By Sanda Rathamone

I held onto that day, even with the knowing that due dates are merely an estimation. However, out of five siblings, I was the only child who was born on the exact day. 

Today, I hold onto October 30th much more tightly because Elijah never made it close to that day. 

Instead of a due date, October 30th became a day of envisioning how old Elijah would have been. October 30th marks a day that never came to fruition. Today, I am heavy with sorrow, knowing that Elijah would have just turned two years old. 

It is difficult to imagine myself with a little boy tugging at my hands, ushering me to follow him and play. I could only feel the tugging in my heart and the sting in my eyes. The only thing I could imagine is my broken and bleeding heart because I miss him so much. 

Some will say, "How could you miss someone you never knew?" And I will say, "I just do. As his mother, I just do." 

Grieving the loss of a child is such a unique experience, more so when that child has died before taking their first breath. The way I miss Elijah is unique, yet, in every way - valid. I miss him very much the same as a mother misses her child when he leaves home. In another way, I miss the bond of mother and child through the womb; I miss the life I had when I was pregnant, which was the only time we had together when he was alive.

I miss the times being happily pregnant and excited to pick out names and clothes. I miss day dreaming about what life was going to be like as a family of three. I miss being blissfully pregnant and ignorant to loss. 

(Related Read: Day 1: My Favorite Clothing Item That We Bought For You)

I remember my husband saying that he hoped our baby wouldn't be born on Halloween. He just didn't like that idea. For me, it didn't matter much of whether he was born on his due date or on Halloween. It mattered that instead of being born at the end of October, that he would stay a little bit longer and was born in November, like his parents. 

It would have been "cool" if we started off as a November family. 

Elijah's birthday turns out to be in the month of June, four months before he was due. And on the very same day that he was born, he died. At times, I find it confusing in calling June 16th his "birthday" because a birthday is a day that we are born, not a day we die.

The term "angelversary" doesn't do it for me either (some actually use this term). For me, it just doesn't sound right and doesn't state that Elijah was actually born. I think it is because I had a natural birth that the term 'birthday' makes "physical" sense, but for him to die after birth makes that day complicated. Additionally, Elijah's due date is like having a "second birthday," which makes describing his birth and death and due date situation all convoluted.

Elijah's Unworn Clothes

I felt like Elijah was an "in-between" and found it difficult to place him in this world.

We also never received a birth or death certificate from the hospital (the mortuary wanted to charge us for a death certificate, we refused to pay for it), so I handmade a birth certificate because I felt that the nonrecognition of his birth was unfair.

There was this one day that I found out that my sister's due date was on June 16th (Elijah's birthday). Instead, she was born four weeks early on May 27th (the same day, but not same year as one of our older cousins). It's also interesting how we have another cousin who has a birthday on June 16th. My cousin and sister would have been born on the same exact day and year (they are the same age). 

The Universe is a mystery.

Elijah's birth and death is a mystery that I don't think I could ever solve or fully understand. Yet, I no longer ask God why Elijah died. I just ask God for a second chance...

Just like Elijah's birthday, I don't know whether to celebrate or grieve on his due date. I can't find it in my heart to celebrate anyway, I just know that October 30th means the world to me. To some, October 30th is just an ordinary day or a very special day. 

For me, October 30th is the day that my son should have been born. Today, Elijah would have turned two years old and it absolutely sucks that many do not know that I should have a two-year-old right beside me. 

The only thing I could do is to honor him and show the world how painful this empty space in our life truly is. 

October 30th was Elijah’s Due Date. Two years ago today, our baby boy should have been born. Instead, he was born prematurely and died four months before he was due. To honor the second anniversary of his due date, we decided to take a photo of his unworn clothes. It has been over two years that his things are sitting in a box in our closet. I don’t think there would ever be a day that I could give these away. Knowing that we have gotten these on the very day we found out that we would be expecting a boy makes letting go difficult. Yet, the empty spaces within the seams and fabric, screams for a baby to fill them. The emptiness is deafening. I know that I am not alone, that there are many others with unused and unworn baby clothes for the same reason." 

This photo is not the typical happy photo, this photo is about the other side of parenthood - the side that is rarely seen, but so often felt, experienced, and endured. Something as simple as laundry... I have longed to know what it would have looked like to add these to the family load. More than anything, I have dreamed and wanted Elijah to be a part of our family."

Happy 'Due Date,' Elijah. I love you.

With love,

Must Read:
* Read the full story about Elijah:
Elijah's Story: From Gender Reveal To A Spontaneous Delivery

Photo: maxpixel

By Sanda Rathamone



“I was waiting for the longest time, she said. I thought you forgot. It is hard to forget, I said, when there is such an empty space when you are gone.” ― Brian Andreas, Story People: Selected Stories & Drawings of Brian Andreas.

I hear someone leaving a stall and walking towards a sink (Girl 1). The faucet runs, then shuts off. I hear another person leaving another stall (Girl 2). 

Girl 2: “Oh, hey!” 

Girl 1: “Hey! Aren’t you in Group (forgot the number), right? 

Girl 2: “Yeah!” 

The girls talk about the demo from yesterday’s class. I could hear Girl 1 brushing her teeth. Me? I am trying to stay silent as a mouse. I hoped that they would leave before I left my stall... 

Girl 1: “I wish I could get massaged!” 

Girl 2: “What do you mean? You can!” 

Girl 1: “It’s because I’m PREGNANT (she puts an emphasis on that word), they won’t let me be a demo.” 

My heart sinks. 

Girl 2: “Ohhhhh. So how far along are you?” 

Girl 1: With excitement in her voice, “Six months.” 

My back stiffens. I am not mindlessly scrolling through Facebook anymore. I could picture Girl 1 nodding, smiling, and rubbing her belly. 

Girl 2: “Aww. So are you going to have girl or boy?” 

Girl 1: “A BOY! I wanted a boy first, so this is nice. I think girls are too much. For me, it’s just better to have a boy first. Do you have any kids?” 

This conversation is sounding familiar... my heart sinks even lower. I want so bad to join in and say, “I have one!” But I don’t say anything. 

Girl 2: “No, but my sister has kids. One of them is 4 and the other is 1. They’re like at that age when they’re like... bad. But they’re so cute!” 

They both giggle and carry on with their conversation. I pull on the toilet paper loudly and their conversation quiets down. I brace myself. I need to leave this bathroom before I start crying. When I open my stall, wash and dry my hands, it is as if I am alone. Awkwardly alone. 

They probably resumed their conversation after I quickly sped-walked out the door. And I continued walking until I was across the street from school. 

I sat at the park and just wanted to cry. 

The first time I saw Girl 1 was yesterday, right before starting work. I saw her sitting on a chair in the student lounge, getting a shoulder massage from another student, while she was looking down and rubbing her bulging belly. It wasn’t gigantic, but it was noticeably big enough to make me panic. I forgot all about Girl 1 and didn’t expect to see her again the next day.

And now, I just realized that she is the second pregnant girl (that I know of) that I will run into at school, which makes school unbearable.

My school is such a small world that you are bound to notice or recognize a few faces, even if you don’t personally know them. Yet, it is a big world for such a small building with so many groups of students with a plethora of personalities. It’s easy to spot those who are “different,” especially if they are pregnant with a belly. Or, maybe, it’s just me and I have these dumb superpowers that could spot a pregnant woman a mile away. 

One of the symptoms of infertility is a heightened sense of awareness of pregnant women and unborn babies. My broken womb is a magnet to pregnant women. And I hate it. It feels like the world is further shoving me below the depths of grief and discouraging me; making life with grief harder than it needs to be.

To hear that she is six months pregnant reminds me of how close I was to making it there. And then, to see her belly, I realized how small I was compared to her. I wished I got to see my belly in that size. I wish I knew what it was like to be pregnant with Elijah for another month. Just one more month, I would have felt him kick. I would have felt him move. I would have seen him tap and sway through my skin. Just one more month and I wouldn't have been able to use a rubber-band to keep my jeans on anymore.

I sat at the park and didn’t cry. All I knew was that I wanted to cry and didn’t want to be anywhere near school or work. I just wanted to go. I asked for a sign, what do I do? 

I went through my phone one more time. I opened Pinterest (my latest distraction) and then heard a crow. Right across from me, high above on tree was a crow and it sounded a couple of calls. It was my sign. I looked back down onto the screen and there was this quote that seemed to be sitting there, waiting just for me. I didn’t remember clicking on it and probably did so - unknowingly - when I was in the bathroom. 

The quote said: 

“It is not selfish to do what is best for you.” 

I smiled and my heart was at ease. 

And that’s what I did. I did what was best for me. I took off, I left. Of course, not without notifying school and work that I would be gone for the day. I had had enough. Enough of carrying this dead weight of unfinished dreams. 

Speaking of dreams, I had a dream a couple of days ago. 

I dreamt that I had forgotten how Elijah had looked like after birth. I wanted to take another picture of him. 

Inside of this big burlap sack was Elijah. On the outside, it looked and felt like a sack of potatoes; it had bulges and was heavy, like a 15 pound turkey. I held it up high as much as I could, but it was too heavy to carry alone with one hand. 

My husband held the end of the sack and ever so slowly, I was pulling out a very large baby that was about the size of a 15 pound turkey. I don’t know how I knew, but this baby was Elijah. At the same time, it didn’t make sense because the real Elijah was born less than a pound, he was only 9.9 ounces. 

As I pulled Elijah out of the sack, I could see what was happening on the inside at the same time. It was like I was in two places at once or if I had two screens of two different perspectives of the same scene, right in front of me. I could see myself pulling out his head with both of my hands. His head was quite large and sticky with birth and blood, while at the same time, I could see his body moving upwards and outwards from the sack. 

His legs looped in this bent position at the bottom of the sack, as if his body was folded in half. Instead of curled in a fetal position, his body was curled the opposite way. His knees were not solid bone, but rather cartilage-like and flexible. I could see more birth and blood all over his body. 

I never fully pulled him out of the sac; he was too heavy. But even with his head out, I had already seen his whole body. The thing that captured my attention the most was how plump he was. I could see “baby fat” in his arms and legs. The color of his skin was a perfect yellow tone. Without having to touch his skin, I could feel its softness and newness. 

It was as if he was alive and nothing about him had any signs of death. Aside from the way he was positioned in the sac, he was perfect. He was beautiful. 

I don't remember if he opened his eyes or actually opened his mouth, but a voice came from his body. He was talking to my husband and it was as if I was not privy to the conversation. I could hear a muffled speech and make out some words, like 'alive' and 'not dead.' Elijah was telling his daddy about how he was alive. 

I remember my husband telling me how fearful he was to watch the birth. Elijah's birth was not a typical birth with a happy ending. He vaguely remembers seeing Elijah's chest rising, taking a breath.

I don't know if Elijah was alive or dead right at birth, but do know that his heart was still beating even days after the rupture and during those late hours of labor. Those gloomy days and nights in the hospital were lightened every time a nurse came by to check on his heartbeat. It is now impossible to remember the sound of his heart.

I wish I had the courage to tell Girl 1 that I thought the same thing about having a boy and that it doesn't really matter. It doesn't matter whether you have a girl or boy first. Having girls are not "too much" and having boys are not "easier." What really matters is that whichever you are given, your child is a blessing. If your baby is healthy and happy, you're beyond blessed.

And if you're lucky, you get to take them home. 

Earlier this week, one of the clients at school was pregnant. I was happy that I was able to stay at the front desk and not worry about doing body work that day. I was more happy that I wouldn't have had to take a pregnant client.

I never asked her how far along she was, but if I had to guess, she was somewhere around 6-7 months. She was a guest of another client and at the end of their session, said that she enjoyed her massage. Her friend later told us that she really needed it and that the baby liked it. The massage made the baby kick (which was a good thing).

My heart was full of pain and envy, watching her rub on her stomach. There was really no way I could avoid pregnant clients even when I wasn't working with them...

Later, the subject about pregnancy came up between my co-workers and I. One of them said that if she and her fiance were expecting and started a family (while she is in school), it would be hard. But, they would both be over-the-moon happy. I felt the same way; it would be a challenge, but a challenge I am willing to take.

My other co-worker then said that there is no such thing as "being ready." You could never be fully ready for the unexpected twists and turns of motherhood. More so after death.

With love,



Must Read:
* Read the full story about Elijah:
Elijah's Story: From Gender Reveal To A Spontaneous Delivery

Photo: maxpixel

By Sanda Rathamone



"You wake up every morning to fight the same demons that left you so tired the night before, and that my love is bravery." - Unknown.

(Related Read: Feeling Through The Dark)

(Related Read: Cousins)

• Rebirth and Growing Pains
• Mother In Another Dimension
• Let's Talk About It: Sex After Stillbirth
• Bookstore Rambles: Where The Heck Is The Infertility Section? Baby Names But No Baby.

By Sanda Rathamone

"All stars are born in the dark and all darkness dies in the light."

The darkness still hovers around and above me, cloaking the moon, blinding me. I am still feeling my way around...

I had a dream this morning that I was trying to take a pregnancy test. My mom gave me $20 and I didn't want her to know that it would spent on a test. She thought it was foolish. 

I was at a counter, asking a young woman for a test. Instead of one plain white stick, the test came as a pair; one stick was pink, the other blue. At first, it didn't make sense. Somehow, I figured that I was to pee on both sticks. Which ever one that came out positive indicated that I was pregnant and the color indicated the sex of the baby. Of course, pink for girl and blue for boy. How convenient, right?

If both turned out negative, then I was not pregnant. 

I was going to pee on the pink one first (or dip it in the cup first?), but never did. I awoke from the dream and was left with nothing and again, alone in the darkness. 

The dream itself was dark and dim, I could barely see much, and it was as if everything was "hush, hush."

I know that this dream is coming from my constant thoughts about taking another test. If I did, it would be the third stick, since the last two negatives after my missed period. I know that it would ease my mind if I would just take another test and get this over with. I am just being stupid and making this a long, drawn-out war with myself for no good reason, but fear.

But it's hard. 

A few weeks ago, my husband told me to wait another month. Today happens to be a full month, since my period was due!

I have had thoughts about going to the clinic to get a free test. It would be quick and easy and I wouldn't have to buy another stupid pee stick, just to throw it away with tears in my eyes. But I can't. I can't bear the heartache and embarrassment of another negative test that for a whole month I thought would be positive. It’s very painful mostly because someone else would see it first (not me) and have to tell me it was negative. This would be quick and easy, but not painless...

My body tells me that I am not pregnant. At least, that is what I think it is telling me. I feel absolutely nothing, not even the slightest cramp. 

I am still wiping and checking for blood, hoping that if I am not pregnant, then could I at least have a period to confirm this?! At the same time, this reminds me of how I found out I was pregnant with Elijah. I missed a period for two months and was pregnant during the second month.

I was at my externship earlier this week and talking with some ladies at the front desk. My client (who was also a massage therapist) was talking about how she was bloated and her stomach was "pooching" out. Her pooching stomach reminded her of when she was pregnant. Somehow, one of the other ladies turned the conversation from bloat to pregnancy and how period and pregnancy symptoms mirror so closely to each other.

I could feel this thin shield like a veil protecting me, so that I wouldn't cry in front of them. Conversations about pregnancy or childbirth always makes me feel uneasy, especially after losing Elijah.

With her pooching stomach, the MT (massage therapist) agrees with her co-worker and says, "Oh, yeah! That's what happened when I found out I was pregnant with my son!" She said that she didn't find out she was pregnant until she was two months along because there were no big signs or symptoms.


She only had some cramping that felt like a period was coming, but it never came.

When she told her mom about the cramping, her mom suggested that she was pregnant. In disbelief, she bought a test just to prove her wrong. It turns out that her mom was right. She took seven tests and all of them came back positive.

I tried so hard to pretend like this conversation did not hurt me and wanted for them to know how much I wanted to say that I was in a similar experience.

This is probably stupid of me, but I hope that in some way that this would happen to me.

Maybe I am 9 weeks (two months) pregnant and do not know it yet. Maybe I do have a little grape wriggling inside of me, but have yet to feel it. Just maybe, it takes a couple of negatives for a positive to show up. (Really, I would be 9 weeks pregnant now if I had a positive pregnancy test.)

Just the other day at school/work, one of the clients that came in was pregnant. I saw on her info sheet that she was very early in the pregnancy, like how I would be if I was pregnant, too. She was going to be my client, which put me into panic mode. I don't think I'm ready for pregnant clients, at least until I have a healthy pregnancy and a successful birth. Gladly, I was able to pass her onto another MT.

That day made me feel horrible and the next day at work unbearable. I just wanted to cry. The past few weeks have been tough, busy, and hearing anything pregnancy/baby related just made me want to give up.

This week, I have been seeing things on the news that have bothered me so much. This man abandons an infant son inside of a Walmart restroom. This other man rapes a newborn. This woman abandoned a very young child at someone's doorstep (it was caught on the security camera).

This... this, I don't understand. These people don't deserve to have babies or to be near any child. It pisses me off and I don't know whether to be humble or angry, especially with God.

Also, the pregnant girl at school keeps running into me, or shall I say, I keep running into her. Trying to avoid her as much as possible seems to increase her presence, as if I was a magnet to her and her unborn child. It feels so cruel. I have wanted to tell her how much courage I have had to gather just to come to school every morning and then to see her, I have had to stumble around and gather more.

Yesterday was a day that I didn't know if I could go to work without being an emotional mess. I went back and forth about telling my manager that I wanted to go home (not really go home, but go somewhere alone) and needed time to bawl my eyes out or just leave without telling anyone (which is a very bad idea). But I had to work. I had to do this. I had to. I have to.

My first session went well, but the anxiety levels kicked in. I didn't know if I could do the next two sessions, moreover, if I could socialize and talk to my clients without crying. I prayed to God, asking Him to give me a break during my second session. Before I know it, my co-worker gave me a signal that the client was a "no show," which meant that I had no client for the second round.

It was then that I realized that God had heard and answered me. Pushing myself led to a well-deserved and much needed reward. God gave me the rest I needed before my last session and instead of crying with grief, my heart was filled with love and gratitude.

I forgot which day it was, but it was probably a few days ago that Elijah gave me another sign.

I was driving to school with my husband in the passenger seat. I don't know why I wasn't paying any attention to the car in front of us, but my husband pointed out the decal on the car. On the lower left side of the car's back window, there was a purple owl with the name 'Eli' on the belly. It reminded me of being pregnant with Elijah. 

Below that, was another owl in black, perching on a branch - like a dark bird in the night...

Then, earlier at school today, I was telling one of my classmates about how I got to see this monarch across the street from school during break time. I was so close that I got to take a picture of it. It was a happy moment that made my day. He told me that he does not see butterflies very often. Although, he does somehow get a lot of visits from birds. He named a few and one of them was a screech owl.

What are the odds of that?! An owl. 

It hadn't occurred to me until now that Elijah was speaking to me through the owl. 

Knowing that owls are symbols of wisdom, guidance, intuition, and secrets, I know that there is something that has yet to be revealed. Owls are animals of the night with powerful, silent wings, and eyes and ears that are keen and highly observant. A companion for those going through a dark night of the soul, owls help to gain clarity in the darkness.

Through the darkness, this unknown period in my cycle, the owl has been with me all along - helping me feel through the darkness.

I read that "to the Celts, the owl was also a reminder that death represents a new beginning, a new life ." (universeofsymbolism)

Even if I take that test this weekend and it comes out negative, again, my inner owl knows that new life is coming. A new beginning is on the horizon.

With love,
Must Read:
* Read the full story about Elijah:
Elijah's Story: From Gender Reveal To A Spontaneous Delivery

Photo: maxpixel

By Sanda Rathamone



"If I know what love is, it is because of you." - Herman Hesse

The way I felt about this baby - I was full of pure, unconditional, and maternal love - and I had a knowing that I was his mother. I felt bonded with him, as if we had always been mother and child. I felt like a mom. At the same time, I wasn’t fully sure that he was my baby because I was aware that I lost you and had no baby to feel like an actual mother. 

I dressed him in khaki shorts, a green or yellow shirt, and white crew socks. We were going fishing as a family. I even had a pamphlet laying right beside the baby that was about dressing up for fishing (which I thought was weird, why would I need to know how to dress my baby for fishing?). But there was something about the baby that I found strange and somewhat worrisome. 

Behind his lower left leg, I found a red rash. As I touched it, I could feel the dryness and bumpiness of his skin. For some reason, I knew he had eczema, but it was no ordinary rash. It was a part of his identity, something that gave me an assurance that it was him and he was my baby - kind of like a birthmark. 

Every time that I would talk to him in my regular voice, it was like he didn't know it was me (his mother). But when I would talk to him in a "sing-songy" voice, he would do this adorable baby laugh and kick his legs, as if he was dancing or expressing his lighthearted joy just from hearing my sing-songy voice. 

I did this repetition of regular voice and sing-songy voice a few times. I don't even remember exactly what I was saying or singing, but know that I was saying and singing anything just to see his reactions. It was strange, while at the same time addicting and fun. I just loved making him laugh with my voice. 

I never got to see myself pick him up or feel myself holding him in the dream. I wished I had. I wanted to actually feel him. 

More so, I wish I could see you in the same way as how I got to see him (which I know was you), but in real life. I want to see you with my two eyes as a 6-month-old, laughing and kicking your legs as I play with my sing-songy voice. I wish you were here right now in khaki shorts, a green or yellow shirt, and white crew socks. I wish we got to take you fishing.

I don't know why, but I had a thought about the rash. It would be crazy if we did have another baby with that same rash on that same leg at that very exact same spot. It would definitely be a birthmark of some kind...

This one night, I was catching up on my reading of I Will Carry You by Angie Smith.

I read about how one of Angie's daughters, Kate, wanted to give a page of a princess magazine to her baby sister, Audrey. Kate couldn't understand why Audrey was no longer a baby, like how she had seen on the day she died, and why Audrey was buried under the ground. She was disappointed that she couldn't hand the page over to Audrey.

This not only made Angie cry, but also myself. It was just so sad, while at the same time, touching and understandable. How I feel about not being able to share and do things with you is exactly how little Kate feels about her baby sister. It still doesn't make sense to me that I can't touch you, hold you, kiss you, or see you anymore. You should be here...

When I read Angie's letter to Audrey, it just reminded me of the letters I have written to you. There was something that she said that really spoke to me. To close her letter, Angie said, "Audrey, there is much more to say. I rest knowing that you already know it before it has left our lips." 

That is how I feel about you; that everything I think about saying, telling, or praying to you, you have already known and heard of it. You have known all of my thoughts and emotions surrounding you and my pain of living life without you. Because of this, I sometimes find it hard to write letters to you.

Just like how deeply connected I felt with the baby in my dream, my connection to you has and have always been powerful and goes beyond anything in this world. I wouldn't need to write a letter to you because you have already known every word and every feeling that I wanted you to know. Because you are a part of me and I am a part of you.

Part of you lives in me and part of me lives in heaven. Angels follow me everywhere because of you. I know because I can feel them and because I feel so loved when I am under the sun or when I am walking alone.

The end of October should have been the timing of your birth. It makes me sad that you would be two years old. Instead, it has been almost two-and-a-half years since you died. I think about you and having another baby every day. I just wish that that dream was a dream come true. I love you.

Love, Mommy."

* Read the full story about Elijah:

(Related Read: Blue Moon)

Unlike that last cycle, this cycle is unpredictable and uncertain - and I hate it. The one thing I hate besides feeling anxious and confused is being uncertain. I want to know! I need to know! I have already taken a couple of cheapo Walmart brand pregnancy tests (I have never used the Equate brand before) since the predicated start date. The first negative, I think, was 5 days past, which was on September 23rd. The second negative was on September 30th.

Still, there are no symptoms or signs of anything. Nothing. Zip. Zelch. What the fuck?

Not even the breast pain before starting my period, which I will often confuse as a sign of early pregnancy (I have never had tender breasts, until I was pregnant with Elijah). I have never wanted a sign of PMS more than I have now. I can deal with the blood, I just can't deal with "uncertainty of pregnancy."

Although, after Elijah died and having suffered and endured many cycles since the stillbirth, PMS symptoms have never been so confusing and resembled closely to early pregnancy than ever. I don't know if it is because hope or expectations intensifies every little thing. It makes me crazy to think that I am in-tuned with my body and know what is "off," when really, I don't know shit.

As I look back on my cycle records, the last time I skipped a cycle or just had a very long cycle, was back in March-April of this year. All of March, I did not bleed, until the very end of April. I could see the "note" icon on April 28th, a note that says "Neg PG test." Oh yeah, I absolutely hate taking a test right before getting my period. Those moments make me so angry with myself. I would feel like my body had tricked me, played a cruel game with all of the hope I had.

It's a disaster after feeling played.

Ever since then, I have had a cycle every month, up until September and now. I don't know what's going on and again, this uncertainty is causing turmoil and fear.

21 days late with no apparent signs or symptoms would obviously point to having a longer cycle than expected. I'm probably just not going to get a period for awhile this time. So, I decided to name this timing, New Moon.

Last cycle was a Blue Moon, this cycle is a dark and unseen New Moon. It even makes sense because today on October 9th, my calendar says that it is a new moon.

A new moon also describes this feeling of anxiety, uncertainty, and frustration. I am currently left in the dark to fend for myself. I can't see where I am going or what is around me. And I am afraid of what will or will not appear.

Every wipe is a check for blood. Am I bleeding yet?...

This suspense is stirring up too much nervous energy that over the course of these 21 days, I have waken up with a queasy, butterfly feeling in my belly because I don't know what I am going to wake up to. Some mornings, I feel crampy, thinking that my period is coming on, but then realize that it's just my morning poop screaming to come out. There are also odd times during the weeks that I feel motion sickness and want to vomit. I don't know if it is because I ate too much or because my food isn't digesting very well.

Toothpaste is also becoming rough some mornings, making me retch and gag - one of the problems I had when I was pregnant with Elijah. It was so bad that I switched to a kiddy toothpaste, a bubble gum flavor that I still have sitting expired in the drawers.

Other than that, I feel no other physical proof of anything. I WANT TO FEEL SOMETHING! ANYTHING!!

The past Sunday, I asked my husband if we should go to Walmart and grab a test (this time a First Response, my usual brand). You will never guess what he told me.

He said, "Just wait another month." 

A month? Are you kidding me? That's a horrible way to live out a whole other month wondering what's going on. Not to mention, I am already under a heavy load of anxiety. I need to know for certain that I am not pregnant because I don't want to hope to be pregnant.

I would rather get my period than suffer months of unknown confusion.

I know, me saying this is confusing because all I ever talk about (on my blog) is wanting another baby. I do want another baby, I just don't like being uncertain about being pregnant. Uncertainty of pregnancy is an emotional roller coaster that I am so sick and tired of being on. I hate wondering if I will ever have a living child.

I have thought about testing at the clinic, but fear hearing those same words from the nurse: "It's negative. Did you hope to be pregnant?... Oh... have you tried the app? Have you taken folic acid?" I like home pregnancy tests for the privacy, especially if I need to cry alone about a negative. I just hate that I have to buy sticks just to throw them away.

We didn't buy a pregnancy test the past weekend. A part me of is trying to accept that I am not going to get anything this cycle and that my period will come in any day now or maybe a whole other month from now. I don't know. The new moon is unpredictable...

Instead of getting a pregnancy test, we went to a "new" (to us) Half-Price Books location in Dublin; our favorite is the one in Fremont. The one in Berkeley has awful parking and a crowd. Like always, one of the sections I gravitate towards is infertility/pregnancy.

I picked up The Infertility Survival Handbook: The Truth About the Real Success Rate of Fertility Clinics, Keeping Your Marriage Intact, What Kind of Doctor You Need, and Not Going Broke by Elizabeth Swire-Falker. I sat on the floor and within reading a few pages, I felt a lump in my throat and wiped away a few tears.

First off, I am frustrated by how many books there are on IVF vs. natural pregnancy methods. Secondly, I put the book back because I felt foolish and frustrated. What is the use of reading a book when my husband isn't expecting that we get pregnant any sooner than probably another few years? What is the use of this book when I, not, WE are trying again? 

In some way, yes, I'd admit, I am angry with my husband for not wanting another baby as much as I do. I blame him for letting me struggle with infertility alone. I get more angry when he tries to talk about having a "hypothetical baby" and a family when he has never said: "Yes, honey, let's try again." My heart screams out to not talk about it (with each other) if WE are not serious about it.

I don't mean to make him sound like an asshole, but it really sucks to see all of these mamas expecting, better yet, had just given birth to their rainbow babies. It sucks to not be one of them. It sucks to wait forever for a baby, then having a baby die, then wait for another forever for another baby to come by... and hopefully, not die.

It further sucks when I run into the newly pregnant girl at school. I am so glad that I decided to take a break from school and was assigned a new group (away from her). I don’t know what I would do if I was in the same room with her... again it’s not about her, it’s me... 

I just wanted so bad to take the book and forcefully rip it to pieces and toss it across the entire bookstore and scream, "F YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" I have to mention how it felt so good to rip up the box that held the pregnancy tests. The best part was ripping up the word "Pregnancy," releasing anger and disappointment.

My husband came by and I was ready to leave that section in the store. But I was lingering. I saw the same book that I found at another used bookstore one day. I was contemplating on getting it, but never did. The book was The Impatient Woman's Guide to Getting Pregnant by Jean M. Twenge. A part of me wanted to send a hint to my husband and tried. I told him that I saw the book before, but that was it and walked away.

I decided that I am not buying anymore books for trying to conceive or on infertility. I have a few that I often find difficult to read because I feel like they're useless and pathetic (not because of the books, but because of our situation). 

I think it was a few days ago that I was gazing at Elijah's wall and realizing that the onesie we got for him when I was very early in the pregnancy has been sitting inside his shadow box for more than two years. I thought that a baby would be wearing it within at least a year after his death. I then remember that we have this huge box in the closet with an unused crib inside of it. It takes up so much needed space.

Some days, I think about selling it. But then it's awfully huge and how would we even ship it anywhere? That box must be about twenty or so pounds heavy. Other days, I think about reopening it and putting up the crib again. For what reason... I don't know. To remember what it was like to have it up? To cry about it? To imagine a baby in it? I don't freaking know.

Elijah never slept in it, Elijah never used it. Elijah never wore anything we got for him. His things have been sitting still, like how he was born.

When I look at the onesie, I realize how small it is... and then how gigantic it is compared to how tiny Elijah's body was. It makes me want to cry every time, so I often try not to look at it. I know, I put it there, but I want it there. I want to be able to see it, even when I don't want to and can't bear to look at it.

Last night, I asked Elijah to guide me through the darkness. He showed me the stars and told me to make a wish.


*October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. Read more about why we should talk about it, here.

With love,

Must Read:
* Read the full story about Elijah:
Elijah's Story: From Gender Reveal To A Spontaneous Delivery

Photo: pixabay

"The meaning of life is to find your gift. The purpose of life is to give it away." - Pablo Picasso

It was the beginning of June, the month that my husband and I would be "celebrating," more like honoring, Elijah's second birthday/anniversary of his death. Elijah's would-be second birthday is coming up on October 30th, which was the estimated due date. 

However, on my last scan at 20 weeks, the due date changed to November 1st - not that this now matters. 

I was deeply upset and hurt about failing to conceive, especially because I was coming up on two years since my first and only pregnancy had failed to thrive past five months. Although my husband and I did not agree on trying again, I had hoped for another pregnancy since the first cycle after stillbirth. It has been a very long, rough, lonely, and emotionally disappointing journey... 

I was so upset and emotionally drained that I couldn't focus on this new start in pushing for a whole new career. With much thought, I decided that I needed a break. 

A couple months after stillbirth, I started a new job mentoring the youth. Funny how I went on an interview for the job when I was pregnant with Elijah and then was offered the job weeks after he died. After mentoring for the whole school year, I decided to return to my schooling. Another (not so) funny fact: I graduated college when I was 18 weeks pregnant with Elijah. I went back to school believing that I really wanted to teach and care for young children. 

So, I declared a Child Development major, only to complete one semester because it just didn't feel right anymore. 

How could I go to school learning about babies and preschoolers when I was grieving for my baby? How would I succeed in this field without feeling more sad for myself and not being able to teach and care for my own? 

I felt so deluded with myself. I thought I was doing the "right thing" because I could somehow "give back" by being a preschool teacher. It turns out that I really had nothing left to give; my cup was empty. 

Right after that semester, I started a job working at the same school where I graduated. I felt like I was being put back to square one and didn't know what the heck I wanted to do or what was going on. I felt like a failure and kept being redirected here and there. 

Somehow, the idea of massage school came up again. 

The first time it came up was before starting the mentoring job (after Elijah died). I was lightly contemplating the idea of massage school then, but had no real motives to pursue enrollment, or any money. Besides, we really needed to make an income and right after Elijah died, my husband decided to quit his job and took time off from doing anything. That was one of the toughest times in our lives... 

Working at my former school forced me to think about what I wanted to do with my life. My then boss even encouraged me to find something worth doing, something that made me happy. He didn't want to see me working at the college bookstore more than spending time working on myself. When I told him about the school I was considering, he gave me the confirmation to go, saying that he knew from a friend that it was a good school. 

And so, that's how I ended up starting the massage program in late May, a day after I quit my job. The loans I took worked out and my first day couldn't have been more validating that I was where I was meant to be... 

Then, my grief from infertility pushed me into a breaking point. I needed a break. From work. From school. From life. I had realized how I never really had a break. There wasn't a day where I didn't have to worry about going to work or school or finding a job. There wasn't a day where I wasn't struggling with taking care of myself and my husband. I was growing tired of being constantly pushed to my limit. 

I took a long break, but it wasn't long enough. I was still struggling with grief - not that I could never not struggle with it. I had a small hope that over my break, I would conceive. I couldn't have been more disappointed. I started school again in late August with a whole new group of peers and a new mentor. My old group/former peers remembered me (I hoped they wouldn't) and was happy to witness my return.

I remember on the first day back/orientation day, one of my "seniors" presented a paper that said, "Find Your Why." It was a saying that our/my new mentor would always say. 

My "Why" for going to massage school was because I longed to find and do something healing, something therapeutic, and something I could share with others. After loss, I began seeking anything in my life that brought some sort of healing from suffering. I wanted become that same healing energy, as much as I needed it. Being a massage therapist was a perfect idea! 

When I was a youth mentor, I created a "game" about "superpowers" and presented this idea with my fellow mentors. 

The game was to think of a superpower that you would like, but the rules were to not use any superpowers that required anything you'd see on cartoons or T.V., like having laser beam eyes, super strength, invisibility, flying, going through/seeing through walls, etc. 

Basically, the rule was to think outside the box of "extraordinary" powers. The lesson here was to show them that whatever "superpower" they wanted, they didn't have to be extraordinary. There was power in being human, not just superhuman. There was power in the ordinary, it just took a different perspective. 

My "superpower" that I wanted was "healing hands." I explained how I wanted to be able to heal people with my hands. I wanted to touch people in a way that made them feel better or help with their illness. At that time, I DID NOT think about massage therapy or becoming a massage therapist. I just wanted to be a healer in some kind of way. Little did I know that I did have healing hands. I just had to learn how to use them. 

My "Why" was to become a healer, to have some form of healing ability. 

My "Why" was to thank Elijah for helping me find my "Why" after loss. 

My "Why" was to honor Elijah's death, that his death led me to somewhere beautiful. 

When I passed my Shiatsu Evaluation, my mentor wrote something on my paper. He wrote, "Just keep reminding yourself your 'why' and practicing finding your art." I realized that he was trying to help me remember why I decided to do this. 

When I told my mom what I was doing, she couldn't understand why I decided to give people massages. She thought I was too small and remarked at how I struggled to knead/massage dough and so I wouldn't be able to "knead" anything else, let alone a human body. She couldn’t have been more unsupportive and this frustration in being misunderstood was something I realized had nothing to do with me, but her. This frustration was also present on the day Elijah died, she just wasn’t open to grieving with me. Besides, body size and kneading dough has little to do with giving massages. 

I also struggled to explain my "Why" with my husband and at times, struggled to have him understand that giving and learning body work isn't easy and goes beyond massaging. 

I don't just learn how to give and receive massages, I learn about the body, I learn about health, I learn about how important it is to open our minds and bodies to different modalities and ways of healing. I learn about how our emotions and mental states could play a huge role in our physical pains and illnesses. I learn how human touch is just as necessary for survival.  

Sure, I get to have fun and play around with techniques and styles, but not without putting in my all and hard work. Yet, isn't that how pursuing your "dream job" should be like? Shouldn't it also be fun and enjoyable??

I am more than grateful to have found my "Why," I just wished everyone else understood it and found theirs without having to judge anyone else's. 

And then, I think about my "Why" in motherhood. 

Why I want to be pregnant. 

Why I want to have a baby.

Why I want to be a mother. 

Of course, the first why is because I lost my baby. I just want what I lost, there is no other simple answer than this. The other obvious why is because it is in my nature. My desire for pregnancy and motherhood is partially because of being a woman. But when I dig deeper, my why gets even more simple. 

Because my mind thinks like a mother.

Because my heart is made to be a mother. 

Because my body yearns to create and birth life. 

Because my soul knows how to be a mother.

Since Elijah died, I have never been so sure about becoming a mother. After his death, I have had to rethink and relearn my Why. I have had to watch and learn from others to deeply understand my Why. I have had to experience pain and loss to fully see my Why. I have had to purify my Why. I now know my Why. 

I found my Why. 

My Why was to refill my cup with love before I loved.

I may not know why Elijah died, but do know that his death has deeply challenged and changed my life, and showed me how to value every moment of sorrow to experience true joy. 


*October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. Read more about why we should talk about it, here.

With love,

Must Read:
* Read the full story about Elijah:
Elijah's Story: From Gender Reveal To A Spontaneous Delivery

Photo: maxpixel

Mom: “Did Sandy (my sister) show you my pumpkins?” 
Me: “No? You have pumpkins?” 
Mom: “Yeah, I grew them. Wait, let me show you.” 

Scrolling, scrolling in her photo album on her iPad. We are talking via FaceTime.

Mom: “See, my puummpkins.” 

I see a picture of a bunch of green medium-sized pumpkins. Then, I see these huge, plump orange pumpkins.

Me: “WOOOOW! That’s a lot of pumpkins! You eat them?” 
Mom: Laughing. “No! They are sooooooo cute! I don’t want to eat them because they are sooooooo cute!!!” 
Me: Confused. “Then what do you do with them?” 
Mom: “I sell them.” 

She walks around with her phone. All I could see on the screen is the ceiling, then her foot, and hear some ruffling and jumbling.

Mom: Patting a huge orange pumpkin sitting in the kitchen. “This one is now like 30 days old.” 

I think that’s what she said. I also think she’s going to keep the orange pumpkin for as long as she can.

Me: “Ohhhhhh.” 
Mom: “Yeah. This is the first time I plant pumpkin. They come out a lot like THIS.” 

Then, she shows me pictures of her gourds and cucumber vines. She likes to show me photos of her vegetables from her garden any chance she gets.

Every time she shows me her haul of vegetables, I could hear her pride and joy. I could feel her sense of accomplishment. I could see this big, dreamy smile on her face. 

Most of all, I could hear, feel, see, and sense her motherly love. The way she talks about her garden or an update on what’s growing... it’s a little awkward, but very much exciting. I also become excitedly jealous of her green thumb and wished to have my own vegetable garden.

When she showed me her pumpkins, the one that caught my eye was this fairly large orange one, sitting in her kitchen. But instead of the pumpkin itself, the stem was the one thing that triggered a memory. The stem wasn’t just perfectly cut to where a whole hand could grab hold of it. The stem wasn’t just any ordinary stem; it was symbolic.

It reminded me of the connection to the source of life.

The day I gave birth to Elijah, the first thing that I didn’t do was to ask for or hold my baby. The first thing I did was asking to go pee. Throughout labor, my body was drinking up so much saline water that I wasn’t sure that the fluid coming out of me during and after birth was urine or saline water.

While I sat on the toilet, I saw something strange in the trash bin. It was narrow, skinny, about 4-5 inches long. If I had to compare it to something, I'd say a twizzler, but instead of being red or black, it was translucent, somewhat milky in color, and looked as if the life was sucked right out of it. There was a bit of dark red coloring at the ends.

My first thought: What the heck is that thing? It looks gross. And why is it in the trash?

It took a moment to realize that what I was looking at was a portion of an umbilical cord.

I knew it was Elijah’s cord because the size of it made perfect sense. I felt angry that one of the nurses or doctors would throw it in the trash. Why would they place it in the bathroom trash bin right in plain sight? Is there not a different bin or bag for bodily parts and things? By the way, I still want to know where they took the placenta and what they did with it. 

For a moment, I thought about taking it out of the trash and wrapping it inside of a tissue and take it home. It was a part of Elijah that I didn’t want to lose; it was the lifeline between me and him, between mother and child. It was something we made - together.

My rational mind kicked in and made me feel sick with myself. I was sick in the mind, was I not? Besides, what was there to do with a piece of an umbilical cord? How would I keep this thing? Where would I keep it?

Then, my nurse came in to help me off the toilet. I didn't ask about it and never saw it again.

I have never been fascinated with umbilical cords and placentas, until I was pregnant with Elijah. I would search on google and see these beautiful photos of placentas with the cord still attached to both the placenta and the baby. Someone would create a heart shape out of the cord or spell out the word 'love.' I was also in love with the intricate details of how the veins in the placenta formed a symbolic image of the Tree of Life.

When a doctor asked if I wanted to see my placenta, I was excited. I have never seen such a beautiful thing that came out me, besides Elijah. 

When I was in my first trimester, probably the second month, I remember seeing a form/worksheet in my pregnancy folder from the clinic. Sometime later I was going to fill out this form; it was my "birth plan." On one of the questions, it asked if I wanted delayed cord clamping. My answer was yes, I was all for it. I knew about delayed cord clamping years before we finally got pregnant. I wanted my baby to get alllllll of the benefits from the placenta as much as possible, from start to finish.

I never got to create my birth plan... the birth planned itself, four months early.

Some say that birth plans are overrated, how can anyone really follow a birth plan? Unexpected things happen and some or lots of things don't go according to plan, which is really an expectation, not a plan. Some want a natural birth, but end up needing an emergency cesarean-section. Some say no epidural, never, not ever, then beg to be put out of their misery.

For me, the major tragic unexpected happened. I wished that the minor tragic unexpected happened, like planning a natural birth, but needing a c-section. I remember watching a YouTube video about this woman who wanted and planned for a natural birth for her twin girls, but was so upset and crying about how she would have to do a scheduled c-section instead (forgot why). I just wanted to throw my iPad and yell at her.

JUST BE GODDAMN HAPPY THAT YOU GET TO TAKE HOME YOUR BABIES!!!! YOUR TWO  FREAKING BABIES!!!!

Be happy that you get to make two freaking babies and take them home.

I don't know if having a birth plan would have made a difference, if I would have been more sad and disappointed or cherished what I had hoped would happen.

Ever since Elijah died, I find it more difficult to make plans, especially for the future. From my experience after loss, I have learned that no matter what kinds of plans I make, none of it actually turns out to be what I wanted or thought it would be. I am usually taking detours or plan Bs and Cs or having to cancel things all together. So why plan?

To quote Robert Burns, "The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry."

My husband always throws a fit about how I never make plans. I have always hated planning. I have tried to be a "planner" and use planners. After awhile, planners don't work for me. I thrive by the beat of my heart. I go wherever and do whatever based on the calling, the voice that knows true joy.

Life lately has been about going with the flow, even when all I want to do is hang on tightly to grief and cry because I don't know what's going or not going to happen. I have never been so uncertain about my life, while at the same time, much more certain about what I want in life.

The way I felt about Elijah on the day he was born is comparable to how my mom felt about her pumpkin. I felt proud. I was happy to have accomplished and grew something absolutely beautiful. And I was awe-struck with so much love.

So much motherly love.

At the same time, I felt and feel like such a failure. My little pumpkin never got to grow more than a mere 10 inches and 9.9 ounces. My little pumpkin of a belly never became one of those great, enormous, rounded, and perfect for a newborn belly.

But I'm still happy with my little pumpkin. I love him the way he was and the way he looked. Everything about him was and is perfect. I cry because he will always be this small. And he's gone like he never existed.

October is the month that Elijah should have and would have and could have been born. Instead, he was born in the month of June, one of those months that will always bring more pain. Pumpkin, I now know, is another trigger. Every pumpkin I see on a porch for Halloween or come across in stores is now a story of how small my pumpkin will always be.

Maybe some pumpkins are just meant to grow small, but that doesn't mean for its size that it is not as beautiful as the bigger ones. Yet, if Elijah was here, would I have dressed him as pumpkin for Halloween this year.

On October 30th, Elijah would be two years old...

Would I ever get to grow another pumpkin and this time, watch it grow?


*October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. Read more about why we should talk about it, here.

* Read the full story about Elijah:
Elijah's Story: From Gender Reveal To A Spontaneous Delivery

Photo: maxpixel