To My Readers...

I wanted to take a moment to thank my readers.  I don't know your story.  Maybe you've lost a child or maybe you know someone who has lost a child.  Maybe you are simply curious.  Regardless of your reasons for reading my blog, I am thankful that you decided to take the time out of your busy schedule to do so.  It means so much to me that people are reading this.  It means so much that people are reading about my daughter.  It is my hope that this blog can help someone else.  I pray this blog can help those who know someone going through something similar or someone who is going through something similar.  My goal in this blog is to be as open and honest as possible.  As you can already tell I will be blunt about my thoughts and feelings.  I do so, so that others can relate. 

I want you to know, if you are going through the loss of a child, that it's ok to be angry, sad, and happy.  I want you to know that it's normal to go through so many emotions.  Maybe you don't feel exactly how I do, but that chances are you feel something similar.  I want others to know, if they know someone who has gone through a loss of a child, what that person maybe be feeling and experiencing.  It is my prayer that no matter why you are here, that this blog can help you in some way. 

I don't wish anyone the pain and torment of loosing a child.  But if loosing my daughter can help at least one person in some way then I would be content to know that some good came out of my loss.  Short as though her life was, I pray that her story, our story, can touch others.  I hope and pray that our story can raise some awareness.

I would like you, my reader, to pass on my blog.  Pass this on to someone who can use it.  Pass it on to someone it may help.  It may be painful to read at times, but I hope it can be a comfort to others knowing someone else is going through this and has been there.

But again, I would like to thank you for being here.  Your presence and your time reading this, is a wonderful tribute to my beautiful Ashley Elizabeth.

Bravery Redefined

This weekend at a women's retreat, the speaker called me brave.  I told her that I don't know what on earth gave her that idea because I'm not.  I told her that my husband literally has had to dress me and pick me up.  I told her I'm the farthest thing from brave.  Later she told me that I was brave because I was putting one foot in front of the other.

I still don't think I'm brave but she got me to thinking.  Maybe my definition of brave is wrong.  When I think about bravery I think about the thousands of men fighting for our country.  I think about a firefighter putting his life on the line to rescue a child trapped in a house.  You get the picture.  But I guess the truth is there are many forms that bravery takes.  After all, I think a woman leaving an abusive man is brave.  I think a husband raising his children alone is brave.  Again, you get the picture.  There are so many varieties of bravery.

So, maybe I am brave and I just can't see it because I'm not looking at myself.  In fact, in looking back at a dream I had just this afternoon after the retreat, I guess I can kind of see it.  You see I have been suffering from nightmares and I would classify this dream as a nightmare.  I dreamed that I was watching myself give birth.  I was screaming at the doctor that this isn't fair because she's going to be still born.  The doctor came over to me and said that it isn't fair but I'd get through it.  I watched my daughter's head being born.  I screamed in my dream as I was watching myself go through this.  Watching myself endure this horrible experience.

The thing is, I felt like my dream and I still do.  I can't believe it happened.  I can't believe that I am going through this.  I am screaming inside.  I am screaming for my daughter.  In that same dream I actually dreamed that someone said something about my daughter and I fought for her.  Literally went after him and started getting in a fist fight and yelling match.  I've never gotten in a fist fight in my waking life.  I was screaming about how unfair it is and how wrong it is.  I was screaming to defend my daughter's short but real life.  I was standing up for her and me.  And the other people in my dream let me.  They let me get angry and question things.

After this dream I realized that maybe I am brave.  Maybe bravery isn't knowingly going into a fire or a battlefield.  Maybe bravery is enduring a really crappy situation.  Maybe bravery is willing to acknowledge that you're not brave.  Maybe bravery is willing to admit that I am completely and utterly broken.  Maybe bravery is crying my eyes out.  Maybe bravery is getting a shower and getting dressed.

Maybe I am so wrapped up in my own pain I can't see what other people see.  I can't see how strong I really am because I feel so weak.  I feel beaten and bruised.  Tattered and torn.  The retreat speaker gave an example of a fruit tree not bearing fruit.  This person she knew tried everything to get this tree to bear it's fruit and finally called a help line.  They told her to do everything she'd already done.  She asked for a supervisor and he told her to try one more thing.  He told her that the roots of the tree weren't being stimulated and that when she did what he recommended she better make sure the neighbors weren't around to watch because they'd think she was crazy.  He told her to take a broom stick and beat the base of the tree with all she had.  To take all her aggression out on that tree.  So she did and the next year it had fruit.

The speaker went on to say that if that tree could speak it would probably not say "I know this beating is good for me so bring it on! Come on hit me again! Bring it lady!"  She said that instead the tree was probably wanting to scream, "Stop!!! I can't take this! What is the point? Why me?" She said the tree couldn't see to the future to see that it will bear fruit because of this beating.

I feel like this tree.  I don't know what kind of fruit I'm going to bear.  I don't know what God has in store.  I'm the one screaming, "Why me? What is the point? This hurts! Knock it off! I can't handle this!!!! GOD!!!! WHY ME????????" I'm not strong. I'm not brave.  Why me.  Why me.  But the speaker is right.  Something good has to come out of this crappy thing.  Loosing my daughter has left a permanent scar.  I can't see the future.  I can't see God's greater picture.  Right now, I'm the screaming tree that doesn't understand why I'm being beaten.  The only thing I can hold on to is hope that some kind of fruit will come out of this torment.

Am I brave? Right now I don't feel brave.  But maybe the speaker was right.  Maybe I am.  Maybe every step I take makes me brave.  Maybe getting up every day in spite of my pain makes me brave.

I will tell you this.  I don't feel brave.  I feel broken.  I feel beaten.  I feel like the only reason I'm standing is because of my husband and my family.

But maybe, just maybe I'm braver than I give myself credit score.  Maybe years down the line I'll see it.  But right now, I sure don't feel it.

Learning to live.

I was texting with an aunt of mine yesterday and a thought struck me.  She told me that you have to "learn to live with the shattering before healing begins."  The thought that struck me is I'm not even to that stage yet.  I am, quite frankly, still relearning to live.  In a sense, a part of me died with Ashley.  So now, I have to live again.

My whole life has been changed.  I'm not the same person I was.  I don't know what to identify with.  I have to force myself out of bed every day.  I have to remember to breathe, because sometimes I forget how.

And this learning to live involves learning how to respond to others.  Yesterday I got a call from my dentist in Nashville wanting to confirm my new address but the first thing she asked me was, "How is your pregnancy going?" My response? "It's not."  To tell people that were excited for you about having a baby that that dream is no longer a reality is painful.  Other questions I get are, "Why did you move back?" Umm... well... The truth is we moved because I was pregnant.  But I'm getting to the point where all I want to say is, "Because I have family here."  But at the same time, I don't want to ignore my daughter.  So depending on my mood, depends on my response.  In an interview today when asked why I moved back my simple response was, "We had an opportunity to move back."  I don't know where it came from.  I didn't need to mention the opportunity.

I'm learning to live and in that I'm trying to figure out what to tell people when those uncomfortable questions are asked.  I dread the day when I'm asked, "Do you have kids?" Well... yeah... technically.  My problem is, I don't want to ignore my daughter, but it's a little socially awkward to tell people I have a daughter in Heaven.  But I want people to know I have a daughter.  It's all so complicated.

Each day presents a new challenge.  And I have to learn to live through each new challenge.  It's hard.  And quite frankly, it sucks.

The irony of life.

So I'm uploading pictures of Ashley to be sent of for development so I can make a scrapbook.  I came across a picture of my positive pregnancy test that I labeled with the date.  The irony hit me.  I had to blow it up to be sure.  I took my first pregnancy test on 3/5/11.  Ashley left us on 7/5/11.  She was due on 11/5/11.  She left us exactly four months between both of those dates.  I don't guess I'll ever take another HPT on the 5th of any month now.  It's just too freakishly weird.  Really there's nothing to read into but irony.  But still.  It's a bit disturbing.  I guess her birthday was bound to be the 5th of some month.  But really, what are the chances of this? Kind of like the chances of my having appendicitis less than two weeks after giving birth to her? Why must my life be so bizarre? I guess I have something else to discuss in therapy on Thursday.  Not only will I be discussing my living angel baby story from the hospital that has given me nightmares, but I'll be discussing these freakishly bizarre dates.  I miss her so much.

Her Funeral...

The last time I really wrote about the story of what happened with Ashley, I wrote that I left the hospital.  Her funeral was most painful.  After I was released I saw my doctor and requested anti anxiety medication and anti depressants.  Just in case.  My husbands parents flew in.  It was all I could do to get out of bed.

The week before my daughter funeral was a living hell.  Well, the whole situation was and is.  I don't use that terminology to offend anyone but merely to portray how horrible it was.

I probably waited a bit to long to tell this part of our story, but it was so painful I couldn't write about it.  So if some of this is a repeat, please forgive me.  But I am going to now attempt to recall some painful memories.  Because any memory of a parent burying their child is painful.

After we left the hospital we came home.  And as I said earlier, his parents flew in a few days later.  My days were spent crying and answering questions about how we wanted our daughters funeral to be handled.  Could you imagine planning your newborn baby's funeral? Imagine her laying in a coffin? Laying in the ground? It's a gruesome and horrible thing.  We were and are so blessed to have my aunt who took care of the details.  We knew we wanted to keep it simple because drawing it out too much would be too much for me to handle.  So a graveside service was planned.  I chose two songs.  One was recommended to my aunt that I listen to over and over.  That song is "I Will Carry You".  I have actually posted the YouTube link on my blog.  The song portrays exactly how I feel.  The other song was "Jesus Loves Me".  From the beginning that song had been playing over and over in my mind.  Not all the verses.  But definitely the part about "Little ones to him belong".  I never realized how perfect the song really was until I listened to it at the funeral.

At one point we discovered that a pastor my husband knew was now living in CA.  Actually, he was the pastor of his home church in Birmingham and had recently relocated here.  I had already decided that I just wanted my grandpa to be grandpa and not carry the burden of presiding over his first great-grandchild's funeral.  So I suggested that we get the pastor my husband and his parents knew.  Not to mention, we'd just moved to CA where my husband hardly knew a soul outside my family and his parents know no one but us as well.  I thought it would give them a kind of comfort to see a familiar face.

We had an outfit given to us by the hospital to bury her in but that's not what I wanted.  Imagine having to pick out an outfit for your baby daughter to be buried in.  Horrible.  But I wanted her to have something pretty.  And I needed to pick it out.  I cannot describe to you how strong my desire was to pick this out myself with my husband.  In fact, the only reason my mother came was just to help me get around.  I remember combing Toys'r'Us, Walmart, and Build a Bear.  It was so exhausting, not only mentally but physically.  I guess most post-partum women aren't out running around days after they give birth because they're at home recuperating with their baby.  Instead I'm running around the store overwhelmed and determined.  We eventually found a white christening gown at a doll store that was perfect.  You see, she needed socks and shoes and this outfit had it.  Little white booties with socks and a beautiful dress.

I had my husband take me to Michaels at one point and I bought yarn.  It was the most expensive and tiny blanket I had ever planned to make.  I just did it.  I didn't really tell anyone, including him, what and why I was getting this yarn.  But they figured it out.  In fact, I didn't even want to say that I was making a blanket to bury my daughter in.  But I made it.  And boy was I determined to finish it.  It was pink.  And beautiful.  Just like her.

My other mission in regards to burying my child was to find a Bible to bury her with.  She needed a Bible.  I had something in mind and couldn't find it.  We went to several stores in search of the tiniest Bible we could find.  But the smallest thing we found was an New Testament.  So we left empty handed and had resigned ourselves to using a small pink new testament that my aunt had.  But then one day my mom stopped by a store we went and came back with a beautiful surprise.  It was a tiny white Bible.  Not a complete Bible, it only had some verses in it.  But it was perfect.  I cried.  It was her size.  I don't know why it was so important to me for her to have a Bible, but it was.  In fact, while we were looking I saw all these 'My first Bibles' and was saddened by not being able to get her one.  So I was so thrilled for her to have a Bible that was just her size.  And I'm so grateful to the store manager that when my mother told him what it was for, donated it to our Ashley.

I had one last mission for her funeral.  Those that know me, know I detest dresses.  In fact, I threatened to wear jeans at my own wedding.  Funerals? I were dark slacks.  But for my daughter, I had to have a black dress.  I went from store to store to store with my mother searching.  Searching and searching with nothing to show but frustration.  I went to at least 5 stores before we found the dress I chose at JcPenney.  I just knew I'd know the dress when I found it.  Kind of like the outfit I bought for Ashley.  I knew it was right when I found it and cried.  I did.  I cried the moment I saw Ashley's burial outfit and I cried when I tried on this dress.  In fact, I didn't try on the rest of the dresses I had in my hand.  Mommy found the perfect black dress for my perfect daughter.

When I wasn't on the hunt for the above items I was exhausted and heart broken.  I would break down and cry.  I would go without showering.  I was showing the signs of depression, post-partum depression.  Eventually my husband talked me into taking the anti-depressants and I took the anti-anxiety medication to sleep.

I remember my husband's parents taking pictures and my refusing to smile.  I could just not find any happiness.  I was in no mindset to make people happy and pretend to be ok.  People would ask me how I was and I would tell them I was doing crappy.  I learned to be blatantly honest.  I learned to cry without shame.

The days leading up to the funeral I kind of felt numb.  I had to put myself in this mindset to get through it.

The first time I went to the funeral home was to walk 3 stores down from the doll shop to the funeral home to deliver her outfit.  It was just something I had to do.  I remember my feet slowing down the closer we got.  I cried as we reached the door.  We got inside and I broke down.  I wasn't supposed to be there.  I told the funeral director to please take special care of her feet and hands and not to use much make up.

At Ashley's visitation I was shocked.  They had used too much make up.  I wanted her face to be red, not white with thick ivory make up.  I held her for a little bit but not long because I thought 'this isn't my daughter, she looks nothing like she did'.  I felt like my wishes were ignored.  She didn't look bad.  I just wanted my baby and everything was wrong.  The casket, her make-up, everything.  Everything was wrong because the whole situation wasn't right.  I remember my husband saying, "Little girl, you are wearing too much make-up for your age."  I remember people coming in and out.  I remember sitting there not wanting this to be my life.

The day of her funeral was rough.  I got up, showered, and got dressed.  I barely put on foundation. I mean, why was make up important? It wasn't.  I was doing good to be upright.  The pastor came to our house and we all drove to the cemetery.  My parents, my sister, the pastor, and my husband and I caravaned to the Clovis Cemetery.  My grandpa picked Ashley up.  He wanted to do this and we were honored.  What was more heartbreaking than that was that my husband wanted to carry Ashley to the graveside.

If my husband was going to carry our daughter to her resting place I was going to walk right by his side.  I don't know where he found the strength to do this.  Because I was broken.  I remember him shaking.  I held onto his arm to show my support.  We were both crying.  Why is this our life? Are we really walking and carrying our daughter to lay in the ground? I have such respect for my husband because of his actions.  A father should never have to carry his child to his/her grave.  It's a heartbreaking thing to see.  But it meant the world to me that he did this.

I don't remember the pastor's words.  I don't remember everyone that was there.  In fact, at the end I realized more people were in attendance than I thought.  I remember the songs.  I remember crying.  I remember wanting to scream out that I just wanted my baby.  I remember feeling like this was all wrong.  This tiny pink casket not much bigger than a large shoe box was the most horrible thing in the world.  Ashley was supposed to bury us, not the other way around.  Her casket was so tiny on thing that holds the casket.  I remember thinking how big the casket holder looked compared to her tiny casket.

We stayed to watch them put her in the ground.  It was absolutely heart wrenching.

My husband had to pry me away from the grave and the cemetery.  I was basically a rag doll being told where to go and what to do.  I felt so helpless.

It felt so surreal to have people hold a luncheon at the church for us and our loss.  I never realized how helpful having food prepared for you was.  We certainly learned that blessing with meals brought to us and this luncheon prepared.

No parents should ever have to bury their child!

A job too hard...

I accepted a temporary job this past week that should supposedly ended within the next several days.  It is to help a hospital "go live".  Really, they're going to electronic charting, aka, paperless.  I was told I would be doing a lot of walking.  Right before it started I told my mom that I hope I don't have to go to labor and delivery.  We both realized I need to accept the possibility.

I wound up starting at the hospital I first went to when we weren't sure if my water broke.  The second day we were there we hit labor and delivery.  I managed to do just fine with it.  Then we hit more of L&D.  Only this was where new mom's stayed after they delivered. We went into one room to check a computer and I did well.  We'd been at this for about 2.5 hours now.  The second room, did me in.

We walked in and a newborn was getting their picture taken.  The baby's knees were underneath the belly and the arms tucked in with the baby's head laying on the bed.  Imagine the fetal position.  The baby was wearing a blue onsie and was wearing angel wings.  The baby's eyes were closed.  When we first walked in I had to do a double take.  It was the closed eyes.  We went on about our business but standing in there I couldn't stop the tears and I had to walk out.

The experience crippled me.  I think it was the angel wings.  I saw this newborn and had this horrible thought about dead angel babies go through my head.  In fact, I can still close my eyes and picture this innocent baby.  I couldn't help but think of Ashley.  It took me at least 30 minutes to compose myself before I could walk back in and help finish the job in this department.  I wasn't even sure I could go back the next day to work.

The experience was one of the hardest I've faced.  When I got home I pretty much went right to bed.  My husband was a bit concerned and came in the room and asked me if I was ok because of my experience.  I lost it.  I cried like a hadn't cried since we lost and buried Ashley.  Deep wailing and sobbing.  Heart wrenching noises.  Anxiety and heartbroken tears.

I feel so horrible for looking at this baby and thinking about dead babies being angels.  But my baby is an Angel Baby.  And I guess I just flashed back to her getting pictures taken, her eyes never to open and see the world.

I went back to work yesterday.  This incident took place Thursday.  And I will go back on Monday.  But I wonder if I was really ready to go back to work.  I had comfortable detached myself from what had happened so I could cope and that band aid has since been ripped off.  And I do seriously wonder if my grief and depression is crippling me far beyond what I thought and realized and if I'm ready to join the rest of the community in working.  Then again, maybe this was just the worst possible job I could have accepted a little more than two months then loosing and burying my daughter.

I wish every day that I had never been forced into this community of grieving parents that loose their babies.

Oh Ashley, how I miss you! I miss and love you so much! I wish I never have to think about dead Angel babies! I wish I never had the need to visit you at your grave.

A Single Pink Balloon...

I knew birthday parties and being around babies would be rough.  But I went to my one year old cousin's first birthday this weekend.  I stayed for about an hour before becoming overwhelmed.  Actually, for some reason it was them getting her ready to get her first cake that did me in.  So I went and hid so I didn't ruin anyone else's fun.  Shortly thereafter, my husband and I left.  I was glad to have taken our own car instead of carpooling.  It's odd knowing that something is difficult but at the same time being sympathetic to others and not wanting to ruin the moment for them or make it sad.  I enjoyed the time I spent there, don't get me wrong.  But sometimes it's hard when a mother who's lost her child looks around and sees babies and parties and knows she doesn't get to experience this first hand with the child she lost.  But at the same time, she, rather I, am happy for other people because I wish this solitary burden on no one.

However, there was a moment during the party that I don't think any else noticed.  A single pink balloon broke free.  I doubt anyone but myself watched it happen.  But I watched it float to the sky.  It was almost like it was a message from Ashley and she was saying, "I know you miss me mommy.  I love you.  I'm celebrating with all of you.  And this party balloon is coming to meet me in Heaven."  I can't explain it really.  Because it was more of a feeling.  A feeling of knowing she was there.  And in that same moment as I watched it float out of sight I couldn't help but think that that balloon, that solitary balloon, represented my Ashley.

It's been hard lately.  I guess as my due date comes nearer it will become more difficult.  After all, it was just last week that two months had passed.  But especially this weekend I'm reminded that I'm not pregnant.  I look at myself in the mirror and am disgusted by how thin I am.  A bit ironic, honestly, considering I wear a size 24. Gasp, I just shared my pants size.  All well.  The thing is, yes ideally I would like to be smaller, but right now... Well... Right now I'd do anything to feel like and look like a blimp.  A large overfilled balloon.  You know, to look pregnant.  And I crave nothing more than to hold my Ashley in my arms.

I'm sad this weekend because I can't feel Ashley in my belly or see her sleeping in my arms.  It's a loneliness that no amount of company can fill.  I long for my child.  And maybe it hurts even more because my body is being silly.  TMI time, but monthly cycles bite.  For some reason my body has decided that it was time to cycle again after only two weeks.  A little painful since it's truly a horrible reminder that I'm not pregnant.  And there is a big part of me that had wished I would become pregnant rather soon.

I miss Ashley, but I still want more children.  And I'm craving it.  I'm craving holding a healthy living baby in my arms.  I'm craving the joys of pregnancy like morning sickness, excess gas, food aversions, cravings, uncontrollable bodily functions, back pain, swelling... you get the idea.  Because as miserable as all the sounds its joyful.  Because it means my body is doing what it is supposed to be doing to create a new person.  I want a baby to drive me nuts by playing with my bellybutton and kicking me in the middle of the night.  Not only that, but for me particularly, I think I would find it healing.  And I guess, I haven't really just been feeling down this weekend but since I've started this stupid period.  Because I'd really hoped to be experiencing pregnancy again.  I guess it's something I will struggle with until it is time to have another baby.

But yes, while I would give everything to have Ashley with us I know I can't.  It is still painful.

Let the counseling begin...

I had my first individual post-partum loss counseling session.  I really need to learn not to separate myself.  But I did learn that what I'm going through is normal.  I think I'm learning more and more that I should get my Master's in Social Worker.  I know it would be difficult working with people like me or anywhere in the counseling realm, but it would give me the most purpose in life.

Closure is the hardest thing right now.  I wish I had it.  Instead, I only have more questions.  Was it the appendicitis that caused us to loose our daughter or my gene mutation?  Before the gene mutation discovery I was so comfortable blaming the appendicitis because that can only happen once.  I guess the genetic counselor will be able to answer those questions.  Though, like my counselor said, sometimes with answers you get more questions.  Well, we have answers which gave us more questions and now, well, now I want more answers.  I want to know exactly what caused this grief to come to be.  Or did they work together to give us these heavy hearts?

More than that... I want a sense of purpose.  I want a career with meaning.  I don't want a random job, though I guess it would be a start.  Instead, I want something with meaning.  And more than that, I want another baby that I can actually see grow up.

Two months...

Dear Little One,

How ironic that two months ago this past Monday it was that we lost you and you are due in exactly two months from that date.  The closer it gets, the more I miss you.

Mommy and daddy have decided to try again.  We're both looking for jobs.  But we want a baby.  It's not to replace you.  You are irreplaceable.  We love you so much.  I read somewhere that someone viewed their angel baby as best guardian angel for their brothers and sisters ever.  And I like that thought.  Even though trying to have another baby will be difficult, I know you'll be the best guardian angel ever.

Mommy is very scared to try again.  I don't know that I could handle loosing another baby.  But I want very much to have another one.  Knowing that mommy has this gene that can cause me to loose little ones like you is a nightmare.  But you were still very precious.  I guess we'll never know if it's this gene mutation or my appendicitis that caused you to have to go to Heaven.  But at least that's where you are.  Sitting in God's lap.

I miss you so much.  Every time I go shopping I see things that I wish I could get for you.  I have outfits that I bought for you that you'll never wear.  Maybe if you have a sister she can wear them.  It would be like an angel's hand-me-downs.  I don't know.  I bought them especially for you so I guess we'll see.

I love you little one.

Love,

Mommy

Why can't I at least be a cool mutant with awesome superpowers?

So, we got all our testing back today.  Pathology, genetics, lab panel.... you name it.  Ashley was healthy.  Nothing wrong with her.  Nope, not a thing.  It's mommy.  Me.  It's my problem.  You see, we learned I have a C677T mutation of the MTHFR gene.  This can cause pregnancy loss.  According to my doctor, primarily second trimester loss.

Now I don't expect everyone to get my feelings, just acknowledge them.  Put yourself in my shoes.  Because if I feel this way, if you know someone else that's lost a baby, chances are she's felt this way too.  I would offhandedly say that my body killed Ashley.  I mean it's true.  My water broke and I got an infection.  But that was before I found out about this mutation.  Before I was comfortable blaming my appendix.  And now, well, now we'll never know the true cause.  But now, I feel like a failure.  Because it really is my fault.  It's not my fault because I did something wrong, but it's my fault for being, well... me.  It is my fault because I am.  It's a horrible feeling.  And I mean horrible.  No, I can't control it or fix it or change my genes.  But I feel so GUILTY! Now logically, I understand it's not my fault.  I understand I didn't choose my genes and that they chose me.  I get it.  But it's not how I feel.  I'm so angry and hurt and baffled! I am absolutely heartbroken! My baby was perfect and my body failed her! In essence, I failed her.

I mean, if I have to have this stupid ugly genetic mutation, couldn't I at least have a COOL mutant power to go along with it? Or even better, in place of it? You know... like super strength, flying, or invisibility? Couldn't I be Wonder Woman or Storm or Batwoman or something? Instead, my mutation has the ability to kill my babies. Really? I'd rather fly, and I'm terrified of heights!

So now on I go to individual therapy.  And boy will I have lots to talk about.  Because I feel pretty darn tootin' low.  I mean, now I'm craving pregnancy and I'm craving a baby, and now I'm terrified to boot! I used to be afraid I couldn't get pregnant.  Now I'm terrified I can't stay pregnant.  My husband wants to try again, and so do I, but I'm terrified of going through this again.

Now our lives include a genetic counselor.  Not to mention the high risk doctor I will always need on my team in any pregnancy.  What a nightmare.  Now with every pregnancy I face I will be absolutely paranoid.  I mean, I'm going to be the pregnant woman that stubs my toe and rushes to the ER.  Well, maybe not that drastic.  But from my understanding to improve my incurable circumstances I will be on blood thinners with every pregnancy.  Maybe the genetic counselor and high risk doctor will say different.  But now, for our peace of mind, this is our life.  People educating me on things I hated learning about in high school biology.  Facing the terror of whether or not my body will let me stay pregnant and not get blood clots.  I hated learning about DNA in high school, and now I get to take a deeper class on the subject.

I will say I'm glad my doctor is being aggressive.  I would rather know now than 3 graves down the line.  While I absolutely need to see a high risk doctor, I think she's including the genetic counselor to give us as much of a peace of mind and education as possible.  But now we have to 'plan' our pregnancies...

Ugh.... I'm so angry right now.

I really wish I had superpowers instead!!!

The things I would have loved to get for you...

So I was at Target today.  Shopping with your great-aunt.  She was buying things for your second cousin.  I saw the cutest shoes in the world! They were white and fuzzy boots with pretty pink bows on the back.  I also found cute ballet shoes that were pink.  Along with a pink onsie outfit.  I'm seeing all these things that I would have loved to have bought for you.


I'm thinking about you a lot.  I guess that's normal since you would have been here in two months.  My heart has a hole in it.  A hole that is especially for you.  I didn't know it was possible to miss someone so much when I didn't even really know you.