My first baby Casey would have been thirteen years old today, and we’re celebrating his would-have-been birthday with give aways of some great books on loss. Since we can’t give Casey the things he would have liked, instead we’re giving things to YOU!
Head on over to the site of Baby Dust, my novel on pregnancy loss that will be released Oct. 1, and comment on any of the titles that you might find helpful. We’ll give away the books on October 1 to kick off Pregnancy Loss Remembrance Month.
We’re also taking this special day to celebrate the completion of the Baby Dust Book Trailer. Women from Ireland, London, Australia, Mexico, and the US talk about their babies, and the women of Illuminate, a photography class for grieving mothers, took the images that are used. (Double click to view it full size.)
Thirteen years and it could be yesterday. The giddiness we felt going to the doctor’s office to find out the gender of the baby. My students, back at school, placing bets on boy or girl. My coworkers, knowing I would finish the school year and not come back, and so they were planning an early baby shower, waiting to hear if the gifts next week should be pink or blue.
Both our parents, anxiously awaiting the phone call. First grandbaby on both sides. I don’t think anyone could have been happier driving up to a building, parking, and laughing as we walked in.
The bluebonnets had been covering the hills and I, jealous of all the moms taking pictures of their babies in the blooms, had taped a sonogram image to a flower and taken a picture. I was clutching the print to give to my doctor.
The nurse took me into a room and tried to find the baby’s heartbeat with the Doppler. And failed.
We smiled about it, not quite reaching a laugh. She hadn’t been able to find it at the last two visits either, and both times sonograms confirmed the baby was fine, growing right on schedule.
But when the doctor came in only seconds later, skipping the half-hour wait we were used to, I knew. He rolled up the machine and searched, measured, frowned. My baby, at 20 weeks gestation, had died.
I’m remembering now how quickly I was expected to get over the loss. To try again and forget. I didn’t get the comfort of saying his name aloud. I was pushy, insistent on bringing him up, but he wasn’t real to anyone else. And a few weeks later, my job ended, leaving me without anyone who even knew the history.
So today, on Facebook, I’ve started a new page just for our babies. For our sonograms, our pictures. Even if all you have is a pregnancy test. Or a teddy bear you bought. Or a tree you planted. I want to see it. Other moms will want to see it. We care. We want to know.
So GO! Upload those images. Make videos. Write text. And while you’re there, comment on a few other angel babies, coo and admire the things put up there. Know that for a moment someone else is thinking of your baby.
And to keep Casey company, I’ve asked my book designer (yes, my novel is coming out in October!) if we could fit the names and dates of some of the angels I will get to know in the next few days and weeks into my book. I wanted to list them, make their names permanent somewhere. She tells me she can fit about 500 names and dates into the closing pages. So GO! Add your baby’s name to the roster. They’ll be there together–yours and mine. Not forgotten at all. But celebrated. Known. Permanent. We’re thrilled to hear their names. I’m thrilled to know their names.
The big day is almost here! Pregnancy and Infant Loss Loss Remembrance Day is Friday, Oct. 15. Remember to light your candle from 7 p.m. to 8 p.m. your time to participate in the International Wave of Light. Check to see if there is a public candle lighting or walk in your area by visiting the official web site.
Once again I have designed labels for the candles I give to the families who come to the lighting I host here in Austin, Texas (which is Friday, Oct. 15 from 6:45 to 8 p.m. at the pond in Butler Park, which is behind the Long Center on Riverside Drive. Find us by our candles.)
If you are hosting a candle lighting (or just lighting on your own) and would like to use this label for votives, feel free to right-click the single label below and “Save picture as.” It is designed for standard address labels, Avery 8160. It does not have to be printed in color. It looks good in black and white too.
I have also uploaded a Microsoft Word document that is a whole page of these labels, ready to print on Avery 8160 or compatible address labels. Download that HERE.
Here are the final votives and how they turned out. You can get little candles like these for about $5 a dozen.
Blessings to all of you who will mark this day for your lost babies.
Many of you know my younger daughter Elizabeth was once part of a set of twins. I lost one of the babies when my water broke on that sac at 10 weeks. It was a harrowing experience as I was on an airplane, only two hours into a 12-hour flight between Switzerland and the US.
After a tense week, we finally saw Elizabeth’s heart beat, and the other sac collapsed and got out of the way. I had no further complications to her pregnancy, other than the usual stuck position and required c-section.
A few days ago, after taking Elizabeth’s hair out of braids, she said, “I have angel hair!” So we took her picture holding a baby doll, which I later replaced with an image of herself as a baby.
There isn’t a sweeter guardian angel than Emma Hope, Elizabeth’s twin, and no better way to portray them than with a sister who once shared her womb.
This image is available at RedBubble for a keepsake card or a little poster for baby’s room, if you also have a guardian angel who will watch over you or your other children. It includes the very common phrase you will see repeatedly on grief sites, miscarriage tickers, and signatures, “Some people dream of angels…I held one in my arms.”
Ten years ago today, at this very moment, I sat in a waiting room at my obstetrician’s office, flipping through baby magazines and occasionally glancing at the pregnant women around me, trying to decide who was the farthest along, and if I was above or below the curve in getting too fat, too fast.
I was 20 weeks pregnant. I’d just taken a half day off at the high school where I taught. As I walked away, my newspaper staff was making a big chart on the board, and all my students were placing bets on whether I was having a boy or a girl. I was instructed to call the room after my sonogram, and they’d be there to answer and announce the winners. Many a Dr. Pepper was riding on the outcome.
My husband John came out of the coffee shop with bottled water just as they called us back. I commented as I stepped on the scale that lately I had felt skinnier, which I thought odd. I had been so concerned about it that a few days ago I’d gone to the nurse’s office at my school to be weighed.
“Nope, you’re growing plenty!” the nurse said, jotting down the number. I felt relieved and sat on the exam table. She pulled out a Doppler to get the baby’s heart rate and I automatically tensed. She had struggled with this at both my previous visits, so when she kept moving it around and around and found nothing, I didn’t worry as much as I might have.
“No worries,” she said. “We’ll see it during the sonogram.”
But when my doctor arrived seconds later, rather than after what was normally a lengthy wait, I knew something was wrong.
And when his first words were, “Try not to worry,” this set my pulse flying.
He immediately flipped on the machine beside us and laid the sonogram paddle to my exposed belly. He grimaced as he worked, and John held my hand tightly. I was already crying, but not really noticing as the moment was so intense, so long, so agonizingly slow.
Finally the doctor said, “There’s no heartbeat.”
The rest of the words sort of slurred in my mind. The baby was measuring out at 16 weeks, so had died shortly after the last visit. I remembered that sonogram so well, his heartbeat and the shifting of his shoulders making us realize he was alive, so alive, and going to be with us soon. Here is Casey at 16 weeks, the last time we saw him alive:
The rest of my story is well documented on the site. You can read it here.
So much has happened since then. My life has gone in many new directions. I quit teaching. I had surgery to fix my uterus. I had two lovely girls among complicated pregnancies where I lost other babies. John and I eventually separated.
But today is about little Casey, the reason this web site exists. It has been a long labor of love, at times causing me great anguish, but mostly being a source of strength and pride and comfort for both myself and the wonderful mothers who come here–this site takes 25,000 hits every day.
I am doing a number of special things to commemorate this day.
Early this morning, I created a Facts about Miscarriage Facebook Group that women may join so that we can create a community of women united in our losses, to tell our stories, leave our pictures, and find each other. If you belong to Facebook, join the group and invite others. If you don’t belong to Facebook, take a look at it. It’s sort of a “myspace” for grownups, with fewer glitter graphics and pounding music, but all the utilities for sharing as much, or as little, of your life as you like. Feel free to friend me there.
I enjoy making images that express how I feel about this baby I never got to see or hold. In this way, I get to enjoy my time with him, creating something new and lasting, and not just think of the past and what I lost.
I will return the site to its usual configuration in a day or so. If you would like to see the Common Questions list that usually fill this space on the site, here they are.
Deanna
Mother of
Casey Shay (Dec. 1997-April 1998 gestation)
Emily Faith (born April 1999)
Daniel (June-July 2001 gestation)
Elizabeth Grace (born May 2002)
and her twin Emma Hope (August-October 2001 gestation)
At this site you will find information and a place to come in your dark and frightened hours. The special features of the site are listed in the next column, as well as topics ranging from causes of miscarriage, to prevention, to when to try again for a new pregnancy.
A Reminder:
The only person who can really tell you what is happening to you is your own doctor, who peers into you with a light and a speculum, who samples your blood or urine, or who presses a sonogram paddle into your belly. If you are in trouble, bleeding, scared, or more depressed than you think you can handle on your own, you must find help. Read and research all you can, but remember that the one-on-one assistance of a real doctor is the only thing that will give you answers that count. If you don't like or trust your doctor, then find one you can.
My first baby Casey would have been thirteen years old today, and we’re celebrating his would-have-been birthday with give aways of some great books on loss. Since we can’t give Casey the things he would have liked, instead we’re giving things to YOU!
Ten years ago today, at this very moment, I sat in a waiting room at my obstetrician’s office, flipping through baby magazines and occasionally glancing at the pregnant women around me, trying to decide who was the farthest along, and if I was above or below the curve in getting too fat, too fast.
Empty
Cradle, Broken Heart
