting on my blog – that bucket list post was my ONLY post between October 2022 and July 2023. I figured I would do the same thing with Instagram and take a step back, or not post photos of myself. I posted a carousel of photos on Instagram from a wedding in mid-February where I was sort of visibly pregnant, but you could also have assume it was an unflattering angle or cut of the dress. I never said anything explicitly about it.

So, how do you announce your baby died, when you never announced she existed? Isn’t that crazy? Also, who wants to read about such a horrific loss? For some reason I felt like I wanted to tell people, but I couldn’t figure out why.

I had only one example to look to. I had a friend who had a pregnancy loss while I was pregnant. She posted about it as part of a larger social media post celebrating an anniversary. I was obsessed with that post. I read it 100 times. Eventually I asked her about it. I said, “how did you come to the decision to post this? And how did you decide when was the right time? What did your husband think of it?”

I asked that last question because Chris and I were not in agreement. He keeps things close to the chest. He doesn’t share anything about his personal life on the internet, and he certainly doesn’t share about such monumental and private things as this. I knew we disagreed, and we continued to have conversations about it.

I asked on multiple support groups what other people had done. Why did they tell people? Why didn’t they? When did they say something? Was it too late?

Some people said they needed to unannounce because they had already announced they were pregnant. We didn’t have this issue, since we never announced.

Some people said they announced to avoid questions about when/if they were going to have children. This was an interesting point I hadn’t considered.

Some people said they announced because they didn’t want people to assume their next pregnancy was a first pregnancy.

Some said they felt they needed to share about their loss because it was far too heavy of a burden to carry alone. This resonated deeply with me. As the days kept coming and going, it felt like the lead bricks on my chest were growing and it was too much for one person to handle.

But had we missed our window? She died two weeks prior. Four weeks prior. Two months prior. Would people even care? Should I share about her on our one-year anniversary, when I thought we’d have a growing family? Should I share about her on my birthday, when she was the only thing I could think about as my biological clock was ticking forward at a furious pace?

Here’s the thing: there’s no good time to tell the world about your dead baby.

I agonized over this constantly. Why did I feel such a fierce urge to share about her? I decided I needed to answer that question before I answered the timing question. I also needed to decide what I wanted the world to know.

I considered posting as a cautionary tale. I felt a sort of obligation to warn people. I had been healthy, I had a textbook, sickness-free pregnancy, I had no symptoms, and yet I almost died! I needed to tell people! I wanted to scream “CHECK YOUR BLOOD PRESSURE AND INSIST ON PERIODIC BLOODWORK” from the rooftops. Eventually, I decided that what I wanted to share had nothing to do with me. Yes, I think more education is needed, but I didn’t feel an obligation or responsibility at that point in my depths of depression.

What I wanted was a place in the world for Maliyah. I needed her to have a tiny corner of the internet that knew she existed. I needed people to know we loved her and would continue to love her. I needed people to see her tiny footprints and to understand she was a person. This was not just something that happened to me, this was a person who existed, and now she was gone. I wanted people to understand that Chris and I were not the same people anymore because the most important person in our world was no longer in this world.

For all of those reasons, I decided to post on her due date, the day that was supposed to be her birthday. I needed there to be a post only about her – a reserved spot just for her, on a day that was already reserved in my brain for her.

When I finally posted on Instagram and Facebook, I was relieved. She had a spot. Losing a child is so lonely. It feels like nobody in the entire world understands, or cares as much as you, and they never will. Even if only for one second of one day, I knew by posting on social media, people would see her name, know how much we cared about her, and perhaps pause for a moment and think about her. For Chris and me, those moments were all day every day, but for a brief moment in time, she would be on someone else’s mind.

But unlike when you post something amazing on Instagram and you sit there waiting to watch the likes and comments roll in, I couldn’t face the comments. I clicked “post” and immediately went to the gym where I locked my phone in a locker for 75 minutes. I was fearful of the pity. It wasn’t about me, after all. My therapist advised that “pity” could be reframed as “empathy” and perhaps people cared about me and that’s why they would extend sympathies. Maybe that was true, but I assumed as soon as I pressed “post,” there would be a game of telephone that started with, “OMG did you hear what happened to Emily?”

Overall, I was happy I posted about her on social media.

Meanwhile, I continued to see an onslaught of pregnancy and birth announcements on Instagram. People had so much hope and surety they would have alive babies. It seemed like there were ultrasound photos or onesies or bump pics every time I clicked on the Instagram app. I knew every permutation of these announcements:

A. The collection of onesies with the parents’ hobbies/sports teams/funny puns laid out on the floor.
B. The ultrasound photo
C. The letterboard announcing Baby Smith and a date (with certainty!) of when they would be born.
D. The family pet with a personalized bandana.
E. The living child wearing a “going to be a big brother!” shirt.
F. All of the above.

My gut-reaction every time I saw these was disgust and anger. How could the world keep spinning? How could people get pregnant so easily? How could people just… be sure their babies would be born alive? Didn’t they know what could happen??? How dare they have such confidence.

I started to think about this all the time and I realized the anger was just jealousy. Not jealousy about their babies or their pregnancies, I didn’t want their kids, I wanted mine! The one that was dead. I would scroll through the comments and see the hundreds of “congratulations” the “you’re going to be such great parents!” the “I can’t wait to meet them!” the “this is so exciting!” the “I knew it!”

I missed out on that. I missed out on all of the positive thoughts and excitement, and I found myself in a deep pit of regret. Why had I been so hesitant to share our joy? All I was left with was a cautionary tale and a hundred “I’m so sorry” comments or “I don’t know what to say” or “this is horrible.” And it was. And it is.

I felt sadness compounded on sadness. I try very much not to have regrets, but if I had to say one regret of my entire pregnancy it was this: I wish we had taken the opportunity to celebrate while we could. I was consumed with worry, and I didn’t allow us the space to have joy, and there’s no do-overs.

I had this regret almost immediately, even before we posted about Maliyah’s death. I wished for a redo. I wished we could have been happy before we were devastatingly sad. I remember calling my pregnant best friend and through snotty tears, telling her I saw a repost on her stories of her with a bump (which had also cried privately about) but I had noticed she hadn’t put anything on her feed. I was worried she was doing this to protect me. I didn’t want her to dampen her joy because of my sadness. It wasn’t fair to her. I hadn’t allowed myself to be happy (certainly not publicly) and I regretted it. I didn’t want her to make the same mistake. Of course, I said it was up to her if she wanted to mention anything on social media, it’s a personal decision, but I didn’t want her to base it on me. I told her not to worry about me seeing anything, and I had her account muted because I wanted to make the decision about when or if wanted to see it, but this was my issue, not hers, and I wanted her to feel comfortable sharing whatever she wanted to share.

When I spoke to another pregnant friend recently, she mentioned she wasn’t planning to post on social media about the baby. She knew many people in her life who struggled with infertility and had devastating endings to pregnancies, plus she had me. She said she didn’t know who else was hiding in pain as well, and she didn’t want to contribute to that. She explained that for those reasons, and because of her own “what-ifs,” she wasn’t planning a post. I told her I could relate, but then I admitted my regret to her. I told her how I wished I had made a different decision, but it was too late. I told her to bask in her joy and excitement because you never know when it will be taken away. She ended up telling me I convinced her to change her mind.

But I understood her hesitancy. I also had friends I knew who struggled to get pregnant, and friends who had lost babies. When I found out I was pregnant, I didn’t want to push my happiness in their face. And now, I have regret for that. For prioritizing my friends’ emotions over my own, and for letting my worries shroud my happiness in clouds of anxiety.

I want to make sure I’m clear here, I think it’s important to look out for your friends and to not do anything with intentional malice. But there are always people in the world who are struggling and may find your posts triggering, whether it is about babies, parents, siblings, work, food, really anything. As a human, you should always balance the feelings of others with your own. But you also cannot take responsibility for each person’s struggles. First of all, many may be invisible. There is no way to know if something you post may hurt someone with a silent struggle. It is also important to live life for yourself, and to take control of your own story, both in the real world, and online. While I regret not sharing about my pregnancy, I cannot change the past.

I have mentioned before that social media sometimes feels like a highlight reel, and for that reason, I plan to make a conscious effort to share authentically here, and link these posts on my Instagram. This blog has quickly become heavy and dark, which is mostly because a majority of my life in this moment feels that way. But I want to also make a commitment to myself to share the moments of joy. There are so few, and they can feel fleeting. They deserve to be celebrated.

You may have assumed this post would end with an announcement. Well, it’s not going to. You may also be wondering if this means I’ll share publicly and early about a next pregnancy, and I’m not sure. To be honest, that’s none of your beeswax. But I have a feeling I will do things differently, and I promise if I do decide to share anything, I’ll take you along for the ride.

Grief and Pregnancy Loss

My Own Worst Enemy

November 20, 2023 6 Comments

A lot of things have gone wrong this year and most of those things have been outside my control. They may have been inside my body, but they have been outside of my control. Recently, I realized that even my feelings are spiraling out of control, and it’s extremely disconcerting.

I never considered myself a control freak, but as more and more snowballs, I’m realizing that maybe I am.

I had thought that if I had controlling or stressful tendencies, they would have come out during the most stressful times in my life, like in law school, or while planning a wedding. But no, when it came to law school, I was perfectly fine with studying as hard as I could, and doing as well as I could. For my wedding, I thought maybe I’d be a bridezilla, but instead I filled out a spreadsheet with my flowers of choice, told my two bridesmaids to pick a color and style of dress they liked, and then I showed up in Cabo for the first time, 4 days before my nuptials.

So why, all of a sudden, do I want to control everything including my thoughts, and I’m mad at myself for wanting to be in control, mad at myself for not just accepting that some things aren’t in anyone’s control, and then I continue to spiral out of control (which brings me back to my very first point)?

All of this came to a head last week when I had a grief attack at the gym. I wasn’t sure if I’d write about it because it’s extremely vulnerable and embarrassing. But I also feel like I shouldn’t be embarrassed, even if I am. This blog is already an overshare, that’s the point of a personal blog, so I figured I’d jump in headfirst and overshare again.

I’ve had two “panic attacks” since Maliyah was born, both in healthcare settings. I’m using quotes because I don’t think they fit neatly into a “panic attack” box. Panic attacks usually mean extreme physical reaction triggered by intense fear when there is no real or apparent danger. For me, it’s not really a fear, or thoughts of imminent danger, it’s more like a “grief attack” with intense physical reactions based on extreme sadness and self-loathing.

My brain is a very fun place to be.

The first time this happened was at a post-partum appointment at the OBGYN. Obviously, being at the OBGYN after baby loss would be triggering for anyone, but this happened before I was even called into the room. I was sitting in the waiting area barely able to catch my breath, with my heartrate sky-high, facing the wall trying to avoid eye contact with anyone pregnant, and my Fitbit vibrated on my wrist, congratulating me for hitting my “zone minutes” for the week. I opened my Fitbit app, looking for a distraction, and realized it had clocked a 23-minute workout. This all happened while I was sitting in a chair just trying (and failing) to breathe normally.

The next time this happened was when I had a full abdominal ultrasound because my nephrologist thought there was a chance I had one kidney, since there seemed to be no other explanation for what happened to me. Turns out I have two kidneys. It also turns out that the sound of blood flowing into a kidney on an ultrasound machine sounds eerily similar to the sound of a baby’s heartbeat in your uterus. Cue grief attack. I couldn’t breathe while I laid there on the table. The technician was instructing me when to breathe in and out, because when your lungs inflate, they move your other organs around, making the ultrasound more difficult to perform. Clearly, I was unable to breathe on her count. I couldn’t breathe at all. I tried to focus on the ceiling tiles but soon enough I was gasping for air, with water streaming out of my eyes, and I started choking on snot while I was gasping, so she made me sit up to try and catch my breath. I got ultrasound goo all over the place, and the tech asked me if I had brought any family with me that she could call in from the waiting room.

Again, while I was caught off-guard by this grief attack, it was not exactly unpredictable. Of course I would be grossly triggered by my very first ultrasound with no baby inside me. Of course the sound of blood flow that was not a heartbeat drove me to tears. In my rational mind, this makes sense. But in my irrational mind, which is my mind most of the time, I got mad. Furious, really. Frustrated. Angry. Livid.

The mantra in my head over and over again was, “Why can’t I be normal?? Why am I like this? Why can’t I do ___ like a normal person? I used to be able to do ___ without a problem, now I am a freak. I’m the same person but now I’m completely f*cked up.”

As I mentioned, my brain is a very fun place to be.

This week was different because I thought I was safe in non-healthcare settings. But Thursday I went to the gym and I proved to myself that no, I am messed up in many different kinds of settings, yippee!

Thursday at Orangetheory was a “benchmark” day called the 12-Minute Run for Distance. A few times a month, they have treadmill or rowing challenges where you measure your progress on distance, speed, incline, or power. They repeat these workouts 2-3 times/year so you can see if you have improved. As the coach said before class last week, “it’s you against you.”

The last time I had done that benchmark was in April 2022, the month before my wedding. I had been working out a lot, and I was in pretty good shape. But I’ve been working out now 5-6 times/week mostly as a mental distraction, and I thought I had set myself up to PR. I was determined to beat my previous distance.

Well, readers, I did not. I matched my distance exactly, down to the hundredth of a mile. I got off the treadmill and tried to continue the workout, but I found myself falling apart as I picked up the weights for the next part of class. I went to the bathroom to try and calm down, but it did the opposite. I started beating myself up.

My internal dialogue: “Why couldn’t I get .01 extra on the treadmill? What is wrong with me? It’s not like I have anything else going on. All I do is work out. It’s not like I’m taking care of a baby. I’m trying to come back from a post-partum break where I wasn’t allowed to work out, but I have literally nothing to show for it. I don’t have a baby. I don’t even have .01 on the treadmill. And why am I coming back from a post-partum break? How? How is it possible that I need to have a post-partum come-back when I am childless? And I’m supposed to be thinking about going through this again? Why would anyone ever do this again?”

Then the really fun thoughts start in: “Why am I not better yet? It’s been 8 months. Some people would be functional by now. And I’m in the bathroom at the gym struggling to stand. Why can’t I be normal? I used to be able to get through a f*cking class at the gym and now I’m so messed up I can’t run 12 minutes without having a panic attack?”

I finally got to a place where I thought I could go back to class, so I did. I lifted weights for 3 minutes while I continued to battle myself in my head. That’s when I realized that my heartrate monitor had been on the whole time. Everyone in class was in blue and green zones (moderate effort) and my name was the only little box on the screen in orange and red, clearly still in full panic. When I realized that the entire class saw my heartrate sky-high during the mental breakdown I had in the bathroom, I completely lost it again and left the gym. Somehow, I wiped off my equipment and got my stuff from the locker, and made it 10 yards from the studio when I stopped being able to breathe again.

I sat down on a railing and tried to breathe. I counted 4 in, 4 out, but it wasn’t helping. I was crying hard at this point but I’m not sure how long I was there. One of the best parts about NYC is that people mind their own business. But on this particular day, I guess I looked like I was in acute distress because a woman walking her dog asked me if I was ok. I nodded. I thought she would go away, but no. She asked if I had asthma, I shook my head no. She said, “should I call you an ambulance?” I vigorously shook my head no. Given that my previous panic attacks were both in medical settings, I knew the last thing I needed in that moment was interaction with healthcare professionals. The woman asked, “are you sure?” and I nodded again, so she walked away. I think the fear of having to talk to EMTs scared me into action. I went through a list of people in my mind who I could call, who wouldn’t think I was a complete basket case. I realized it was really only Chris because he had seen this happen to me before, so I called him and talked to him while I tried to get myself home.

An hour later, once I showered and through some superhuman power, braided a girl’s hair for a race, I was able to see what happened with some distance. When I took 3 steps back and I was in a better headspace, when I was able to breathe, I said to myself, “this makes sense. You are very sad. You’re not the same person, you had a baby die inside you. You gave birth to a dead child and almost died this year. What you achieved on the treadmill is a triumph. Despite everything that happened this year, you are not only alive, but you are in as good shape as you were three weeks before your wedding.”

I see that when I am not deep in it. But when I was in the bathroom at the gym, trying to tell myself those very same things, I couldn’t believe it. All I could believe was, “fail fail fail fail fail.”

Later that night, after talking sense into myself and feeling like a completely crazy person (because who starts sobbing at the gym???), I wrote to one of my loss mom friends and explained what happened. She told me that it’s so, so hard but also so, so relatable. She said that being in an extreme pit of grief feels like you are fighting a constant battle with yourself, and it’s excruciatingly exhausting. I couldn’t agree more.

I’m tired. I’m tired of being sad and I’m tired of being mad at myself for being sad. I wish I was “over it.” I wish I was “better.” It’s ironic that the Orangetheory coach had said “it’s you against you” for the benchmark, since that is ALWAYS the battle I am fighting in my head. I want to be kind to myself, I want to “give myself grace,” as all of the Instagram Inspo accounts say, but it’s easier said than done.

The ”benchmark workout” felt in my head like it was a benchmark of more than just distance on a treadmill. To me, it was a benchmark I was measuring to see if I was still the person I used to be. When I “failed,” and found out that no, I am not, and I will never again be her, it hit me like 100 tons of bricks.

Watching other people around me grieve differently and on different timelines makes it even harder. While I try not to compare, it’s impossible. Of course, I’ve read all the books about how grief’s timeline is different for everyone, but I want to be done. I want to quit. I want to trade in these feelings for other ones. I want to talk to the manager.

But that’s not how life works. And as surprised as I am every day to wake up, ready to put on my armor and go to battle with myself yet again, here we are, alive another day and ready to fight. Waking up each day as your own worst enemy is tiring and demoralizing. I hope someday to be a friend to myself. I hope that I can be kinder to myself. Gentler. Softer. Since it’s nearly December, maybe that will be my New Year’s Resolution. I am going to try my very best to be kind, because at least that is something I can control.

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