I’m trying to find ways to be more authentic. For my whole life, I’ve had the sense that it isn’t good enough to be myself - or at least, not just myself. I have to be more. More interesting, more brilliant, more witty, more pretty, more outgoing, more ambitious, more articulate, more confident, more ruthless. Less interested in silly things like flowers and stationery and Pinterest and baby clothes and more interested in things like The Future of Digital and Leaning In and How Women Can Get Ahead At Work.
I kept myself awake one night a few weeks before Mila was born, worrying about waiting lists and lead times for full-time infant daycare. I thought about my sweet little girl, sleeping innocently in my belly - and about how within a few short months she’d be unceremoniously expelled from her safe haven and deposited at some daycare with a 1:3 caretaker ratio, never to see me except on weekends and for a few hours on weekdays, while I went off to Lean In. And I fucking lost my shit.
Losing Mila broke something in me. I don’t think I can keep living like that, trying to project something that’s not quite me. It’s hard enough being someone who carries around the memory of her baby daughter; who is trying to take care of and grow her family; who really just likes flowers, stationery, Pinterest, and baby clothes. That is enough. I’m not sure who I was trying to prove something to in the first place, but I feel less and less like I have to prove it. I know that there are things that I have to do, as a person who lives in the world and pays rent and feeds herself. But I’m making an effort to recognize that they are secondary, and I am trying to limit my emotional and temporal investment accordingly. I have to save up for the important things.
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
Saturday, March 29, 2014
Loose ends, small victories.
There are many small indignities that have come with life after Mila died. One of them was receiving, after several weeks of trying to piece my heart and mind and life back together, a $3,000 bill in the mail from the hospital. For the stillbirth of my daughter.
I’ve never been charged so much, for something I wanted so little.
I get that even in a stillbirth, doctors and nurses and hospital resources need to be paid for. As bitter as this is, I can live with it and it makes sense to me. The medical staff at my hospital took great care of me, and it’s not their fault that Mila died. However, folded into that $3,000 balance I found a line item that was a slap in the face: a $500 penalty from my insurance company for not notifying them of my hospital admission within the required two-day window.
Two days? Two days? I spent the forty-eight hours after my admission to the hospital laboring, giving birth to my daughter, saying hello to her, saying goodbye to her forever, calling our family members and friends with the news and crying anew every time, and picking out her fucking funeral home. Forty-eight hours after my admission, my milk hadn’t even come in yet. Can somebody tell me when in that two-day span of time I was supposed to review my insurance policy’s fee schedule?
Earlier this week I asked my OB to write a letter supporting my case that I could enclose in an appeal to my insurance company. I just received a copy of it, and boy did she deliver. Four paragraphs of obscure medical terms, righteous anger, and professorial disapproval. I kind of love her right now. When it sometimes still feels like the universe is against us, or has forgotten us, it’s nice to have an ally in this fight.
I’ve never been charged so much, for something I wanted so little.
I get that even in a stillbirth, doctors and nurses and hospital resources need to be paid for. As bitter as this is, I can live with it and it makes sense to me. The medical staff at my hospital took great care of me, and it’s not their fault that Mila died. However, folded into that $3,000 balance I found a line item that was a slap in the face: a $500 penalty from my insurance company for not notifying them of my hospital admission within the required two-day window.
Two days? Two days? I spent the forty-eight hours after my admission to the hospital laboring, giving birth to my daughter, saying hello to her, saying goodbye to her forever, calling our family members and friends with the news and crying anew every time, and picking out her fucking funeral home. Forty-eight hours after my admission, my milk hadn’t even come in yet. Can somebody tell me when in that two-day span of time I was supposed to review my insurance policy’s fee schedule?
Earlier this week I asked my OB to write a letter supporting my case that I could enclose in an appeal to my insurance company. I just received a copy of it, and boy did she deliver. Four paragraphs of obscure medical terms, righteous anger, and professorial disapproval. I kind of love her right now. When it sometimes still feels like the universe is against us, or has forgotten us, it’s nice to have an ally in this fight.
Sunday, March 23, 2014
Trying again.
People tell me they can’t imagine what it would be like to lose their babies. “I’m so sorry, I just can’t imagine.”
Well, before, I couldn’t imagine it either. And I didn’t think I needed to. In my prenatal reading, I briefly came across a single article about stillbirth, the story of a woman who discovered her baby was dead in the womb and was then faced with the unimaginable task of birthing her dead child. I glossed over the article. A horrible story, but filed squarely under Not Applicable.
That was in the Before.
From where I stand now, I actually have trouble imagining having a living child. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I have trouble believing that pregnancies don’t all end in disaster. I am surprised when other people have perfectly healthy babies, so easily, like it’s nothing. I see pictures of pregnant friends and acquaintances nearing their due dates and I think, oh god, it’s going to be so horrible when the baby dies. But then a few weeks pass and their belly photos promptly, magically, turn into photos of beautiful, healthy babies. How do they do it?
It’s hard to have faith in the statistics once you’ve been the 1 in 160. Once you’ve been the 1 in 160, the statistics all become meaningless. 1% might as well be 100% for all the good it does you.
But, but. Some part of us must still believe, because we aren't giving up. There are two types of newly bereaved mothers. Those who can't even think of getting pregnant again anytime soon, and those who can't get pregnant again soon enough. I fall into the second category. I wanted to be pregnant again as soon as I got home from the hospital. I knew even then that it was just a way of missing Mila - for nine months, even when I was alone, I wasn't really alone; and I couldn’t stand the sudden, total emptiness. I know the next child will not be her. We will not get her back. But we still want a family, so at least we can work towards that.
The next pregnancy will be hard. We will be so happy, but also so terrified, for nine long months. And I can’t help but feel frustrated that we are in this place. We’re not even back at square one - we are at a place worse than square one. A year ago, my body was in its best shape ever and our hearts were untouched. Now I worry that I am, maybe, a little depleted. I worry that I still haven’t lost the last twelve pounds. And I worry about how I am possibly going to love another baby as much as Mila. She occupies so much room in my heart; it scares me to think that I might not have enough for the next baby.
But I think back on my pregnancy with Mila, and I realize that even as she made my belly and butt bigger, she did the same for my heart. As she grew, my heart grew to accommodate her. To pump more blood, more nutrients; to give more love. So I trust that that will happen again.
So, fuck it. This is clearly kind of a crapshoot. And I choose to believe that things will work out.
Well, before, I couldn’t imagine it either. And I didn’t think I needed to. In my prenatal reading, I briefly came across a single article about stillbirth, the story of a woman who discovered her baby was dead in the womb and was then faced with the unimaginable task of birthing her dead child. I glossed over the article. A horrible story, but filed squarely under Not Applicable.
That was in the Before.
From where I stand now, I actually have trouble imagining having a living child. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I have trouble believing that pregnancies don’t all end in disaster. I am surprised when other people have perfectly healthy babies, so easily, like it’s nothing. I see pictures of pregnant friends and acquaintances nearing their due dates and I think, oh god, it’s going to be so horrible when the baby dies. But then a few weeks pass and their belly photos promptly, magically, turn into photos of beautiful, healthy babies. How do they do it?
It’s hard to have faith in the statistics once you’ve been the 1 in 160. Once you’ve been the 1 in 160, the statistics all become meaningless. 1% might as well be 100% for all the good it does you.
But, but. Some part of us must still believe, because we aren't giving up. There are two types of newly bereaved mothers. Those who can't even think of getting pregnant again anytime soon, and those who can't get pregnant again soon enough. I fall into the second category. I wanted to be pregnant again as soon as I got home from the hospital. I knew even then that it was just a way of missing Mila - for nine months, even when I was alone, I wasn't really alone; and I couldn’t stand the sudden, total emptiness. I know the next child will not be her. We will not get her back. But we still want a family, so at least we can work towards that.
The next pregnancy will be hard. We will be so happy, but also so terrified, for nine long months. And I can’t help but feel frustrated that we are in this place. We’re not even back at square one - we are at a place worse than square one. A year ago, my body was in its best shape ever and our hearts were untouched. Now I worry that I am, maybe, a little depleted. I worry that I still haven’t lost the last twelve pounds. And I worry about how I am possibly going to love another baby as much as Mila. She occupies so much room in my heart; it scares me to think that I might not have enough for the next baby.
But I think back on my pregnancy with Mila, and I realize that even as she made my belly and butt bigger, she did the same for my heart. As she grew, my heart grew to accommodate her. To pump more blood, more nutrients; to give more love. So I trust that that will happen again.
So, fuck it. This is clearly kind of a crapshoot. And I choose to believe that things will work out.
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Before Mila.
Sometimes the time Before Mila feels like a dream. In the shitstorm of things both terrible and banal that have happened since she was born, I occasionally wonder - was that really me who was so pregnant and happy all those months, and not just some woman who looked like me? I had a baby? You must be kidding. Was she real? Did she exist? Am I really a mom? Has it really been only, and already, twelve weeks? What day is it, and where the fuck am I?
Do I deserve to feel as fucked up as I do?
There are only a handful of things that remind me that I didn’t make her up. The few things of hers that I can hold in my hand - the clothes she wore, the lock of her hair, her ultrasound pictures. The people who also remember her, and say her name to me. And this blog. I write and re-read this blog in part to remind myself that this all really happened, and that I’m not crazy.
Do I deserve to feel as fucked up as I do?
There are only a handful of things that remind me that I didn’t make her up. The few things of hers that I can hold in my hand - the clothes she wore, the lock of her hair, her ultrasound pictures. The people who also remember her, and say her name to me. And this blog. I write and re-read this blog in part to remind myself that this all really happened, and that I’m not crazy.
Why doesn't anyone talk about this?
Like other bereaved moms, I have been doing a lot of Googling. I want to share this NPR interview that I found, with reporter Alan Goldenbach and author Sherokee Ilse. It’s a few years old now, but not at all dated regarding the silence around stillbirth that still persists today, both culturally and medically.
Although the majority of stillbirths occur in developing countries, 1% of pregnancies in the US end in stillbirth - that’s roughly 26,000 every year. It’s way more common than SIDS (4,000 deaths per year), which is well-known as a public health issue. Yet people rarely talk about it, not even obstetricians and midwives, and about how it can sometimes happen even in seemingly normal, healthy pregnancies. I personally received attentive prenatal care from a practice specializing in high-risk pregnancy (even though I myself was not considered high-risk), and I was still completely blindsided. It was never mentioned as a possibility.
The most common known causes are problems with the placenta or umbilical cord, genetic issues, infections, or maternal health problems; but in at least 40% of cases, including ours, the causes are unknown or indeterminate - even with a full genetic workup and autopsy, and sometimes even with extensive antenatal testing. In these cases, there is very limited research on risk factors and prevention.
While the silence is pervasive medically, it is positively crushing culturally. The topic is so unheard of that, when it does happen, no one knows how to acknowledge it, talk about it, or provide support. The silence and sometimes misguided comments are very painful for bereaved parents after the loss of our children, and often continue to be painful even if/after we are able to have healthy subsequent children. There are a handful of good articles about how friends and families can best provide support to parents after a stillbirth or neonatal death, but I particularly like and want to share this one and this one.
Why doesn’t anyone talk about this?
Although the majority of stillbirths occur in developing countries, 1% of pregnancies in the US end in stillbirth - that’s roughly 26,000 every year. It’s way more common than SIDS (4,000 deaths per year), which is well-known as a public health issue. Yet people rarely talk about it, not even obstetricians and midwives, and about how it can sometimes happen even in seemingly normal, healthy pregnancies. I personally received attentive prenatal care from a practice specializing in high-risk pregnancy (even though I myself was not considered high-risk), and I was still completely blindsided. It was never mentioned as a possibility.
The most common known causes are problems with the placenta or umbilical cord, genetic issues, infections, or maternal health problems; but in at least 40% of cases, including ours, the causes are unknown or indeterminate - even with a full genetic workup and autopsy, and sometimes even with extensive antenatal testing. In these cases, there is very limited research on risk factors and prevention.
While the silence is pervasive medically, it is positively crushing culturally. The topic is so unheard of that, when it does happen, no one knows how to acknowledge it, talk about it, or provide support. The silence and sometimes misguided comments are very painful for bereaved parents after the loss of our children, and often continue to be painful even if/after we are able to have healthy subsequent children. There are a handful of good articles about how friends and families can best provide support to parents after a stillbirth or neonatal death, but I particularly like and want to share this one and this one.
Why doesn’t anyone talk about this?
Sunday, March 16, 2014
Mila, moving.
The first time I felt her move was during a summer night in SF around week 15 or 16. Just a couple of twitches on the lower left side of my belly, one after the other in the exact same spot. They could have just been muscle twitches, but I don’t think they were. She’d made first contact, and she was real.
One night shortly after that, in our old Telegraph Hill place, I flopped belly-down on the bed and felt what seemed like a tiny kick of protest, flat-footed straight down into the mattress. Hey! I got the hint and I quickly rolled over.
I started feeling soft, mysterious little swishes, especially after I ate. Whenever I wore a seatbelt or slightly too-tight pants, I felt her probing and straining against the resistance, more and more aggressively as the weeks ticked by. For several weeks I felt her swim about like this - still undetectable from the outside, like a secret conversation she was having with me. Mama, hi! I’m here.
September. D and I were on the big island in Hawaii for our babymoon, and we’d just discovered her gender. We floated in the pool and talked about names, college funds, and life insurance. It was in Hawaii that I insisted that he put his hand on my belly and just have a little patience. Did you feel that? No. There, how about that? Yes.
On October 10 I had an all-day meeting with clients at work. Throughout the day she bounced so vigorously that I could see my belly twitching wildly in all directions under my shirt. This is boring. Let’s play.
One night around 30 weeks, I looked down and saw that my belly was hilariously misshapen and asymmetrical. I put my hand over the lump sticking out of my right side, which felt very much like a little round head. I believe that was the night she turned head-down, nestled into position to meet us.
In the last weeks of my pregnancy, I’d lie in bed and feel her slithering about like a bag of snakes; it tickled. She’d kick her dad repeatedly in the back while we lay half-asleep. She’d worm her way up into my rib cage, and I’d push what I was pretty sure was her butt back down so that I could fill my lungs. At antenatal testing, she'd punch indignantly at the sensors strapped across my belly, sending them up and down and passing her tests with flying colors. I’d rub my hand over my belly absently and feel something distinctly foot-shaped shifting position.
When she was born, I thought I might have some feeling of recognition. I remember looking at her little face and wondering if she looked like me or D or some combination. The likenesses didn't strike me immediately. But the shape and the weight of her in my arms, and her little feet and knees and elbows, felt so familiar. I didn't recognize her by sight, but I did recognize her by feel.
One night shortly after that, in our old Telegraph Hill place, I flopped belly-down on the bed and felt what seemed like a tiny kick of protest, flat-footed straight down into the mattress. Hey! I got the hint and I quickly rolled over.
I started feeling soft, mysterious little swishes, especially after I ate. Whenever I wore a seatbelt or slightly too-tight pants, I felt her probing and straining against the resistance, more and more aggressively as the weeks ticked by. For several weeks I felt her swim about like this - still undetectable from the outside, like a secret conversation she was having with me. Mama, hi! I’m here.
September. D and I were on the big island in Hawaii for our babymoon, and we’d just discovered her gender. We floated in the pool and talked about names, college funds, and life insurance. It was in Hawaii that I insisted that he put his hand on my belly and just have a little patience. Did you feel that? No. There, how about that? Yes.
On October 10 I had an all-day meeting with clients at work. Throughout the day she bounced so vigorously that I could see my belly twitching wildly in all directions under my shirt. This is boring. Let’s play.
One night around 30 weeks, I looked down and saw that my belly was hilariously misshapen and asymmetrical. I put my hand over the lump sticking out of my right side, which felt very much like a little round head. I believe that was the night she turned head-down, nestled into position to meet us.
In the last weeks of my pregnancy, I’d lie in bed and feel her slithering about like a bag of snakes; it tickled. She’d kick her dad repeatedly in the back while we lay half-asleep. She’d worm her way up into my rib cage, and I’d push what I was pretty sure was her butt back down so that I could fill my lungs. At antenatal testing, she'd punch indignantly at the sensors strapped across my belly, sending them up and down and passing her tests with flying colors. I’d rub my hand over my belly absently and feel something distinctly foot-shaped shifting position.
When she was born, I thought I might have some feeling of recognition. I remember looking at her little face and wondering if she looked like me or D or some combination. The likenesses didn't strike me immediately. But the shape and the weight of her in my arms, and her little feet and knees and elbows, felt so familiar. I didn't recognize her by sight, but I did recognize her by feel.
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
Eleven weeks, two days.
I count the weeks like a mirror image of the counting that I did while I was pregnant, except this time there's no BabyCenter email newsletter to tell me what to expect from life each week. How big is the hole she left supposed to be by now? The size of an eggplant? A watermelon? A planet?