By Sanda Rathamone
"Infertility has stolen my life."
Despite a solid three years before we finally fell pregnant with Elijah, his pregnancy was a miracle. As a last resort, I made an honest prayer for a long-awaited child. The miracle was that God had heard and granted my prayer two weeks later.
After five months of pregnancy, Elijah was not here to stay; he couldn't survive an extremely premature birth. I questioned God many times on why He would give me this child, just to take him back. I felt cheated and unloved; it was cruel. I questioned my worth. Was I not deserving? Did I do something that had upset God? Was my prayer foolish and had caused my baby to die?
I decided that perhaps something good can come from this loss and the pain. I tried to find something meaningful, something to sweeten the bitterness that leaked from my wounded heart.
I found that the good were wonderful, amazing people, people who understood me when family and those closest to me couldn't. People who didn't judge me. People who were challenged with and suffered loss as I have. People who were far away, but were kind to mourn alongside me. People who knew absolutely nothing about losing a child and still made an effort to share a piece of their heart with me. I learned that these people were not just people, but gifts of love, gifts from God.
Everywhere I went, God would sprinkle these loving souls to keep me afloat, to show me that there is more, much more for me to see, feel, touch, love.
I discovered the good in myself, the parts that pushed me to be more, see more, do more: my vulnerability, my courage to face my fears, my empathy, my understanding, my curious nature in wanting to learn and grow. But no matter how many good things I could find, I lost this part of myself that knew how to love my body. I lost my ability to see the beauty in being a woman.
There is this brokenness in every inch of my body and I feel this terrible chronic pain of emptiness. Who knew that emptiness could feel so intense and heavy, a baggage full of aching pain?
Another three years has passed without carrying another baby. This inability to conceive brought on a burning fire deep within my belly, more fear, more pain, more passing of time. For every month, my heart broke over and over as I watched my hopes and dreams fall and crumble away from underneath me. I think and cry about it everyday.
For six years, that fire burned, was put out by disappointment, all just to be reignited and put out again and again; that's what you call "hope." I saw a whole other side of hope - death. What's more cruel than losing a child is losing hope over and over again. Hope for change, hope for something to happen, hope for something new to appear. I have come to point where that fire has burned everything inside of me. I have nothing left to hold onto, everything has been consumed by the fire and left me deserted and homeless. My body has become ash and what is left are tears to shed for I don't know how long.
Last night, I cried until my brain told my body that I needed air. I raised my white flag high up above my head:
"I surrender, God. I can't do this anymore because it hurts too much. I'm getting off this ride, it's going nowhere. I am sad that what I thought would make me happy, isn't making me happy anymore. I tried, I tried with everything I had, I really did, but this whole thing has controlled my life for years and I'm not happy. If I have to give this up to be happy, then that is what I'm going to do. I leave this all up to You. Just please, take away this pain."I remember right out of high school, I told myself that I didn't want kids. I didn't want to be a stay-at-home mother like my mom. I had already given up my childhood long ago to care for my younger siblings. I wanted a career, I wanted to do something that made me happy, I wanted a "purposeful" life.
As I am approaching in starting my career, I feel empty and unsatisfied. I would sacrifice my career for the child I lost. I realized how much of a privilege it is to be a stay-at-home parent, unlike my mom who always made it a point that if she didn't have kids, she'd be "free," she "wouldn't care." To this day, she still "isn't ready" to be a grandmother.
The desire to have children came along when I met my husband and I used to believe that this strong desire was from God because I didn't plan on having kids. Even though I knew that deep down, I would be the perfect loving mother for any child. I also thought about adoption long before I met my husband; today, I cannot even consider that idea because it hurts. It's strange how beliefs and dreams change as we grow and experience new things, but never in my life did I think that I would have lose a child to realize how much I wanted to be a mother.
I have been patient and depressed for far too long. I am hurt with defeat and lost more than I could bear. Please, God, grant me peace. I don't want this pain anymore.
With love,
By Sanda Rathamone
"A moment of self-compassion can change your entire day. A string of such moments can change the course of your life." - Christopher K. Germer
Three years after Elijah died, pregnancy announcements are still one of the hardest triggers after loss. To think that three years would be a sufficient amount of time to say that I am "okay" with announcements is an understatement. It still hurts. A lot. A whole heck of a lot.
It is one of my worst fears to hear that another family member has gotten pregnant, while I am still hoping and praying that we would have another baby. A baby that we could finally take home.
So far, three babies in the family have been born since Elijah died. It was like Elijah's death had opened up everyone else's womb and closed mine. It's painful to feel like God has "skipped me," after I have worked so hard at being patient, understanding, forgiving. I just don't want my efforts, the waiting, the suffering, to all go in vain. Please, don't tell me that my pain has no purpose, don't make me go through all of this agony without something to look forward to. Please, don't take my dreams away from me...
A year ago, my husband's cousin had her baby, and before that, her announcement caught me by surprise. She had difficulties conceiving; something I understood very well. Since she had waited a long time, I thought her announcement would be less painful - I know the struggle.
I thought that going to her baby shower would be a piece of cake, that I would be perfectly fine. This was my chance to go to the first baby shower after Elijah died (I did not attend my sister-in-law's baby shower the year before). And then, I became depressed. Her pregnancy had progressed and we still had not fallen pregnant. I had hopes that I would at the very least be in my early stages of pregnancy by the time of her baby shower... She does not know my struggle.
I wrote on a card about how much their baby is a blessing, and my husband had to go on without me. I still have a hard time being around their son. We could have had a little boy like theirs.
What seems to be more difficult are pregnancy announcements from mothers who have lost just as I have. In the baby loss community, "the goal" seems to be a "rainbow baby," a baby who is born after loss. It's common to want another baby after losing one (or more), it's even more common to want another very soon after experiencing loss (it's also common to not want another for fear of a subsequent loss).
The moment of knowing you are pregnant, you start imagining this new life, you start thinking of what motherhood means, what this child will bring, who this child will be, and what the future entails. When your baby dies, you lose those dreams, those hopes and expectations that has already begun to make an imprint into your growing heart. It's devastating to lose it all, to come home empty handed after weeks and months of carrying that baby.
For me, the thought of having another baby is comforting. Losing my first child made me realize how much I wanted to be a mother, and how traumatizing and agonizing the rest of my life would be if Elijah was our only child. However, Pregnancy After Loss (PAL) is often shared as a fearful and draining experience, while many neglect noting that trying-to-conceive/infertility after loss can be just as challenging, perhaps even more so because it can feel isolating and painful. Infertility is a whole other bag of grief.
The moment of knowing you are pregnant, you start imagining this new life, you start thinking of what motherhood means, what this child will bring, who this child will be, and what the future entails. When your baby dies, you lose those dreams, those hopes and expectations that has already begun to make an imprint into your growing heart. It's devastating to lose it all, to come home empty handed after weeks and months of carrying that baby.
For me, the thought of having another baby is comforting. Losing my first child made me realize how much I wanted to be a mother, and how traumatizing and agonizing the rest of my life would be if Elijah was our only child. However, Pregnancy After Loss (PAL) is often shared as a fearful and draining experience, while many neglect noting that trying-to-conceive/infertility after loss can be just as challenging, perhaps even more so because it can feel isolating and painful. Infertility is a whole other bag of grief.
Not everyone is fortunate to (quickly) have another baby after loss, or even at all.
One of the things that I am always on alert for on social media is just that: someone announcing that they are expecting their rainbow. I can't handle it, and at times, pretend that I could. I try my best to be happy for them and offer support (because that is what I SHOULD do). But in all honestly, I am struggling with jealousy, frustration, and feeling hurt for myself. I feel selfish, hypocritical. Here I am discussing compassion for loss families and I cannot even offer genuine support to someone who knows my pain.
This was also why I had my original Instagram account "temporarily" deleted, it was too triggering to come across announcement after announcement. Fortunately, Instagram now has a "mute" button. Instead of having to "unfollow," I can put a "pause" to seeing updates on pregnancies after loss and "unmute" when I am ready to face them.
There are a lot of quotes shaming people for feeling jealous:
"Congratulate others for receiving their blessing. Your time will come so no need for the jealousy."
"Some people just don't know how to be happy for others."
"Supporting another's success won't dampen yours."
"Jealousy is a mental cancer."
There is depth to feeling jealousy, it doesn't mean that someone wants to feel that way, nor does it define someone.
I'm sorry that I don't know how to be happy for you. I'm trying. Every day.
With love,
By Sanda Rathamone
Every year, I feel pressured to do something or go somewhere special for his birthday. But no matter what we do or where we go, I am still sad that he is gone.
"I don't really want to do anything for Elijah's birthday this year. Maybe we'll do something during the day, like a hike or rent a boat. I don't want to do anything that lasts more than a day." This was a text that I had written to my husband a month before Elijah's birthday.
I was upset that we were coming up on three years since Elijah was born and died, and that we still do not have a baby. I have this hope that I would fall pregnant on one of Elijah's special anniversaries: the day I found out that I was pregnant with him, his ultrasound appointments, his birthday, and his due date. This hope is what motivates me to look forward to his anniversaries.
And then, I am always disappointed to find that my hope is an act of sheer folly. I place limitations on myself, I set myself up for more grief, more pain.
My husband wasn't having it, he wanted to do something for the weekend. This year, Elijah's birthday was on a Sunday; it was perfect because we both had weekends off from work and school. I don't know why I hadn't noticed until we got closer to Elijah's birthday, but it was also on Father's Day, which added to my already sour mood about Elijah's third birthday. It wasn't that I hated or didn't want to celebrate Father's Day, I just didn't want/need more blows to my heart, a.k.a. THE TRIGGERS.
I didn't want to face what should be a special day for us to be spoiled with seeing family gatherings, dads doing things with their sons and daughters, while we were grieving over the day we lost our son. But, slowly, as we approached his birthday, I began to settle down with the idea that it was okay, that I was going to be okay.
We didn't have any plans...
All we knew was that we wanted to spend a night at a hotel, but with it being the season for summer vacations, most places were booked and prices were hiked up so high that it wasn't worth it. My husband would check on the prices and it would increase within the next day. He took the plunge and booked at an inn in a city we had never been to before. And we still had no idea how we were going to spend the weekend there.
My only motivation to celebrate Elijah's birthday came from my anger after reading the recent Dear Abby letter. For the first time ever, I was going to get Elijah a birthday cake, light it with a candle, and sing "Happy Birthday" to Elijah with the most loving and loudest voice I could. I also ordered a couple of customized t-shirts to wear in honor of Elijah; I wanted to the world to know that it was his birthday and that we are his parents.
We stayed at Lake Natoma Inn; a two hours drive from home. Noting that the parking lot had full of rows upon rows of cars, the inn was a busy place. I had hopes that it wasn't because Father's Day had attracted so many people to stay there for the weekend...
Upon checking in, I had approached my first trigger. We were heading to the elevator, while at the same time, a couple with three or four young children (with a baby in a stroller) came walking through the side door - obviously from the swimming pool - and was waiting for the elevator as well. I just wanted roll my eyes, kick and scream, and die, while my husband seemed to be completely unfazed. Luckily, (what I would assume as the father) was asking his wife how many band-aids they needed from the front desk. We had the elevator to ourselves.... until we went back down to go out for dinner.
A couple with their three little girls, all probably around under age 5, were heading to the same floor as we were. As much as I wanted to smile at them the way my husband did, I found it difficult. This couple has three girls and we have... Elijah, who died. Every time we went into the elevator, I had so much anxiety that I would be reminded, yet again, of what we had lost, of what I have wanted so badly. It also reminded me of how on the last day at the hospital, we were in the elevator with a pregnant staff member - it hurt like a stab to an already bleeding wound.
Besides these very triggering moments, I did have a few "happy" and exciting ones.
We came across a 5 dollar bill on the ground in the parking lot. I kept it even though my husband thought I shouldn't have. I accepted it as a "donation" for Elijah's birthday weekend. We also had a nice quiet dinner at a local Thai restaurant that we "almost had to ourselves" the whole time (we enjoy less crowded places). Then, we had a game of beer pong (IN OUR ROOM), drinking the most stinkiest, most awful beer I had ever had in my life. We got "denogginized" for a moment, but we had fun, we were doing something together, and that was what really mattered.
In the past, I was upset that we couldn't throw Elijah a birthday party with loads of friends and family - many of them don't remember his birthday. Like the last two birthdays, we've spent it without family, and has been something we've "celebrated" together. Doing this for a third time made me realize that I didn't really want anyone else (family) to join us. If Elijah had meant anything to them, we shouldn't have had to invite or remind them of his birthday.
But, what I do look forward to is celebrating Elijah with his siblings. Nothing would make me happier than to be surrounded by those who love him as much as we do.
Another "happy" moment was on Elijah's birthday. After lunch, we were at Safeway, grabbing a cake and a birthday card for Elijah. Before we headed to the bakery section, we had a bathroom break. The strangest thing happened. I was in my stall when all of a sudden, I overhear a woman in the next stall talking on the phone. She was saying something about a nail appointment and then, I heard the words, "picking up Elijah." I was mind-boggled.
Did I really just hear that? Did she really just say that?! I wanted to grab her by the shoulders, hug her, and say, "Hey, lady! Who is Elijah? Is he your son? Your husband? Your friend or brother? Uncle? WHO? TELL ME WHO! My son's birthday is today and his name is Elijah, TOO!" Unfortunately, I didn't want to get all crazy weird about it and texted my husband about what I had encountered instead.
Elijah was sending me a sign and that was enough to make my day.
I was sad that we drove so far from home, but didn't get the chance to explore the nearby places like Lake Natoma (the lake that the inn is named after) or Folsom Lake. The local areas had attracted crowds of people, not to mention how Father's Day of all days was a day that literally everyone was doing something outdoors.
We made our leave earlier than expected and drove another two hours towards home to another very busy lake, which was one of the special places that we had released Elijah's ashes; we ended up where we were meant to be. This lake was the last place we went fishing just a couple of weeks before Elijah died. It was where I had discovered "his butterfly" and the last place we were doing something we loved, as a family.
Together, we sang to Elijah, blew out his candle, and ate his cake with a happy smile.
Together, we sang to Elijah, blew out his candle, and ate his cake with a happy smile.
(Related: The Real Memorial: Releasing His Ashes)
Happy Third Birthday, Elijah. We love you.
Elijah Rathamone-Saeteurn
Born Thursday, June 16, 2016
6:51 a.m. 9.9 oz and 10 in
Due October 30, 2016
With love,
Read Elijah's Story, "From Gender Reveal to a Spontaneous Delivery"
By Sanda Rathamone
"Do not judge the bereaved mother, she comes in many forms. She is breathing, but she is dying. She may look young, but inside she has become ancient. She smiles, but her heart sobs. She walks, she talks, she cooks, she cleans, she works, she is, but she is not, all at once. She is here, but part of her is elsewhere for eternity." - Author Unknown
After reading a recent "Dear Abby" letter from a niece about her grieving aunt, who lost a stillborn baby 20 years ago, I am fuming with anger and utter disappointment. But, more than anything, I understand her aunt's choices and decisions on how she is coping with grief.
At the beginning of the letter, the niece, Crystal, describes her aunt as living a "morbid lifestyle - like you'd see in a scary movie." There are so many words (inappropriate ones) in which I want to reply to this. All I can say on here is... Ouch. That hurts. That f'n hurts. Not just for her aunt, but for myself and so many others who have lost to stillbirth.
Crystal goes on to share other things about her aunt: how she threw a first birthday party for her baby and had everyone sing "Happy Birthday" to a "baby that never lived (saying this is REALLY OFFENSIVE)," how she wanted her baby to be included (with other grandchildren) during Crystal's grandfather's funeral, and how she found out about her aunt's dead cat that was left in her house for several days. What was much more upsetting was how she says her aunt "acts like she is the victim in life and tries to make people feel guilty for being happy." She included that her aunt's grief, "bothers us (the family) a lot," which I found pretty harsh and upsetting.
Abby's reply was just as insensitive as Crystal's letter. Abby starts off with "Your aunt should have sought grief counseling after she lost her baby." The "should have" part had me reeling.
People automatically assume that if someone is having "personal troubles" that we should refer them to a therapist or seek group therapy. While I support professional advice and to be part of a community that share a similar experience (I have benefited from this), it is wrong to say that someone "should" or "should have."
Seeking professional help or any kind of outside help is a matter of preference. We cannot assume that someone needs or wants therapy, or force the opinion that a person needs psychiatric help.
However, counseling and therapy should be an additional support system. Speaking with a therapist or attending group therapy is not enough to say that after doing so that things "get better" and that "problems are resolved." The first line in support, especially after loss, should always come from friends and family, i.e. those who are closest to us. It hurt reading that Crystal's aunt did not receive the support she needed from her family and that Crystal had so much resentment against her aunt that it drove her to send a very public letter to Dear Abby.
I truly feel that the solution to all of this is compassion. Crystal's aunt does not need therapy, she needs support from those around her. It is sad to imagine that Crystal's aunt had no one to rely on, but her cat for emotional support and that she would grieve, yet again, another loss.
This "morbid lifestyle" is not morbid, it's grief. It's real life. It's pain. It's love. It's LOSS. And it is a shame that someone would view grief in this way. This is also why I have fears over sharing my stillborn son on social media: I don't want someone to label my grief with anything, but love.
I feel for Crystal's aunt. I have wanted my baby to be acknowledged and included too. I want to be remembered and respected as a mother to my baby. I want my baby to be remembered and valued like any other living baby. Whether it has been 10 years, 20 years, 50 years, I will always grieve the loss of my baby. And if what I do to keep my baby's memory alive looks "morbid," then it is shame that I would need to ask for compassion and understanding. It is a shame that human nature would lack empathy and sympathy.
Abby had the chance to address stillbirth in a professional and compassionate manner, especially for the baby loss community, which is so often forgotten in the world of parenthood, childbirth, and bereavement. I cannot stress enough the importance of portraying stillbirth in the media as an open discussion with respect, sensitivity, awareness, and education. So, here is my response with the intention to continue stillbirth awareness:
Dear Abby, and Crystal,
Two months after my stillbirth, my sister-in-law announced her pregnancy. My niece, Jazmine, was born two-and-a-half months after what would have been my due date with my son, Elijah. She is now two-years-old and calls me "Auntie." She has seen pictures of Elijah and one day, she will know how to say his name. I will teach her his name because she is my niece, and because they are family.
Talking about my son and sharing him with the world is my therapy. Posting photos of my son and sharing them with the world is my therapy. Writing about him and how much I love and miss him is my therapy.
Soon, on the 16th of June, it will be his third birthday, in which I feel deeply sad about. I have sang "Happy Birthday" to him - alone - without my family surrounding me. I have never felt more sad about how many family members forget his birthday and do not ask me about him. I have also never gotten him a birthday cake, but have written cards and keep them in his memory box.
This year, after reading your column and Crystal's letter, I will get Elijah a birthday cake and sing "Happy Birthday." ALOUD. I don't care if anyone else is there to sing with me, I will sing and will continue to sing it aloud every year from now on because like all parents, I want my child's birthday to be a happy one.
-- SANDA, MOTHER OF A STILLBORN, ELIJAH'S MOM.
Read Crystal's letter to Dear Abby, here.
With love,
By Sanda Rathamone
"You never know what someone is going through. Be kind. Always."
Just recently, I learned of some really sad news. My sister's friend, Robert, committed suicide a day after Mother's Day. He was 21-years-old, born on the same year as my younger brother. When my sister phoned me a couple of days after he died (the day she found out), my brain couldn't compute "Suicide" with "Robert."
Surely, this wasn't right? Robert wouldn't do that! And he was far too young!
I found it unbelievable. My crying sister wasn't enough to convince me that this was true; I have met and seen Robert with my very own eyes! I found it difficult to mentally grasp the idea that Robert decided to take his own life. Robert who I (somewhat) know because of my sister. Robert who had dated my sister. Robert who worked on my car because he cared about my sister.
May his soul find rest...
May his soul find rest...
Robert's death reminded me of how at just any moment, we could lose someone we love.
After losing Elijah, my fears became unbearable, especially surrounding death. I became overly worried that someone else I loved would die. I would pray most nights that my family would be safe, that our house would be protected from all kinds of harm, and especially that my husband would get home from work safe and sound (which I still worry about everyday). God forbid that I would lose my husband after losing a son.
For some reason, I want to say that I cannot imagine how Robert's mother is feeling or how she is coping with her loss. But then, I realize that I can and do know. Well... at least in a general sense. I know that she is most likely feeling guilt, questioning and re-questioning what she did or what went wrong. She is most likely to feel anger, disbelief, heartache, confusion, shock, and other terrifying and agonizing emotions of grief.
I don't know what it feels like to lose a son to suicide, but do know what it is like to have a son, and then to lose him. Forever.
A couple of years ago, a neighbor just a door down had committed suicide. Like Robert, he was young, just a kid at 18, 19? He purposefully overdosed and his mother found him in the backyard. To this day, as I water Elijah's tree in our backyard, I still look over to the neighbor's side (now untended and with new tenants) and feel this sadness wash over me. Like Robert, it must have taken everything to decide that they didn't want to live anymore.
I deeply believe that suicide is not something that someone briefly or hastily conjures up in their minds. It takes years, it takes pain, it takes suffering, silent and deadly suffering, trauma, loss... I say this because I have been there - and at times - desperately return to that place. That dark and desolate place.
While Elijah's death has taken a toll on every inch of my soul and tore my heart out and shredded it to a million pieces, the suffering from the years of infertility have also made my life full of constant yearning and brought heaviness wherever I am. In other words, my life often feels like a living hell. I am mortified with the realization that this could be my life from now on, a life with chronic pain that never heals.
Everything and everyone would trigger me, in every nook and cranny of the world, I am constantly bombarded by reminders of my loss, of what I had hoped and prayed for, of everything and all that I have wanted. I become furious, especially with God, when I hear on the news that some ungrateful bastard abused or abandoned their baby. I become angry and sad every time a pregnant woman walks my way. I become frustrated and jealous when someone announces that they are expecting a new baby. I become someone or something I really am not and shouldn't be - I'm not proud of it.
Sometimes, I shut myself out and away from the world, and will lie in bed all day and cry because it is the only way I feel comfort. Other times, if I am out in the world, my invisible motherhood feels like a gut-wrenching punishment, my tears silently fall, and then, I revisit the dark place. I talk into the darkness and tell it:
"I just want rest."
"I can't do this anymore."
"Take all of my hopes and leave me be; I have nothing left."
Speaking of hope, hope became a dangerous game. Those who have known infertility know what I am talking about. You hope and then lose it. You try to make more of it, then lose it again. Month after month after month, cycle after cycle, until it becomes years. And then, there comes a point where you don't know if you can muster up the courage to make any more, but hope that you can anyway. It's a treacherous road and it's petrifying. And it's exhausting, debilitating, discouraging.
When I imagine what the dark place will look like, I cry. I feel ashamed. Foolish. Unforgivable. I know that the people who love me will call me selfish, possibly hate me, but also that I will have caused them more pain.
Every day, I am at war. A bloody war with giving up, giving in, letting go, letting in, having and losing hope. And I don't want to lose. Not again. Not ever again.
Talk To Someone
If you’re thinking about suicide, are worried about a friend or loved one, or would like emotional support, the Lifeline network is available 24/7 across the United States. The Lifeline is available for everyone, is free, and confidential. Please visit National Suicide Prevention Lifeline for more info.
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline 1-800-273-8255
With love,
By Sanda Rathamone
“Listen to the mustn'ts, child. Listen to the don'ts. Listen to the shouldn'ts, the impossibles, the won'ts. Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me... Anything can happen, child. Anything can be." - Shel Silverstein
There is a small boy, he looks to be at least one-years-old. He is happy, giddy with excitement. His gait is more of a waddle, he is just learning to walk. Yet, his legs move in a smooth, quick motion; he is running! He is running towards the black gate, the gate that separates our duplex from a busy street.
The old lady downstairs notices that he is trying to leave, but she lets him run, as if to let him believe that he could easily slip away. At the same time, she hesitates. She realizes: "He could actually get away..." Somehow, it looks as though he could run through the gate without needing to open it.
The way she goes after him, it is like she is forcing herself; she doesn't want to put in much of her effort. She catches the boy, but not with love. There is no connection or relation, they are strangers to each other. But to the boy, it is a game and he is having fun. While he tries to get free and runs off for a second time, my father-in-law stands at his window, watching the whole event. He tells my husband and I to "go get him." Without ever really trying, the old lady has given up.
This is a dream that came to me yesterday.
After my stillbirth, I would often have dreams of babies. It has been a long while since I had a (memorable) dream about children. Many of these dreams were vivid, often leaving an impression that I recognized them, or appeared to be sending a message. In this dream, I felt that it was sending a message, or an opportunity... for another baby.
When I analyzed the dream, the boy didn't feel like he belonged to the old lady, or to anyone. He felt like a visitor, kind of like a butterfly - just fluttering by. His presence was alluring, while at the same time elusive. He made it seem like there was a possibility of catching him, but that it was not going to be easy. I could feel his temporariness, or indecisiveness; he just wanted to have some fun. He wasn't here to stay, but if we were lucky, we could catch him and call him our baby.
There is this idea floating around in my mind: he was a miscarriage. Not mine, but someone else's. He has probably "visited" many others, bringing hope and heartache wherever he goes.
I could imagine him as a firefly, and myself running in circles trying to catch him with my palms. Catching him would be a risk, I thought. And that is why the dream had not shown whether or not my husband and I had tried. I wanted to, we were going to... I wish I knew his name, so that I could tell him that if he stayed with us, we would love him dearly with everything we had. If he wanted, we could run around and chase each other all day at the park, at the lake, around the house. We could have so much fun together as a family. A complete and happy family.
I could imagine him as a firefly, and myself running in circles trying to catch him with my palms. Catching him would be a risk, I thought. And that is why the dream had not shown whether or not my husband and I had tried. I wanted to, we were going to... I wish I knew his name, so that I could tell him that if he stayed with us, we would love him dearly with everything we had. If he wanted, we could run around and chase each other all day at the park, at the lake, around the house. We could have so much fun together as a family. A complete and happy family.
But I am battle-weary of losing hope and losing again.
In June, it will have been three years since Elijah died. Every month, I hold tightly onto hope for another baby. The longing has never left and becomes a deeper scar in my womb. It is agonizing when all of my dreams crumble and fall away once more; hope is not enough to bring a baby home. Every day, I can't help thinking of what life would be like as a mother to a living child. So much so, that I have gathered names of Elijah's siblings and imagine telling them stories of Elijah.
I saw Elijah's butterfly at the garden yesterday and whispered to it, "Tell Elijah to bring us another baby." I guess we will name this little guy, Sebastian. That is if we can catch him.
In June, it will have been three years since Elijah died. Every month, I hold tightly onto hope for another baby. The longing has never left and becomes a deeper scar in my womb. It is agonizing when all of my dreams crumble and fall away once more; hope is not enough to bring a baby home. Every day, I can't help thinking of what life would be like as a mother to a living child. So much so, that I have gathered names of Elijah's siblings and imagine telling them stories of Elijah.
I saw Elijah's butterfly at the garden yesterday and whispered to it, "Tell Elijah to bring us another baby." I guess we will name this little guy, Sebastian. That is if we can catch him.
(Related Read: The Butterfly Diaries: Elijah's Butterfly)
With love,
By Sanda Rathamone
"This mother's day let's celebrate and honor all moms, including the moms who hold their children in their heart."
Mother's Day will always be one of the most difficult holidays after loss. This year will be my Fourth Mother's Day (the first was when I was pregnant with Elijah and the second and so on, after he died).
My first Mother's Day happened to be on the day that my husband and I announced our pregnancy. I was about 4 months along. I cannot believe that it has now been THREE YEARS! Time seems to flutter by so quickly, as if it was all a dream. And yet, it feels like time has stood still and has been forever since Elijah died... Since we were so happy telling everyone that we were going to have a baby.
Elijah died just a month after we made a final announcement to the rest of my husband's family (we shared the news with several others earlier).
Mother's Day has never been so bleak and confusing as ever. I always question myself if I am or should be considered "good enough" to be celebrated on Mother's Day. However, it seems as though every year after loss, I am somehow singled out and feel disappointed that friends and family forget to include me. I haven't spent Mother's Day with my husband's family for that very reason. Whether they intentionally or unintentionally forget about me, it still hurts.
My second Mother's Day (the first after loss) was the happiest. You can read it here: My First Mother's Day Without Our Baby.
For my third (which I called the"second-ish") Mother's Day, my husband got me flowers and a beautiful card with words that made me cry. You can read more about it here: A Second-ish Not So Very Happy Mother's Day.
Nonetheless, the coming weeks to Mother's day after loss have always brought tension and anxiety. It is like I am preparing for the pain to fully nestle inside of me as Mother's Day approaches - and I can't wait until it's over. I actually can't wait until Mother's Day is over and done with! I am dying hearing and seeing ad after ad about Mother's Day. I have never admitted this to myself and now that I have, it makes me feel better.
Yes, I am one of those sad, horrible, miserable people who hates Mother's Day (because people often associate Mother's Day with mothers who have living children).
Just a few days ago, I noticed that my brother-in-law bought these beautiful large white orchids for his mom and sister. Of course, I didn't get one, but it is just as I would expect.
People forget about me, people forget that there are mothers all around them. People forget that motherhood begins the moment of conception and does not end when the baby dies. It is not that I wanted flowers, I just wanted to be acknowledged, too. I just wanted to be a part of being honored for the grief and sacrifices I have had to endure since losing Elijah. If anything, I would sacrifice Mother's Day and call it Elijah's Day, because he was the one who made me a mom.
I don't care for flowers, just say my baby's name. Tell my baby how lucky he is that he has a mother who has given and done more than she could ever bear.
All I want is for someone hold space for my baby on Mother's Day. It does not have to be longer than 5 seconds, just remember that I had have a baby who died and that his death does not diminish my duty as his mother.
"A mother is not defined by the number of children you can see, but by the love she holds in her heart." - Franchesca Cox
With love,
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