Have You Met My Baby?

                The mention of my child’s name may bring tears to my eyes,

                By it never fails to bring music to my ears.

                If you are really my friend, let me hear the beautiful music of his name.

                It soothes my broken heart and sings to my soul.

                                                                                                -Author Unknown

I want to introduce you to my son.  His name is Wyatt Nicholas.  He was born October 6, 2005.  I carried him inside me for 9 beautiful months, 40 exciting weeks.  I won’t lie to you, it was a tough pregnancy.  I was incredibly nauseous for the first 20 weeks or so and had unbelievable back pain sprinkled throughout the months, but it was a joyful pregnancy none the less.  We religiously followed our pregnancy with the What to Expect …book.  We read Good Night Moon, Guess How Much I Love You, and countless Dr. Seuss books to him in utero every night before we fell asleep.    We painted his nursery with love and care decorating it with prints and photos of favorite storybooks.  We had baby showers galore and a closet jam-packed with precious tiny baby clothes.  We had an uneventful pregnancy with every appointment getting us closer and closer to the finish line.  We could not wait to meet our son, we had done everything we could to prepare for his arrival and we were over the moon. 

Little did we know what hell and mayhem were waiting for us around the corner.  I was 40 weeks pregnant, home alone and began bleeding and was panic stricken.  Rob came home and we went to the hospital immediately.  Once we got there, they found Wyatt’s heartbeat and told us everything was a-okay, I was just in the beginning stages of labor.  A long labor followed, then another false alarm, his heart rate dropped while pushing, I was rushed for an emergency c-section, then he bounced back and more pushing resumed.  Then it happened again.  And this is the moment that my world began to stop. This is the moment that has changed me forever.  This is the moment that I have defined as the worst moment of my life (and I desperately hope it stays that way).  Again, I was rushed back to the operating room for an emergency c-section, although this time the reality of the false alarms was realized.  It was apparent that the false alarms were never really false at all. Time froze.  Terror, panic, horror flooded me.  I tried to replace the realization of my worst nightmares with prayers, mantras, and happy places.  I couldn’t see anything, I couldn’t feel anything, I just had to hold my husband’s hand, looked into his scared eyes and wait.  Wyatt Nicholas Hobek was born on October 6, 2005 at 6:30 am and was 8 lbs, 4 oz and 21 inches long.  He was not breathing on his own.  I did not get to hold him or see him.  He was whisked away from me in an attempt to save his life.  They couldn’t.  He lived for four hours and then he died, in my arms.  I finally got to hold him when he took his last breath. 

There is so much more to this story, but I know it’s a hard story to swallow, trust me, it’s a story I still find hard to believe.  And I am not telling you this story to make you sad or so that you will feel sorry for me.  To revisit our conversation from last week, I am telling you this because I need my story to be heard:   I want you to know my story, my son’s story, my family’s story.  I desperately wish that this story didn’t have to be a hidden part of my life.  There are so many complications in having a story such as this.  There are so many times when questions arise in innocent conversations and I struggle with how to answer them.  When you ask me how many children I have, I feel I have to tell you one, because I don’t want you to feel awkward when you don’t know how to respond if I tell you my truth.  When you ask me if Abigail is my first born or if she’s an only child, I nod reluctantly, to save you from the horrible pain that I have endured.  I carry pictures of both my children, but when I show them to you, I keep his hidden to be sure that my reality doesn’t make you uncomfortable.  But just so we’re clear, just to be sure you understand:  I do these things to protect you, not me.  I hurt when I deny his existence and my heart breaks a little every time I lie.  I tell you I only have one child, but in my heart I will always hold two.  I am not ashamed of my past.  I am proud.  I am honored that I was allowed to carry him for 9 amazing months, that I was chosen to be his mother, that I was able to love him in the time that I was given.  He was truly a gift and I will hold on to that for as long as I live.  So all I’m asking from you is to allow me to remember him from time to time, to let my story escape from my past on occasion, to let me honor my first-born child and acknowledge his existence in this world, even if it was fleeting. 

“….Afraid no more of tears and pain, more scared when they go I will lose you again.”       

These scenarios get even more complicated with our recent loss, and I have realized that this is another post for another day….so I hope you will continue to read and listen, there is so much more I have to say and so much more I have yet to experience (happy things too, I know this to be true!)...

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.