A woman named Elsa

Back in the early days, before I had kids of my own, I worked as a CNA in a nursing home.

Lately I've been thinking about one lady in particular. Elsa, we called her. She looked like she had been a beauty at one point. Her hair still long and wavy, white as snow. Elsa was dependant on her aides. Immobile, limbs frozen, hands clenched tight. She was also in the throws of dementia.

Elsa couldn't speak, but you couldn't mistake the absolute panic in her eyes. Terror, as if she could speak she would tell of all her grief. She would take to fits of rage, gutteral sounds, crying. This went on for weeks. No one could calm Elsa. Not her aides, nurses, or even the Haldol the doctors prescribed.

Elsa didn't have any family that visited her. A lonely, decidely crazy old lady living out her latter years in a place that was unfamiliar and scary. We tried to calm her, tried to engage her. Nothing doing. She became combatant and though she was old, she was STRONG.

One night, while I was charting, I looked through her history and there it was. Elsa had had a stillborn baby. The nurses and I decided, and we were really at our wits end here, to buy Elsa a baby doll.

When presented with the baby, Elsa lit up. Her limbs relaxed. Her eyes softened, and she rocked and crooned to this tiny plastic dolly. From then on, as long as Elsa had her baby, she was a different woman.

Such a nice happy ending, but the real point is, this woman in her dementia was reliving her grief for her dead child. In having this doll, she could mother the child she had mourned for so long.

I often wonder what became of her. I know she couldn't have lived much longer. I hope she was able to reconcile her grief. I hope she was happy for a moment. I hope that as a young and ignorant aide, I was able to help Elsa.

And now I feel her pain. I feel her grief. The difference is I'm able to speak out about it. To grieve out loud. I grieve for Leta, yes. I also grieve for all those women, past and present that aren't able to talk about it, aren't encouraged and supported to feel the grief. Because the feeling of it, as awful as it is, the feeling is paramount to our recovery. There will be beauty from this pain. There will be a rainbow. Elsa showed me that.

Day 8 a photo that makes me sad or angry

I took ONE picture of me pregnant with Leta. ONE. And a super crappy one at that. This was taken a few days before she died. It makes me both sad and angry, seeing this, knowing she was still alive, and knowing, now how that story ended.

it's dark in this place called dead baby land

I've sat here trying to articulate what I need to say, but somehow cannot. This past week I have had a really tough time. And that is the understatement of the century. I do not yet know what my triggers are, but I know that something has set me off, and I am in the midst of a mental breakdown (so it seems to me) The nightmares are back. The waking in the middle of the night hearing a baby cry. The flashbacks. The guilt, the blame, the anger. It's all back. I'm sad. But that doesn't begin to describe it does it? I'm broken, and destroyed and, and. And I don't think there are actually words to describe it, are there?
Why does it feel as if I take two steps forward, then fall back into this pit of despair?
There are some that don't understand my pain. I've heard the term "she wasn't even human yet" tossed around. I swear to you this was said to us. And it broke us. It broke my Husband, it broke me. It turned us bitter and cold. There were those that refused to come to our child's funeral. Saying that we were ridiculous to hold a funeral for "products of conception" But they don't know. Didn't ask. Didn't realize. I LABORED for 15 hours. My body writhing in pain. My soul breaking in pieces. I labored, my water broke, I pushed my child out of my womb. Into silence. Instead of buying bottles and diapers, we bought an urn. Instead of sleepless nights due to a newborn, we had sleepless nights due to grief. Instead of a baby shower we had a damned funeral.
So I'm bitter, WE are bitter. I am angry. WE are angry. My husband, me, our family we are broken. But we are together. And together, with Jim, With Jakob, Stella and Claire, we will find a way to be okay. Sadness will always tinge our family. But it won't ruin us. No it will not.

My body is a wonderland(fill)

So. We are "officially" Trying to conceive. I hate this so much. I've been down this road called infertility too many times, each leaving me more and more angry at my body. Jakob was easy. Jakob was a very pleasant surprise. We started TTC again right after Jakes first birthday. Back then I was excited, and optimistic. This is before each month became something to dread. Each cycle that ended in failure a little stab in my heart. We finally saw a fertility specialist about a year after we first started. Right away they put me on clomid, watched my hormone levels and were very aggressive with treatment. Two cycles in we were pregnant with our twins, Stella Moon and Claire Delune. Around their first birthday we started trying again, this time agreeing to "see what happens" and not use fertility treatment. We were both at the stage of "if it happens it happens" Though secretly I was really wanting that fourth baby. 6 years of trying but not trying. And then Leta! I was thrilled! Each bout of morning sickness a small victory. Each craving a triumph. I watched as my belly grew, gloriously big. Oh how I loved that belly! I was so proud of it! We were so excited. Well, we all know how that story ended, and that's not really what this post is about. It's not about death. Or broken bones. It's about life. A new life? A new hope, new beginning.
People judge us wanting to try again. They think we are crazy. I know the "what if's" I know the risks. And I am willing to try this again. . Maybe it's selfishness, maybe it's insanity. I don't know, but I feel like I have to do this, am supposed to.
I am keeping my fingers crossed. I am doubtfully optimistic at this point.

Dear Leta

Dear Leta, 7 months have gone by since we said good bye to you. Today Mommy took a walk down to the river. I seem very drawn to the river lately. I sat on the bank and stared into the water thinking about you. I don't really know how to feel right now. I know that the penetrating sadness of the last few months is lifting a bit. But I look around at the world and think of all the things I wanted to show you. I picked out a smooth tiny river rock to put in your memory box. I imagine that rock has had a very rough journey, much like you and I. It's been worn down by the current until it was smooth and round, no longer carrying it's rough edges. Maybe that's how I feel. Not numb exactly, just smoothed out. Worn down by the current of this last year.
The leaves are starting to turn. They hung yellow over the water. I picked one for your memory box. The leaves are turning, the seasons are changing. Soon it will be winter. Icy like the day you came into this world. I keep hoping that each month will bring change within me. I am searching for peace after my world was broken and ripped apart.
Seven months seems to have gone past slowly, living each day on this planet without you. Seven months Leta.
Last night, Mommy was missing you so much. I read "Good Night Moon" to your brothers and sisters, and you. The story made me think of you. I know your little spirit is all around us. In the stars, the breeze, the air. I love you so much My tiny little daughter. Good night stars, good night air, good night noises, everywhere.
I love you Leta Blue
Love Mommy