It's Not Your Fault

And there I was, feeling just like Matt Damon in that scene with Robin Williams in Good Will Hunting.  You know the famous scene (if not, click here), “It’s not your fault…it’s not your fault….it’s not your fault….ad nauseum….  I was still sitting in the ultrasound chair during a recent visit to a high risk OB.  A new doctor I had not seen before, just for a consult, a just because appointment, a just in case visit.  Something to try to ease my mind that my two losses that looked really different, were truly different after all and not related in some strange way.  I just needed to hear someone say it.  And he said it, but something else he said caught me much more off guard.  I thought I was just asking innocent questions, still asking about what happened with either losses, what were the possibilities, what could have caused the outcomes, what was it that took my babies from me?  I don’t feel like I’m necessarily trying to solve a mystery about the past, but really wanting to prevent a repeated fate.  Was it something I ate?  Was it a dental issue neglected too long?  Could it have been…?  And what about….?  And that’s when he said it.  “No matter how many ways you look at this, there was nothing you did that caused this to happen”.  Or something like that.  I truthfully don’t recall the exact words he uttered, but essentially he was saying to me (in his best Robin Williams impersonation), “it’s not your fault…it’s not your fault….it’s not your fault…” 

And the flood gates opened and I was a weeping mess.  Damn it, did I really still feel like this?  Why did I still feel like this?  I mean if an incredible medical team of professionals could not do anything to save my baby’s life, why do I feel like I should have been able to?  Why do I feel so responsible for a situation I felt like I had very little control over?  And the answer is, I don’t know.  I mean, in my rational mind, I can tell myself a million times there is nothing I could have done to prevent his death, there is nothing I should have known to escape this fate, there is nothing I would have been able to do to keep him alive.  I can hold these thoughts in my mind intellectually, but my heart holds a different version of this story.  I vividly remember, even while lying grief-stricken and shock-laden in that hospital bed, the intense amounts of shame that I felt.  Out-of-town friends called and wanted to visit.  I wouldn’t let them.  Extended family drove hours to show their support and I ordered them out.  Please leave.  Even when I was able to return to work, I distinctly remember in those first few days that I couldn’t look anyone in the eye.  And there was only one single solitary reason for these behaviors:  Shame.  I was incredibly and intensely shamefully embarrassed.  Every other mother giving birth in that hospital that day was able to keep their baby alive, but me, somehow, I let mine die.  I didn’t know how I did it, but somehow I had to have been responsible.  Somehow, I, his mother, the only one who could have known, the only one who could have felt, the only one who should have sensed, didn’t do any of these things.  I felt I had failed as a mother before I was really given the chance to mother at all. 

And so there I was, sitting there in that doctor’s office last week, feeling like I was cast in a role for a sappy Lifetime made-for-tv movie, crying to a doctor that I didn’t know, a doctor that was once again telling me that it was not my fault.  And I’ve often felt this particular drama of my life was like a movie, the scenes often surreal and the flashbacks beyond reality.  But, the thing is, I had convinced myself this movie had ended.  I thought it had played itself out, I had worked through my issues, I had dealt with my shame, my pain, and my horror.  My daytime drama had finished with a happy ending, with the birth of my Abigail Rose.  It was finally over, I was done, we were now happily ever after.  Obviously, I have watched one too many of these made-for-tv movies.  Life does not work this way and I am not naïve enough to think that it does.  At least not now.  I’m finding myself in some sort of watered down sequel that has caused the scenes of my past to rise to the surface once more.  And I’m also not naïve enough to think that a doctor telling me it’s not my fault is going to finally heal my broken heart and convince me that I didn’t fail my child in some way, on some level.  I will have to find a way to do that all on my own, if it’s possible to do it at all.    

But I know that I am not alone in this line of thinking.  I am almost certain that most moms that have lost a child in some way, have had this response at one time or another (and if you haven’t, let’s chat, I need some of what you’re having).  Most of the time, I feel like I am actually a pretty well adjusted person.  I mean, I’ve had my crap, we all do in different forms, and I’ve dealt with it and worked through it all to the best of my abilities.  Seriously, we all know I have no problems expressing myself to anyone who is willing to listen (Public blog, sure, why not?). That’s gotta be good for something.  But shame is a hard one for me to deal with.  I don’t think I had told many people about these feelings of shame until I started blogging.  It just kind of came out, rose to the surface and exposed itself right out of the gate, and I’m not sure I even saw it coming.  So I guess the only way I know how to deal with this is to go public once again.  It seems to be working for me so far.  Maybe I need to present myself with a public affirmation of sorts.  I need to find a way to convince myself that it really wasn’t my fault and that I could not have done anything differently.  It’s time I try to let this one go.   

So, here it is Amy, and listen hard:  It is not your fault.  You did not fail your son.  You loved him with all of your heart and soul.  You nourished him and gave him everything he needed to thrive for 40 important weeks.  You ate healthy, you went to every appointment, you followed all doctor’s orders and then some.  You were an amazing mom and he was lucky to have you.  You read him stories every night.  You talked to him each time he kicked and told him you couldn’t wait to meet him.  You started a journal, telling him about his life before he even came to be.  It is not your fault.  You did not fail your son.  You would have done anything in your power to keep him in this world.  This was beyond any powers that you could have possessed.  You are still an amazing mom to him.  You haven’t forgotten.  You choose to remember him.  You choose to celebrate him.  You know he was and will always be your family.  It is not your fault.  You did not fail your son.  You were the best mom he could have had.  There was amazing love.  You are a wonderful mom.  Ask Abigail, she tells you daily.  You did the best you could.  You cared for him with all of your might.  It is not your fault.  It is not your fault.  It is not your fault…

How about you?  Have you had a similar emotional response that you have fought with all of your might and still can’t let go of?  Do you ever feel shameful about something you know you could not have been responsible for?  What brings you peace in these moments?  I’d love to hear about it…..

Enter at Your Own Risk, I'm Keeping It Real

Twenty-three days post D&C.  You know, that procedure where they had to put me under to suck my dead baby from my body.  Yep that one.  And if that didn’t get your attention and make you incredibly uncomfortable, stick around, I’ve got plenty more tricks up my sleeve.  Because here’s what I know for sure:  I will not be sugar-coating any of the crap I’ve been through or the emotions I’ve experienced while going through it anymore.  I’ve done too much of that for those who inquire about my story but then recoil when my reality starts spilling out.  I’ve kept quiet, I’ve been considerate, I’ve thought about YOU and how awkward I might make you feel.  Well, it’s my turn, I’m breaking my silence and I’m thinking about ME and how alone I have felt trying to protect the masses from my pain.  Today is a new day.  Today is the day that I begin telling my story for my sake and no one else.  Today I will be heard.  (Please listen?)

I wish I could tell you that my recent pregnancy loss at 12 weeks was the subject of my story, that this loss describes the essence of my current struggles.  But I cannot tell you that, that is only a recent chapter, my story runs a little deeper.  This story starts over five years ago when I went to the hospital, 40 weeks pregnant with no complications, to deliver a baby boy, and left, empty-handed, broken-hearted and feeling completely ALONE.  Who does this happen to?  Apparently many more people than I had ever known.  People began coming out of the woodwork.  Where had all of these people been and how had I not known their stories before?  I experienced this again with my recent loss, a much different loss, but a loss all the same.  Once I shared my story, I got private emails and facebook messages from friends and family members telling me how they have experienced a miscarriage, infertility, pregnancy loss, but never told anyone about it.  It broke my heart.  Why were all these women hiding behind their pain?  Why is pregnancy loss kept such a secret?  Miscarriage is so common (about 1 in 4) that we are terrified to even tell people we are pregnant until after 12 weeks, you know so we don’t have to tell anyone that we “lost the baby” (terminlogy I find disturbing because I feel it implies some sort of negligence).    It’s almost as if it’s shameful.  It is the unspeakable burden that so many women carry with them for a lifetime.  Pregnancy has become such a fairy tale in our current society that it’s almost as if something is drastically wrong with us if we can’t have a normal, natural, successful pregnancy (as well as in a certain timeframe).  And trust me, that’s exactly how many of us feel:  broken and damaged, as if our bodies have failed us and our families, sometimes over and over again.  Why can’t we embrace each other as women (and men)who have experienced infertility, a pregnancy loss, or neonatal loss and share our heartaches and compassions with and for one another?  Why do these experiences have to be skeletons in our closets?  I’m tired of hiding beneath this mask.  I’m tired of feeling alone.  I’m tired of pretending I’m okay.  I need to be heard.  (Are you still listening?)

I’m starting this blog because I want to tell you something of my past, but mostly I want to document my journey forward.  I want to write about my challenges, my struggles, but also my hopes and inspirations.  I want you to know where I have been and why I haven’t given up hope, even if it has all but dissipated at times.  I am a 40 year old woman who has been 1 for 3 in successful pregnancies and is still fearfully hopeful that I will be able to bring just one more baby home from the hospital.  I realize that others have had it far worse than I, and I am not here to complain about my life.  I have been very fortunate in my lot.  I have a patient and loving husband (so very patient), I have an amazing and soulful four year old daughter, I have the best extended family and friends a girl could ask for, I have an exciting career and educational endeavors, I have a lot to be grateful for in my life and I am, I am so very grateful.  But I also have pain, I have heartache, I have fear.  I have a story that is clawing at my soul to be released. I have a very human and primal need to be heard.  My name is Amy.  I have broken dreams but a hopeful spirit.  I have a journey to share both past and present.  I have to tell you the truth so that others might not feel so alone, so I do not feel so alone.  I have so much hope that you came to listen, because, if you haven’t figured it out by now, I am desperately aching to be heard.