"Safe Zone"

I had lunch with my friend the other day, another baby loss mom. We started talking about pregnancy and the elusive safe zone, you know the spot in your pregnancy where you can relax and know that everything will be alright.

8 week appointment: You get the confirmation ultrasound, see the heartbeat - receive a small amount of relief, right? Your chance of miscarriage "drops" to around 4%.

12 weeks! whew, right? Out of the first trimester, the risk of loss is less than 1%.

20 weeks, perhaps you have found out the gender and you're halfway there! Nothing could go wrong, could it?

But for baby loss moms, we discovered, there is NEVER a safe zone. You never let your guard down. No amount of weeks passed will allow you to relax. Sure, you tell yourself that there are milestones, and there are. In our world, there are more stark terms and phrases, like viability outside the womb, NICU, pre-term labor, micro-preemie, incompetent cervix, the list goes on and on.

My friend said she didn't think she'd relax until she brought the baby home. But then, she said, there's a whole new set of fears. There are. I have an 18 year old and sometimes my mind goes crazy with worry. It just never goes away. It seems to trade itself in for a new load of worries.

I think as baby loss moms, we sometimes lie to ourselves. We rationalize and tell ourselves what we need to do to get by, to get through a single day. We've lost so much already, that maybe we say, "Surely I've suffered enough. Surely God would not allow me to suffer again."

I have said this to myself, several times. When the fear would swell up and threaten to consume me, I would say things like this to quell the choking terror.

It worked for 17 years. Then I met women, strong and courageous women, who have suffered loss two times over. Three times over. FIVE TIMES OVER. The first time I heard Linda Colletti speak was during the Forever in Our Hearts Remembrance Day. Hearing her story made me truly see that I am NOT alone. I don't have to suffer in solitude anymore.

Slowly I am learning that the only way out is through.

Death.

Death.

Death is something we all become familiar with at some point in our lives. Sometimes it's sudden: You're 5 and you walk into your bedroom and your goldfish is floating in the bowl. Sometimes there is preparation, although I don't believe one can ever be fully prepared for the emptiness and sadness that follows a death.

I think my first real experience with death was when my great-grandmother, Lucille, (Grandma Lucy) passed away. I was roughly 13 years old. It was pretty hard on me. I was always a "sensitive child." I used to think that was just a nice way of saying cry-baby. Now I know differently. I am an Empath. It doesn't mean I'm psychic. I can't tell you where you lost your keys or cell phone (I lose mine a LOT!)

What it means is that I feel the emotions of others. In a big way. Sometimes it even manifests as physical pain. I think that first experience was what prompted my parents to shield me from death. Not only death, but suffering in general. When my maternal grandmother died. It was so sudden, but only to me. It turned out, my whole family knew my grandmother had been battling cancer for the better part of ten years. Everyone but me. I was shellshocked, to be sure.

My next close encounter was one my family never saw coming. Nothing predicted this, I was there looking at a goldfish bowl. Only the goldfish was way more precious. No one could have protected me.

My daughter died.

Suddenly, without warning, she got very ill when she was a month old. She went to Children's Mercy Hospital on August 4th, 1994. Less than 24 hours later, she was gone. Gone.

My family helped me get through the funerals and burial. Sometimes, with harsh words. When I clung to the stairs, wailing and sobbing, during the first funeral, my mother sternly told me to stop causing a scene. She didn't know, she was trying to get me to pull myself up by my bootstraps and carry on with life, because that's just what we did. That's how we dealt with things. We simply carried on. "Do you want people to notice?!" she whispered to me..

Yes. YES, I wanted people to notice. I wanted people to know that I was hurt. Broken. Suffering. Inconsolable.

There are seven stages of grief, they say:

1. Shock and Denial

2. Pain and Guilt

3. Anger and Bargaining

4. Depression, Reflection and Loneliness

-This is wehere I have been. for 17 years. SEVENTEEN. That's not a typo. I haven't really talked about Emily for 17 years, I mean, I'd post about her on her birthday and angelversary. I'd tell close friends about my loss. But I never just -talked- about it. No one asked about her, or said that they were thinking about her. My sister didn't include her on a "Grandma's so aweomse - check out all my grandkids" sweatshirt that she gifted to my mother the Christmas after Emily died. She was, in essence, forgotten.

But not by me. I carried the guilt, the pain, the "no one knows what I feel" feelings. I carried it all, bottling it up and shoving it way down deep inside. Ignoring it all. No one wanted to hear it, I thought. No one wants to read that depressing story year after year, right?

This is where I was stuck. Now I'm slowly becoming unstuck. Last year, I became involved with two organizations, Mikayla's Grace and MollyBears. I met some wonderful people, people that share my pain. These people are helping me, just as much as I am helping them...

So, I'm inviting you in to share these last three stages of grief. and hope. and healing. Maybe we can learn from each other.