tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2829262600556926192024-03-13T12:09:12.373-04:00JuliaAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18281681518048604569noreply@blogger.comBlogger87125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282926260055692619.post-67028018142323280762017-01-01T22:17:00.000-05:002017-01-01T22:17:26.523-05:009 Years
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In the past 9 years I have lost a
daughter, a father, and a brother-all too young, all in horrible ways. New
Year’s, Valentine’s Day, and Columbus Day- all tainted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Holidays spent on a labor and delivery floor
holding my dead baby, watching my father being wheeled away for the last time,
seeing the outline of my brother’s body underneath a white sheet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ritual is
something that gets me through these horrible anniversaries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of these deaths are intertwined.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think of all of them daily, and it can be
so hard to focus on one person, one life lived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But tonight I focus on the one life that was never lived. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remind my girls that tomorrow is Julia’s
birthday. Ruby thought I was talking about their babysitter- and my heart broke
a little more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They don’t know who she
is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They never will, and neither will
we.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is a figment of our imagination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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She would have been 9.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She would have been in 3<sup>rd</sup>
grade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Such simple facts that break my
heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I am forever grateful for all that
I have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am truly happy in life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But tonight I allow myself to feel angry,
bitter, and so sad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I look at the clock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nine years ago at this time she was still
alive. I get panicked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was still
alive- why couldn’t it have turned out differently?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why couldn’t someone have done SOMETHING to
save her?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why did this happen to our
baby?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am still so angry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Angry at those who deal with the hazards of
pregnancy so casually, angry with anyone who has three children, angry with
people whose children will turn 9 this year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The anger fuels me tonight.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Tomorrow it will be okay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tomorrow I will wake up and she will be
dead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The awful night before her death
will be over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All that will be left is
the ritual of remembrance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Remembering
death is easy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the remembrance of
hope that is excruciating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s thinking
back to that person who walked into the hospital ready to have a baby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s remembering that broken woman who left 4
days later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
So, tonight I allow myself to be
irrational.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I allow myself to think
about the “what-ifs.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I allow myself to
feel the raw pain of grief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s an old
friend, and it will always have a place in my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Tomorrow will be easier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I treasure tonight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tonight- for just a brief moment- I get to
have her close once again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tomorrow it
will be gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18281681518048604569noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282926260055692619.post-75048182498711722562015-01-01T18:02:00.001-05:002015-01-01T18:03:54.209-05:00CakeIsabelle and I were talking about our plans for Julia's birthday and I mentioned that we needed to pick up a cake. Isabelle asked, "What was Julia's favorite kind of cake?" <br />
<br />
And my heart broke.<br />
<br />
Julia would have been in first grade. She would have had a favorite color, and movie, and hobby. She would be into princesses or not. She would probably know how to swim and ride a bike and tie her shoes. And yes, she would definitely have a strong opinion on her favorite kind of cake. <br />
<br />
Seven birthdays missed. Seven years of life going on without her. Seven years of remembering her and it never being enough. <br />
<br />
But also...<br />
<br />
Seven years of indescribable joy. An amazing life that we don't take for granted.<br />
<br />
Happy Birthday to my beautiful baby girl. <br />
<br />
You are missed. You are loved. You are not forgotten.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18281681518048604569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282926260055692619.post-49945531464548382182013-02-13T19:32:00.002-05:002013-02-13T19:32:59.472-05:00Valentine's Day
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<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Valentines Day was always a special
day in our house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My earliest memory is
of my mom giving me a life-size pillow in the shape of a doll.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I loved that odd-shaped pillow and kept it
well into my adult years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In college I
received a yearly package from my mom on Valentines Day, filled with those
addicting candy hearts, stickers, and other seasonal odds and ends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, my almost 4 year-old daughter eagerly
awaits her holiday packages from Nana- filled with sweet treats and the stuff of
childhood dreams that come from the dollar bins at Target.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>On February 14<sup>th</sup>, 2011, my dad died of Non-</span>Hodgkin’s
Lymphoma.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After stopping treatment, we
had thought his final days would be quick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They weren’t. He was still alive, and we were filled with horror and
guilt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did we make the right decision
when we put him in hospice?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Should we
have fought harder when he said that he was done fighting?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally, he passed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And as my mother and I drove home through the
deserted streets that night, she said, “I can’t believe he died on fucking
Valentine’s Day, my favorite holiday. ” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Two years later, I still find
myself trying to explain things to my little girl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is a child who knows more about death
than most kids her age- having grown up learning all about her older sister who
died shortly after birth, and being alive just long enough to have some memory
of her grandpa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We read books about
death; we read books about Valentine’s Day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We talked about going out for pastrami sandwiches on the 14<sup>th</sup>,
because that was grandpa’s favorite thing to eat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We talk about being sad-but not too sad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We talk about missing him- but not too much.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I have experienced the deaths of my
daughter and my dad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love talking
about my daughter- sharing her story, showing pictures of her, counseling
others who have gone through a loss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
can’t talk about my dad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t look at
pictures of him. I can’t watch videos. I can’t read over old emails.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t watch my wedding video.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My daughter’s death has become a part of
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My dad’s death is something my body
and mind refuse to accept.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Memories of
him bring about a physical pain and longing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
This past year I have taken up
running.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I run outside, and I run a
lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My dad would have loved this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I run, there is a moment when a great
song is on and the light is just right, and I feel he’s watching me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have to believe he is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have to believe he is with my daughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have to believe he is incredibly proud of
who and what I have become.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have to
believe he knows that I am happy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18281681518048604569noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282926260055692619.post-85950134455352660582012-01-01T22:37:00.004-05:002012-01-01T22:48:41.057-05:00Four YearsThis is Josh. In honor of my little girl's fourth birthday, I just wanted to share some memories I wrote down when thinking about her the other day.<br /><br /><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <p class="MsoNormal">I remember that I was scared going into the room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I wasn’t scared, I don't think, of her, but I do remember being terrified of looking into the bassinet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was like being in a horror movie, coming slowly around the corner, like a camera shot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I slowly saw her face from the top down, and she looked just so close to being alive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Like the right burst of breath into her lungs might just start her up again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I didn’t want to touch her, but Elizabeth asked me if I wanted to, and I knew I had to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>There was a lot during those first days that I “had” to do, it was the only way to get them done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>So she picked her up and then handed her to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I remember that she was still warm, or maybe I only remember her in relation to a few days later, when I held her on the day of her funeral.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But it quickly became easy to talk to her.</p> <br /><style><!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I remember the moment they put Ruby down in that little bassinet in the operating room, the same room Isabelle was delivered in, next to the one Julia was born in, that Ruby looked JUST like Julia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Same hair, same button nose, same tiny face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I wonder if my family would have children in the same order as my parents – dark complex, light complex, and so on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>That would make me Julia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>If this had happened to my mom, I would have died, and no life, no memories, no life with Cam, no Isabelle, no Ruby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>What other lives were stamped out when Julia died?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>How many lives were changed forever for the worse, never even knowing what they were missing? </p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18281681518048604569noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282926260055692619.post-90600882796164093992012-01-01T18:37:00.003-05:002012-01-01T19:18:37.123-05:004 YearsDear Julia,<br /><br /> You would have been 4 years old tomorrow. Four years of smiles, holidays, milestones, and birthdays that we never had. Four years in which we have welcomed 2 more wonderful little girls into our family. Four years in which we have had so much joy and so much sorrow.<br /><br />Your grandpa died this year. My heart now aches for two people. I barely got to know you, so my sorrow with you is with all the experiences I didn't get to have. The sorrow with grandpa dying is that he does not get to see his 2 beautiful granddaughters grow up. Two lives that ended too soon. Feeling sorry for both the ones left living and the ones gone. How many times have I cuddled with Ruby or Isabelle and felt your absence? Hoped that you were looking down on us, but also hoping that you would understand why we could not give you all the love and attention that you deserved? Hoping that you would understand why the focus of our attention has shifted.<br /><br />The death of my child and my father. You cannot help comparing them. The grief I felt over you- so raw and intense at first and then settling into a dull aching pain. The grief over your grandpa- a relief at first and now settling into the horrible reality of what I lost. The feeling of disbelief. The numerous times I have picked up my phone to dial him to chat before I remembered. My inability to erase his number and name from my phone.<br /><br />I wear my necklace with three charms on it- one for each of my girls. Isabelle likes to finger them and say, "J for Julia, R for Ruby, and I for me." She know all about her big sister, and loves to look at your pictures and play with your music box. I watch her being such a good big sister to Ruby and think about how you would have been with her. But then again, if you were here then she most likely would not be. The "what if" game is so hard to play...<br /><br />So on the eve of your birthday, I just want you to know that you are loved. You are missed.<br /><br />In my dreams I picture that you and grandpa have found each other, and that is what gets me through the tough days.<br /><br />Happy Birthday Baby Girl.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18281681518048604569noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282926260055692619.post-82574673968512315722010-01-02T19:23:00.004-05:002010-01-02T20:59:44.291-05:002 YearsYesterday, the first day of the new year, Isabelle and I went for a walk in the early evening. She quickly fell asleep and I was left with just my thoughts. The worst part of this day is the time leading up to her death. On January 1st, 2008, at 4:45, I was just having my first contractions and everything was still all right.<br /><br />The hardest part of this anniversary was not remembering her death. It was not thinking about the beautiful little girl she would be today- I think about that every day. It was remembering the time before everything went wrong. It was remembering the way I felt before she died.<br /><br />A close friend of ours videotaped Josh and I when I was 9 months pregnant with Julia. Up until yesterday, we had never watched that footage. Last night, we put Isabelle to bed and curled up on the couch to watch. There were bittersweet moments, but it turned out to be the perfect way to end the evening. The video was over an hour long, and Josh and I just watched in awe. <br /><br /> It made me happy to recognize the two people in that video- because right after Julia's death I didn't know whether I would ever be "me" again. I remember sitting on the couch a few days after she died, staring at the screen saver on our computer. It was a picture of Josh and I, smiling at our 30th birthday party. I made someone turn it off, because it hurt too much to look at myself being happy.<br /><br />It's now two years later and I feel like myself again. Part of this is due to time, and part of it is because of Isabelle. Josh looked at me tonight and said, "I have to admit that this is easier now that we have a baby." Maybe we should feel guilty for thinking like this, but we can't help the way we feel.<br /><br />Even though it is only the second anniversary of her death, I feel like Josh and I have already established what this day will be like. We spend it as a family, and while we appreciate the phone calls and emails, we do not answer the phone. It is a day for us, and somehow it doesn't seem right to let anyone else in...we can do that tomorrow.<br /><br />In my walk last night I stopped by the drugstore and bought a birthday card and a candle in the shape of the number two. Tonight Josh stopped at the bakery and bought a tiny cake that simply says, "Julia." We will light the candle and celebrate her birthday in our own way.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18281681518048604569noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282926260055692619.post-63712042611386130182009-10-17T21:29:00.003-04:002009-10-17T21:52:31.942-04:00ConnectionsThis week was the first one of the season to feel like winter. And with the cold came the dread of the upcoming months. Last year at this time we were completing our countdown of the first year without Julia. I had thought that it would be easier this time around but it isn't. Last year I was the women whose child had died. This year I am Isabelle's mommy, and while I love that role, it is not enough. <div><br /></div><div>It is hard for me to think that people don't look at me and think of Julia anymore. As I approach her second birthday, I am finding I have this need to do something that keeps me connected to her. I feel like she is slipping farther and farther away and there is no way to bring her back. </div><div><br /></div><div>I see two-year olds on the street and I am amazed at how they are less baby and more child. Julia would have been talking and walking now, full of her own little personality. I thought it would get easier as time went on, but other people's milestones can just crush me. I hear about friends sending their children to their first day of kindergarten and it makes me cry. I watch a TV show where the mother walks her daughter down the aisle, and I am reminded of the things I will be missing for years to come. </div><div><br /></div><div>Isabelle is growing out of the last of the clothes that were bought for Julia, and every time I put another one of her outfits into storage I get so sad. It's just one more example of how she is slipping away.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18281681518048604569noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282926260055692619.post-32455183668223125462009-08-25T21:06:00.003-04:002009-08-25T21:28:33.790-04:00Bathtubs and GigglesI was giving Isabelle a bath tonight and she started laughing. She had done this before, but this was the first time when it was just her and I. I started to smile and then Julia's face appeared in my mind. She would never giggle for me, and it broke my heart all over again.<div><br /></div><div>I put Isabelle to bed and Josh and I sat down to dinner with some wine. As I was clearing our plates I knocked over my glass of wine-which spilled all over the coffee table and dripped onto the scrapbook of Julia that was on the shelf under the table. It barely did any damage, but I got so upset. That's all I have of her and I couldn't manage to keep it clean and safe.</div><div><br /></div><div>My mom got me a baby book for Isabelle and I have spent the past few days beginning to put it together. With each page I complete I think about Julia's scrapbook and the months I spent putting it together. Julia's book was one I made myself, but Isabelle's has spaces for all the milestones of her life. It also has a section for me to tell all about my pregnancy, etc... As I was filling in these sections I was mindful of the fact that this book was for my daughter to read someday. Isabelle's pregnancy was so intertwined with Julia's death, but this is not something to share in this book. Isabelle deserves a baby book about her, and this is something I try to be mindful of. While she will grow up knowing all about her big sister, my loss is not her loss. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes I just get so overwhelmed with guilt. I feel guilty for all the love that Isabelle is getting, guilty for being so happy with my beautiful baby girl. I feel guilty for times like tonight. Instead of being so happy about hearing my baby laugh, I am mourning her sister and what should have been. There are so many bittersweet moments, and usually I can roll with the punches- but every once in a while I get knocked out.<br /><div><br /></div><div>The really sad moments are few and far between now, so when they do hit, they hit hard. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18281681518048604569noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282926260055692619.post-35293633581069043072009-07-06T22:19:00.002-04:002009-07-06T22:33:31.469-04:00DamagesJosh and I have been watching the first season of the show "Damages" on Netflix. Tonight we put Isabelle to bed and curled up on the couch to watch the season finale. All through the season they have been showing flashes of the main character (Glenn Close) visiting a grave site. In this final episode we find out, early in the episode, that she gave birth to a stillborn child. Josh and I kept watching and didn't say anything- but in my mind I knew that there was going to be more to the story.<div><br /></div><div>Towards the end of the episode they show a doctor speaking to Glen Close, and he tells her that she had a daughter who didn't live, and asks if there is a name she would like on the naming certificate. At this point they flash to Glen Close brushing the shrubbery off a gravestone to reveal the name Julia on a grave. </div><div><br /></div><div>I immediately lost my breath and yelled at Josh to turn it off. We both sat there in stunned silence. And now I am sitting here feeling worse than I have in a long time. I want so badly to be able to blame this on someone. I asked Josh who recommended the show to us, hoping I could put all my anger on them- but we heard about it on our own. </div><div><br /></div><div>Julia would have been 18 months old this week, and tonight I miss her more than ever. It took watching this show to remind me how much I miss my baby girl, and the guilt that comes with that is overwhelming. </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18281681518048604569noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282926260055692619.post-4094173404115000212009-05-15T18:02:00.004-04:002009-05-18T11:19:44.906-04:00NormalI walk around the city with Isabelle and just marvel at how amazing it is that she is here. I sit in a new mom group and can't believe that I am finally part of the club. Some days I am just overwhelmed by all that has changed with Isabelle's arrival. All that I have dreamed of for 2 years has finally come true.<div><br /></div><div>And just when I finally feel like things are normal, something happens to remind me that I am not like all the other moms. Yesterday I was walking down Madison Avenue and came upon a photography studio that specialized in children's portraits. I began looking at all the pictures of babies in the window and the first thought that came to me was all the beautiful pictures of dead babies I have seen over the past year. And then I thought of Julia's pictures and how much I cherish them. </div><div><br /></div><div>It is still hard for me to look at pictures of peoples' healthy newborns on facebook. I still feel a twinge every time I hear about another pregnancy or birth of a child. One of my best friends son is turning one next week and that makes me sad (and happy). Isabelle is here but Julia is not. And all the "normal" stuff we are doing with Isabelle reminds me of what we missed out on with Julia.</div><div><br /></div><div>We celebrated Isabelle's 6-week birthday yesterday. For Julia's 6-week we spent the day at the hospital going over her autopsy report. For every milestone we pass with Isabelle I can't help but compare it to Julia. It has been awhile since I have reflected on that time immediately after her death. I had thought that the birth of Isabelle would lessen the memory of the pain, but instead it does the opposite. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's like now I really know what we lost- and I feel so sad for us but especially for Julia. Josh and I are good parents and she will never get to see that. We are amazed at every single thing that Isabelle does, and I want that for Julia. I know that sounds crazy, but even after all this time I still can't believe she is not here.</div><div><br /></div><div>For Mother's Day Josh made me a card that said, "Happy Mother's Day from both of your beautiful girls." On the inside was a picture of Isabelle and one of Julia. It was the best gift he could have given me. </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18281681518048604569noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282926260055692619.post-47672463483583506952009-05-06T12:10:00.002-04:002009-05-06T12:22:28.855-04:00Names<div>My father has an amusing habit of going through everyone's name in our family (including the dog) before he gets to the right person. It goes something like, "TrishaMattNickMickeyImeanCamaron..."</div><div><br /></div>Several people have referred to Isabelle as Julia in the past few days. After they do so I watch them quickly correct themselves and begin apologizing. The truth is that Josh and I have been doing this since I became pregnant again. At first it felt wrong, but then we realized it was just one more example of how Julia will always be with us. And when people refer to Isabelle as Julia, it reminds me that others have not forgotten our first born.<div><br /></div><div>When Isabelle was born she looked nothing like Julia. It was a relief, as I didn't know how I would cope with having a child who looked exactly like her sister. But last night I was laying on the couch with Isabelle and all of the sudden I saw Julia there. As she has gained weight (she is still 5 ounces smaller than Julia) her face has filled out and there is a definite resemblance. I took down a picture of Julia and looked at them side by side. It was another bittersweet moment that reminds me of what should have been. Babies features change so much in the first few years, and we will never know how much Isabelle and her sister would have resembled one another. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18281681518048604569noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282926260055692619.post-32835406278999632392009-04-14T19:21:00.002-04:002009-04-14T19:53:44.129-04:00Isabelle's StoryThe night before Julia's funeral was the first time that I began writing about my experience. This blog has been a comfort for me ever since then, and it all began with writing about Julia's birth. <div><br /><div>Now, 15 months later to the day, I can write her sister's story. I have struggled with writing anything since Isabelle was born. This is Julia's blog, and I am hesitant to post anything that doesn't relate to her in some way. I have a necklace I wear around my neck with a "J" for Julia and the heart they gave us at the hospital when she was born. I received a beautiful "I" as a gift, but just couldn't bring myself to wear it on the necklace. That necklace is one of the few things that is all Julia's. </div><div><br /></div><div>But Isabelle's story is also Julia's story- for she wouldn't be here if not for her big sister. So here it is...</div><div><br /></div><div>My due date was April 19th (40 weeks) but it had been decided that I could have a c-section at around 37 weeks, as long as I was willing to have an amnio to check for lung maturity. The amnio was scheduled for 10 a.m. on Thursday, April 2nd, with the c-section on Friday, April 3rd at 10 a.m. My father drove us to the hospital on Thursday morning and we nervously went upstairs for the amnio. As my doctor had broken her arm, we knew she would not be performing the procedure. Another doctor did the amnio, and we were surprised and terrified to learn that there was meconium in the fluid. This is the same thing that Julia had, and while it did not cause her death, it definitely did not help. It was quickly decided that we would head up to labor and delivery and be admitted until the baby was born.</div><div><br /></div><div>We got set up in a room upstairs around noon, and our midwife showed up shortly after to be with us. The baby was on the monitors and was looking fine. Dr. Brustman stopped by and said she was doing everything she could to make sure the c-section happened ASAP, while at the same time assuring us that the meconium was not a cause for concern. Around 1:30 we were told that the c-section was going to happen later that afternoon. The next few hours were filled with tests and consent forms and questions galore. It made the time pass and before I knew it I was walking to the OR doors and kissing Josh goodbye. It wasn't until that moment that I really started to panic. I was only leaving Josh for 15 minutes (while they administered the spinal block), but it was really hard. I felt like I was abandoning him in the hall, the same hall where he was forced to wait while Julia was born. The same hallway where he was told that she died.</div><div><br /></div><div>I walked into the OR and just started shaking. I was so scared but knew I needed to keep it together. They administered the spinal and before I knew it I was numb and laying down on the table. Josh and Elizabeth (our midwife) were at my sides, with Elizabeth talking us through everything that was happening. The c-section was not painful, but I felt every tug and pull. There was a bright light shining in my eyes and Josh spent the entire time with his hand over my eyes to shield me from it. At a certain point Elizabeth told us that the baby was going to be born. I remember just closing my eyes and saying over and over again "Please be okay, Please be okay." They pulled her out and within seconds she made one short cry... and then another and another. Josh went over to see her while they were suctioning her, and I just closed my eyes and listened to the sweet sound of her scream.</div><div><br /></div><div>Within a matter of minutes they swaddled her up and brought her over to my face. As soon as they did this I was reminded of the same thing happening with Julia. I remember feeling Julia's cheek and how cold it was. And now here I was feeling her sister's warm cheek against mine. </div><div><br /></div><div>They finished the surgery and transfered my to the recovery room, where I was able to hold Isabelle and introduce her to her grandparents. The rest of the stay in the hospital was blissfully uneventful and we came home on Sunday, April 5th. The time since then has been surreal. After Julia died, I would wake up each day and say, "I was pregnant, I had a baby, and she died." Now I wake up each day and say, "I was pregnant, I had a baby, and I am holding her in my arms." It is still hard to believe that she is here, and she is mine.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18281681518048604569noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282926260055692619.post-60453154334679107192009-04-06T16:15:00.005-04:002009-04-07T22:08:20.939-04:00Introducing Isabelle!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nAgY9tSYnwE/SdpkKdh9kII/AAAAAAAAAGM/HR6bPQoPwPQ/s1600-h/DSC02465.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nAgY9tSYnwE/SdpkKdh9kII/AAAAAAAAAGM/HR6bPQoPwPQ/s320/DSC02465.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321676040580206722" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nAgY9tSYnwE/SdpjZBlYZgI/AAAAAAAAAGE/WwTL7mQNBVo/s1600-h/P4030044.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nAgY9tSYnwE/SdpjZBlYZgI/AAAAAAAAAGE/WwTL7mQNBVo/s320/P4030044.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321675191264765442" /></a><br /><div>Isabelle Michal Bar-Lev</div><div>Born on April 2nd, 2009</div><div>3:48 pm</div><div>7 pounds 4 inches</div><div><br /></div><div>We are thrilled!!!!</div><div><br /></div>Watched over by her big sister Julia.<div><br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18281681518048604569noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282926260055692619.post-66122593551066992452009-04-01T15:33:00.003-04:002009-04-01T15:50:18.499-04:0037 WeeksTomorrow morning I go in to have an amnio to check for lung maturity. If the results show that her lungs are mature, we have a c-section scheduled for Friday morning. I have been told that the chances of her lungs not being mature are low, and I have been told if they do find them immature then it is better to wait.<div><br /></div><div>As much as I don't want my daughter to be born with respiratory problems, the reality is that very very few babies die of this at 37 weeks. I will be 37 weeks and 4 days on Friday, and it is time for this little girl to come out. In my mind, she is better off out here (even if that means a few days in the NICU) than inside me after 38 weeks. </div><div><br /></div><div>I have nightmares of them sending me home tomorrow and telling me that I have to wait another week. Waiting another week means waiting until 38 weeks and 3 days, the same time that Julia was born. Getting her out now would be fine...people go into labor at 37 1/2 weeks all the time.</div><div><br /></div><div>Josh and I have both been getting encouraging emails from people, and they are appreciated. But it is hard to hear people tell us that they know everything is going to be okay- because they don't. Nothing is going to be okay for us until we are holding our healthy, living daughter in our arms. The possibility of that not happening again is always on our minds.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18281681518048604569noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282926260055692619.post-26715960173448730822009-03-08T19:33:00.000-04:002009-03-08T19:35:10.769-04:0034 Weeks<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nAgY9tSYnwE/SbRWEPoCwoI/AAAAAAAAAF8/Y5azRJAUF9I/s1600-h/DSC02415.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nAgY9tSYnwE/SbRWEPoCwoI/AAAAAAAAAF8/Y5azRJAUF9I/s400/DSC02415.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310964491490607746" /></a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18281681518048604569noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282926260055692619.post-52885443392373635692009-03-08T17:36:00.003-04:002009-03-08T17:52:14.998-04:00Labor & DeliveryWe went on a tour of the Labor & Delivery floor today. Our midwife walked us through everything that was going to happen when we came in for the c-section. We even got to put gowns on and see the operating room where Julia was born. It was intense, but comforting to get as much information as possible about what would happen.<br /><br />The visit left me grappling with my decision to have a c-section. The choice is up to me, and if I want to I can give birth vaginally and avoid surgery. My doctor and midwife are both supportive of my decision to have a planned c-section, but have also made it clear that I can change my mind at any point. I can't help but read the numerous studies- one showing that planned c-sections are safer, the next one saying that there is an increased chance of infant death with a planned section. Same thing with vbac's (vaginal birth after a cesaerean).<br /><br />But in the end, I just don't think I can go through with natural labor. I want to go into the hospital and have the whole thing taken out of my hands. I know that none of this was my fault, but if I go through labor then a lot of it is up to me. That didn't work last time and I would never forgive myself if something were to go wrong again because of something I did. With a c-section I have to sit still for the spinal block, and then the rest is up to the doctors. <br /><br />I lay awake at night thinking of what it's going to be like- lying down on that table and just waiting to see my baby. I keep reminding myself that it will be different than last time. I will be awake, Josh will be at my side, I know what to expect. But I am still terrified and just waiting for the day that I get to leave the hospital with my baby girl in my arms.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18281681518048604569noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282926260055692619.post-77509204671805903552009-02-03T18:20:00.002-05:002009-02-03T18:40:45.524-05:0029 Weeks and 1 Day ( but who's counting?)I am officially going crazy. <div><br /></div><div>We went to the doctor yesterday, and I turned into a pouty 6-year old when my doctor mentioned the possibility of doing the c-section at 38 weeks. I sternly reminded her that she told us 37 weeks, and after seeing the look on my face she frantically reassured us that this was still the case.</div><div><br /></div><div>I used to really care what authority figures (this being the doctor) thought of me. I liked to be nice and follow their advice...but not anymore. I feel like I go into each appointment with a mission- <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">remind doctor that she promised me 37 weeks.</span> I don't want to hear about VBACS and the "recommended" time frame. This baby will be coming out at 37 weeks. </div><div><br /></div><div>My big belly is impossible to ignore now, and the question of "Is this your first?" comes on a daily basis. Today I was at a meeting and within 5 minutes, 2 people at the same table asked the question and I gave two different answers. Imagine the surprise of the first lady (whom I had told it was my second) when I answered differently the second time. I just don't have the energy to explain.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18281681518048604569noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282926260055692619.post-59622329863649391102009-01-08T20:14:00.002-05:002009-01-08T20:26:51.864-05:0025 Weeks and 5 DaysI have now begun what I like to call the "If the baby was born today" game. For example, if she was born today (25 weeks and 5 days) she would have a 80%-90% chance of survival. Of course I don't wish for this, but it is so hard for me to recognize that she is safer inside me than out here.<div><br /></div><div>I keep going back to the non-stress test we had on Julia at 35 weeks. I had convinced myself she wasn't moving and they had me come in just to be safe. As soon as I got to the hospital she started moving again. Her heartbeat was fine, and they did a sonogram which looked great. At the time it was such a relief- but now I can't help but wish something had gone wrong and she had been delivered. If her amniotic fluid had been just a little low, or her heartbeat was not as strong as it should have been, they could have gotten her out before the cord accident.</div><div><br /></div><div>We go to the doctor every two weeks now, and every time I negotiate my delivery date. It has been agreed that I can deliver at 37 weeks, as long as I am willing to have an amnio. This was a relief-but I'd go earlier if they let me.</div><div><br /></div><div>It is such a horrible feeling to be convinced that your body is not the safest place for your growing baby to be- but this is how I feel everyday. Julia would have been fine if she had left my body sooner, and that is something that is always on my mind. </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18281681518048604569noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282926260055692619.post-78312547423378881642009-01-02T12:03:00.001-05:002009-01-02T12:04:43.916-05:00One YearHappy birthday baby girl. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18281681518048604569noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282926260055692619.post-67032309035042449862008-12-18T18:16:00.005-05:002008-12-18T18:42:41.002-05:00Blankets & Bellies<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nAgY9tSYnwE/SUrfaug4h3I/AAAAAAAAAE4/lL5UrxpJYmg/s1600-h/DSC02183.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nAgY9tSYnwE/SUrfaug4h3I/AAAAAAAAAE4/lL5UrxpJYmg/s400/DSC02183.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281279163300874098" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nAgY9tSYnwE/SUrfPtxZ6_I/AAAAAAAAAEw/IG5o8lgPnWM/s1600-h/DSC02181.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nAgY9tSYnwE/SUrfPtxZ6_I/AAAAAAAAAEw/IG5o8lgPnWM/s400/DSC02181.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281278974123174898" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nAgY9tSYnwE/SUra6cDr5HI/AAAAAAAAAEo/32ZzvRW18Ho/s1600-h/DSC02178.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nAgY9tSYnwE/SUra6cDr5HI/AAAAAAAAAEo/32ZzvRW18Ho/s400/DSC02178.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281274210544247922" /></a><br />When we got pregnant with our second child, Josh and I agreed that no baby stuff would be brought into our house until after the baby was born. And while we still feel strongly about this, I couldn't resist knitting a blanket for this little girl just like I did for Julia. <div><br /></div><div>This little one has started to kick, and Josh and I love to sit in bed and watch my belly move. I feel guilty about this sometimes, because when we are focused on my belly we are paying more attention to our second child than our first. And if this baby comes home with us, this will also be the case. I know that Julia will always be part of us, but the reality is that this new baby will be getting all the attention. I try to tell myself that this would be the case with any second child- the newborn baby needs that attention. But this is not just any second child.</div><div><br /></div><div>For the past 5 years, we have had a Hanukah party at our house each December. It has always been the highlight of the month, but this year we just couldn't get excited for it and decided to cancel it. Thinking about having a party brought us back to last year's party, when I was 9 months pregnant. We were so excited, and so were all of our guests. The night was spent talking about our baby and I loved it. Having a party now, with people talking about this pregnancy seems unfair to Julia. We have so few memories of her, but that night will always stand out as a special one. </div><div><br /></div><div>That being said, this pregnancy has had many good moments. I was so scared that I would not be able to enjoy this pregnancy, but I do. I love being pregnant, and I love feeling this little life wriggling around inside of me. I love Josh talking and singing to my belly, and the nice looks I get from strangers. And everyday I am thankful that I was able to get pregnant again so easily and that I am having a healthy pregnancy. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18281681518048604569noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282926260055692619.post-45331690178327381972008-12-05T19:49:00.003-05:002008-12-05T19:52:35.946-05:00Two DaughtersJosh and I both come from very boy heavy families. But we have broken the "one girl per family" streak, as the ultrasound today showed that this baby is a girl. Everything looks good, and we are relieved and hopeful tonight.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18281681518048604569noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282926260055692619.post-48700432709555150752008-11-30T20:16:00.003-05:002008-11-30T20:24:27.054-05:00Julia's Grave<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nAgY9tSYnwE/STM8TbWHvxI/AAAAAAAAAEg/WAYf9emRfLI/s1600-h/Grave2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nAgY9tSYnwE/STM8TbWHvxI/AAAAAAAAAEg/WAYf9emRfLI/s400/Grave2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274625893036703506" /></a><br /><div>Josh visited her grave for the first time this weekend when he was in Milwaukee. In front you can see two dolls he bought for Julia, as well as a candle for her first birthday. </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18281681518048604569noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282926260055692619.post-23815443021153382482008-11-27T10:57:00.006-05:002008-11-30T13:52:30.507-05:00Birthday Wishes When I was pregnant with Julia I signed up for every baby mailing you could want. My inbox was flooded with email from Pottery Barn Kids, Urban Baby, BabyCenter, and Babies R'Us (to name a few). When you sign up for these sites, all of them ask you for your due date. I never really thought about this until after Julia was born. <div><br /></div><div>The reason they want your due date is they can send you age appropriate advertisements for the REST OF YOUR LIFE. Every month we would (and still do) receive coupons from Pampers telling us "Your baby is now 9 months old!" It goes without saying, that the first few times you receive these, they are devastating. But, as with everything else, I have a thicker skin now. But on Thursday I received the worst one yet. It was a magazine called "First Wishes" and it was devoted entirely to different things you could buy to celebrate your baby's first birthday. At first I was able to shake my head and put it out of my mind. </div><div><br /></div><div>When Josh came home, I showed him the magazine and this time it wasn't so easy to forget about it. Julia would have been 1 year old in a month, and under normal circumstances this magazine would have been right up my alley. But instead of spending hours picking out the best birthday plates and cake, I have been spending hours figuring out how to commemorate her first birthday. And while this has brought me some comfort, it has also brought back many of those intense feelings that were felt in the first few months after her death. </div><div><br /></div><div>I knew that the holiday season was going to be hard. The emotions I am feeling bring me back to the beginning. And as hard as this is, it seems fitting that we will have come full circle in the course of a year. People might have a hard time understanding this, but the intense emotions I have started to feel as her one-year gets closer are almost a relief. I want to remember my daughter and I want to, at times, feel that raw pain that I felt after she was born. Many people act uncomfortable when I mention that we will be commemorating her one year with a gathering and a card we will send out. I think people would be more comfortable if we just "moved on." But what they don't realize is that what we are doing- what Josh and I <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">need</span> to do- is part of the grieving process. I will never "move on" from Julia's death. I will, G-d willing, have other children and live my life to its fullest, but there will always be someone missing from that life who I don't want to forget.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I went to see the movie "Rachel Getting Married" this weekend. In the movie there are references to a young son who died years ago in a tragic accident. At one light-hearted moment in the movie, the father is taking dishes out of a cabinet and comes across a plastic plate with a train on it that used to be their little boy's dish. The happy atmosphere turns to one of sadness and people quickly leave the room. While I saw the sadness there, it was not necessarily a bad thing that he found this dish. Each time I find something that reminds me of Julia my heart aches, but I wouldn't have it any other way. My connection to my daughter is completely defined by my memories of her and I treasure all of them, no matter how sad they may seem.</div><div><br /></div><div>. </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18281681518048604569noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282926260055692619.post-22759561753548590732008-11-16T11:10:00.001-05:002008-11-16T11:13:08.467-05:0018 Weeks<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nAgY9tSYnwE/SSBGOIKE-YI/AAAAAAAAAD4/fGivTNdErD0/s1600-h/DSC02174.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nAgY9tSYnwE/SSBGOIKE-YI/AAAAAAAAAD4/fGivTNdErD0/s400/DSC02174.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269288772545345922" /></a><br /><div>I never thought I would be posting pregnant pictures of myself online again, but I have to admit that I am a little excited...</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18281681518048604569noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282926260055692619.post-65564098622950186182008-11-14T22:46:00.001-05:002008-11-14T22:47:48.350-05:00Wonderful ArticleThis woman articulated so much of what I feel, just wanted to share...<div><br /></div><div>http://dir.salon.com/story/mwt/feature/2002/03/20/stillborn/index.html</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18281681518048604569noreply@blogger.com2