Friday, December 19, 2014

Dear William

Dear William:

Today is an important day for me and your mom. Today would have been your big sister's first birthday. It's also the first day on the calendar where we've never gone to bed expecting a baby. We don't know what it's like to be expecting on December 20th, or Christmas, or New Year's Day, or Valentine's day.

It's all a big unknown right now. But we couldn't be happier that you're here for this journey.

I am going to make a leap of faith and fast forward through time a little bit. To a time where you're with us, happy, young, curious.

I expect that you'll be especially curious about December 19th. Who is this person we celebrate every year, who we say is your sister, that you'll never actually have the chance to meet? In a couple of years, you might become familiar with the concept of our family including Anya. In a few more, you may vaguely understand the concept of death. But you probably won't really, truly understand what December 19th means to us until much later.

By that time, I expect that what December 19th means to us will have evolved from what it is today, on the first anniversary. So I am writing to tell you what it means to me, at age 29, right now.

To be completely honest, today is a day that I have dreaded for the past week. It's incredible just how vivid the memories of December 18 and 19, 2013 still are. More than anything, I remember the moment where - probably almost a year ago to the minute, as I write this -  a doctor walked into my waiting room in the ER. I asked him if Anya was okay. And he shook his head. I asked if she had died. He nodded. And I fell apart.

Today is a day to pause and remember that. How low I felt. How terrible the world was that day. It's also a day to pause and reflect on how much I've been able to heal. To appreciate all of the love that our friends and family have given us, and all of the help we received in this dark time.

Finally, it's also a day that we appreciate all of the love that your sister has brought to the world. She made me a dad. She brought me and your mom closer together. She helped renew and strengthen friendships.

She would have loved you, William. I would have loved for her to be your guide, your friend, your defender. I am sorry that she won't have that chance. I hope that you can find a place for her in your heart regardless.

Saturday, December 13, 2014

Being There

Below is a post that I had written over the summer, but never ended up publishing (until now). A big part of this journey for me has been accepting (or trying to accept) my own limitations. It's a bit difficult to share, but I feel it's important to acknowledge the difficult parts.

---

August 11, 2014

Grief has taken a lot out of both of me and Kayleigh. For the vast majority of the time, though, when one of us was having a weak moment, the other was there to comfort, and vice-versa. In a perfect world, we would always be able to balance each other out in this way.

But there are times when emotional exhaustion has had the better of me. It happened once last week, where I had to say "I'm sorry, I really can't help you right now". I felt I didn't have the capacity to deal with the anxiety that comes with the fears and tears.

Then I caught myself, and I thought "wait. I can't help my wife right now? When she needs me? This difficult stuff is part of the job that I signed up for - the good and the bad". Then came the guilt. And a bit of fear that maybe I wasn't deserving of all her love, while I stood there unable to give her what she needed.

As I started explaining to her why I felt I wasn't able to help - along with the self-loathing that came with it - she thanked me.

That surprised me. For the most part, I would've said I understood our love very well. I hadn't understood until then, though, that love can mean realizing that your partner may not be able to give you everything you need - and being okay with it.



Monday, December 1, 2014

Hello December

It's December again. It almost feels like we've been living in December for the past year.

This month of course, on the 19th, we'll celebrate Anya's first birthday.

I'd be lying if I said that approaching this milestone hadn't already been a challenge. Everything about December, about the holidays, reminds us of Anya. Putting up our Christmas tree. Going to work parties. It's too easy to remember what we were doing exactly one year ago. Those last few weeks where everything was so... normal. 

If you had asked me at this time last year what the next twelve months had in store for us.. this current reality would not have been one that I could have pictured. Some possibilities are too sad to really consider.

Yet here we are, almost a full twelve months after Anya left us, and we have a surprising amount of things to be grateful about. Kayleigh and I have had some of the worst moments we could possibly face, but we've faced them together. We've weathered the storm (if not all of it, then hopefully the worst of it). And we're still here, stronger than ever. We've also been lucky to have the support we've received from our family, friends and work colleagues.  

We're also incredibly lucky to have William. Our son. He won't be joining us for another three months, but there's no doubt that his presence - and his flurry of kicks -  has made us much more hopeful about the future. In that other reality, he may not have joined us for another few years. 

All that to say, December feels bittersweet. It's a month of sadness, and a month of hope. It will forever be Anya's month. When I think about her legacy, it is not measured in tears, but in how much love she brought to our world. How much she made us appreciate the people around us. 

Anya, we hope to be better parents to your little brother because of you.We're going to tackle December thinking of you. We're going to be sad. But we'll remain forever thankful for having the chance to have you.

Sunday, October 19, 2014

Time Plods Carelessly Forward: 10 Months Later

The leaves are turning on Anya's tree.
Soon, it too will be bare.
For 10 months I have sat in the same spot, writing about Anya. The oak tree in our front yard has gone from bare, to budding, to vibrant green... and this morning, a beautiful golden-yellow.

The tree reminds me of life's wonder and beauty... and of the passing of time. In a few weeks, the tree will be bare.

10 months is a long time. Anya and I have now been apart longer than we were together. I am just starting to realize I will never see my daughter again.

I struggle with expectations of where I should be in my journey of grief...

In the weeks after Anya died, I scheduled yoga classes, coffee with friends and visits to my mom's place in the country. I set aside time to grieve and heal.

10 months later, the focus of my life has shifted. I am back at work, a job I love. Another baby is on the way, and I rejoice at flutters and kicks. I am invested in life.

This has been healing, but it has also slowed my journey through grief...

After a busy day at work or when I'm overwhelmed with worry for baby #2, I am completely enraptured in the present. I think this is a good thing. Yet in such a flurry of motion, thoughts of Anya get buried deep within.

Then I stop. Thoughts of Anya bubble up... and my instinct of self-preservation pushes them back down. I think I have spent the better part of the past four months, pushing away the hurt of losing Anya.

Pain and sadness are so much harder to bear after a taste of happiness.

Last weekend we planted bulbs at Anya's grave.
In spring, life will bloom here.
Anyone who has taken an intro course in psychology can tell you burying your feelings is not a good coping mechanism. Eventually, you can't hold them in anymore...

When the wave of grief hit me again, it completely drained my energy. For two weeks, going to work was all I could manage. I wouldn't have eaten anything but cereal and takeout if not for Alex and a close friend of mine.

I couldn't take care of myself, and my feeling of self-worth took a hard hit. 10 months later, I had expected more of myself.

Today, I try to give myself time and space to feel... to heal. It's a struggle. It hurts so much to let the loss and the pain in. But as someone once told me, the only way out is through.

Monday, October 13, 2014

Grief and Rainbows

I haven't written for quite some time... since the day we decided to try for another baby. For months, all my energy was focused on the future. I dared to hope, to dream of a healthy baby in my arms! If I am honest with myself, it has been really hard work... and it hasn't left much room for other emotions, especially not grief.

I choose not to feel guilty about setting my grief aside. It is good for our second baby to have time that is set aside just for him (or her). I am happy to know my child will not live in the shadow of his sister's death.

But now, as I start to feel the first flutters of our baby move, as our worries for our second baby's safe arrival increase, my thoughts turn to Anya. I yearn for my daughter. I dream of the life she might have lived... the life she should have lived. I wonder if her death might have been prevented... I want so badly to hold her in my arms.

At times, a deep seated part of me feels like if our second baby can be born healthy, somehow Anya will be okay. I try to reason these feelings away, and I feel guilty. I love this new baby, whoever he is. I know he will not replace Anya. I fear that watching him grow will remind me of all Anya never got to have. This seems like an unfair burden for a child, and I feel guilty.

But I won't dwell in this guilt.

Our second baby has been a balm for my heart. I feel a mother's love blooming inside me again. I can see pregnant women and newborns, without crumbling inside. With each ultrasound and flutter, as I listen to the womp-womp-womp of our baby's heart, my love grows.  I am delighted that my belly is starting to show! It gives me a new excuse to caress my belly and hug my baby.

Now if only this baby can be born healthy... for his (or her) own sake... so we can spend our lives together.





Saturday, August 30, 2014

Trying Again

Six months. That's the minimum amount of time that Kayleigh and I decided to give ourselves before seeing if we might be ready to try to be parents again. Waiting was difficult, at times, since the urge to want to be a parent grew exponentially after losing Anya.  Still, the last thing we wanted was to try to bring in a child who might feel like he or she had to live in Anya's shadow, brought into the world quickly to fill the void.

Mourning is one process, and welcoming another child is a different one. We needed to feel completely ready.

If you're doing the math, the six month mark was June. And we decided that yes, actually, we do feel ready to try again. We know Anya's gone, and even though we aren't done mourning (we still talk about her every day), we are ready to open up to the possibility of another life.

Another life. Another person. But the hurdles we need to clear before holding a healthy baby never seemed so daunting. Getting pregnant? What if we got lucky last time? What if it just doesn't happen?

And if it does, what about those daunting miscarriage statistics?

And if we pass the first few weeks, what's to say the baby will form properly?

And even if it does... What about stillbirth?

And even if Kayleigh makes it all the way to labour, with a perfectly normal baby... So did Anya. What about the birth?

As you can probably guess, I have spent a lot of time thinking about all that can go wrong. But there's a thought that dawned on me the other day - There's a very real possibility that things could go right. It's something I need to tell myself, and something I need to keep reminding myself of. Especially now.

Tomorrow, Kayleigh will hit the ten week mark. Our second child is due March 29th. I'm scared of what might happen between now and then, but I remind myself - it really might be okay.

Friday, July 25, 2014

The Long Wait for Answers

For the first time since Anya's death, the 19th of this month came and went rather unceremoniously. It's not that we forgot - we acknowledged having reached another month. Month seven. But we didn't feel forced to do something about it. I don't know why, but it would feel sad to call that progress, even though it likely is an important step.

As we reached this seventh's month, I took a look at the list of topics that I had intended to tackle when I first started this blog. The glaring omission from this list, to this day, is the autopsy result. It's something that I get asked about fairly regularly, and I know that we're not the only ones curious to get answers.

I wish we had answers. I even wish we had 'Unknown' as an answer. But for over seven months, we have been waiting to get these results, and they have yet to come. That's because the process for a coroner's investigation takes, according to the Bureau du coroner du Québec, 12 months on average. Because Anya's death was 'obscure' (according to their definition), this is a process that we were forced to go through.

The one and only time I spoke to someone from the coroner's office was late in the afternoon of December 19th. I had had a sleepless night (Kayleigh had gone into labour at 11pm on the 18th), and had been spending the only day I could in the hospital with my deceased daughter. Truth be told, I don't remember exactly what was said - I consented to Anya's remains being sent to Montreal for an autopsy. I thought I had understood that the autopsy results would be available in 7 or 8 weeks, but clearly I must have been wrong.

It was all a very matter-of-fact process. There was going to be not only an autopsy, but an investigation. That's good, I thought. The more we can find out, the more information we'll be able to act on in the future. Maybe this will help inform how to prevent this in the future.

But they did not tell me it might take a year. That I know. My impression that there was a well-organized system - one that cares about giving mourning parents a timely answer - is long-gone. As we start to look to the future, it would be nice to know what went wrong. If it was going to take a year, we should have been told, and we should have had the option of going with a faster route - a hospital autopsy.

Instead, here we are. Seven months later, no answers. Anya's autopsy results are just part of the paperwork buried at a department that is clearly either overloaded, understaffed, or both. They'll get to it when they can. Calling them doesn't seem to change that. Heck, the folks they deal with are already dead- what reason could there possibly be to rush?

Saturday, June 28, 2014

More Thoughts on the Passing of Time

Last week I posted about moving forward... about forgetting the hurt, about trying to hold onto the past though I know I have to let go. 

A friend thoughtfully shared, "You are not the same person you were before Anya was born. She changed you in such a fundamental way that she cannot, will not be forgotten. So Anya lives on in your daily existence. She made you who you are today."

Anya has changed me. Anya has changed Alex. Our children will be different because Anya has changed the way we will parent. Anya has changed the people around us. She made a difference in the world. 


When I think of this, I know I can face the passing of time. I know it is OK if I don't think of Anya all the time because she is a part of me. 


But letting go of the constant need to think of Anya isn't the only struggle that comes with the passage of time... Because it isn't just about Anya being forgotten...
The more time goes by, the more I feel alone. The world is moving forward, and I am still struggling. 


I have been back at work for 2 months now. Most days it is a challenge to balance work and healing. Work takes time and energy. Healing takes time and energy. At work, I try to set aside tears and anger, for passion and efficiency - and it feels good. At home, I take time to relax and to focus on Alex. 

Time for healing gets set aside. Feelings get bottled up. I know this isn't good for me. It just hurts so much to let the feelings of grief wash over me... 

The people around me see the passion and love. They see the sparkle in my eyes - and it is an honest sparkle. But beneath the sparkle there is still hurt and yearning and anger, and I need others to acknowledge these feelings.

I still need time to heal. I just don't know how anymore. I've forgotten how to take care of my heart... 

Someone tell me, where do I go from here?

Sunday, June 22, 2014

The World Turned Upside Down : Six Months Later

Thursday marked six months since...

Six months since...

Six months later and I still don't know how to end that sentence.

Thursday marked six months since...

We collided with life.
We lost our innocence.
Love turned to death.

Six months later and the world has turned upside down. Life is just about the exact opposite of what it used to be.

The days are long and hot. I look out the window and everything is green. The earth is settled over Anya's grave.

It's already hard to remember what it felt like to be pregnant.

Life is moving forward. People are moving on.
We are moving on too, but more slowly, hesitantly.

Sometimes we dare to dream about the future. The future... something I couldn't imagine a few months ago.

It is both heartening and heartbreaking to feel the pull of the future.

We are here. Life is calling to us. We forget about the hurt for little scraps of time.

But what happens when we forget? Anya exists only within us now. When we forget, she disappears. She flickers away.

It hurts to imagine a future in which she might be forgotten for hours or days at a time.

The force of life propels us forward regardless...

The six month mark was hard.
With each pause, each moment of solitude, memories of December 19 flooded back.
All around us, the passing of time made itself known.
The world has gone half way around the sun since Anya left us.
But on June 19 the present and the past coexisted within me.

We visited the Maison de naissance to commemorate the six months that have passed since Anya changed our lives.

For a few moments, we held onto the way things might have been...

We were so close to taking our daughter home with us, but life stole her away, just at the last moment.

Sunday, June 15, 2014

Father's Day

Thank you to the many of you that took the time to wish me a happy Father's Day today. It has been a bit of an up-and-down kind of day - it's hard to know how I should feel about today. My journey as a father isn't quite the one I keep hearing about in commercials.

As I usually go about any regular day, I wear a good variety of hats. I'm a husband as I wake up with my lovely wife, and, on most days, I go on to be a Public Servant, a Friend, an Uncle, a Son, and a Brother.

The hat of 'Father' is not one that I have had a chance to wear often. I wore it on December 19th, when I held my lovely Anya's hand, before she was rushed off by ambulance. I wore it the handful of times that I wrote to her.

Today, I had a rare chance to wear it again, as we went to chose a gravestone for her. It was a difficult experience, but there was something strangely comforting that on Father's day, I could do some sort of fatherly duty.

But aside from these rare moments, though, 'Father' just isn't a hat that I get to wear. So I can't help but feel that celebrating father's day without a child is like being recognized for a job that, for the most part, I'm not actually doing. It's not logical, but feelings tend to go that route.

That doesn't mean that i'm not hopeful that one day, I'll be one of those 'other' fathers, that you hear about in commercials. And if I'm lucky enough for that day to come, you can bet that I will appreciate every single moment.

Saturday, June 14, 2014

Making Room

We took down the crib in Anya's room last weekend. We moved the furniture around.

"That took so much courage," said one friend. "I know it must have been difficult," said another. But in truth, it wasn't so difficult.

Anya's room...

Once filled with dreams and joy.

Then came sorrow.

As months passed, Anya's room came to mean many things...



A tie to the past.
Proof that Anya had existed.
A place where we felt connected to our daughter.
A room that waited, with bated breath.

---

It took a long time for the finality of Anya's death to sink in. No matter what my mind told me, my heart continued to wait for Anya.

But slowly some sort of acceptance started to creep in.

I couldn't accept - still don't accept - that Anya died for a reason, that her journey was meant to end. That's not what I mean by acceptance. But rather, I began to accept that Anya's death meant I would never see her again.

So Anya's room started to feel empty... waiting for someone who would never come.



And all of a sudden, I was ready to pack up Anya's things, dismantle the crib. It felt right.

We made room in our home for the future.

Whatever the future might hold, we dared to move forward.

Monday, June 2, 2014

The Battle Within

I've just had a beautiful week - mostly.

Victoria, high tea, beer on a patio, a library conference, Vancouver Island, and I won an award to boot! It was one of those weeks that makes life seem perfect and amazing.

Therein lies the battle.

Picture this.

11:00 am : "Alex, I'm so excited! I have so many great ideas to make our library even better!"
11:01 am : Tears

2:00 pm : The Pacific Ocean, the mountains, the sun. Perfection.
2:01 pm : Tears

The happier I feel, the more my heart aches at Anya's absence.

This battle between joy and sadness, between laughter and betrayal, has become my new normal.

How can life be beautiful, without Anya? How can I feel so passionate about libraries, when I struggle to find purpose in life?

How can life feel good, when inside I'm screaming, desperately searching for answers? Where do I go from here?

Tuesday, May 20, 2014

Dearest Anya, We're OK : Five Months Later

Dearest Anya,

Yesterday was the five month anniversary of your death.

As a special something to commemorate your life, dad and I wanted to write you a letter. We wanted to let you know that we're OK.

  • We still enjoy the sunshine.
  • Our hearts are filled with more love than ever.
  • We're both back at work, trying to serve others and make a difference.
  • We carry you in the most precious part of ourselves, as we make our way into the world.
  • We continue to build our home, a place that belongs to our family, a place that belongs to you, a place that is witness to our journey : the tears and the joy.
  • We are even talking about baby #2, a younger brother or sister to you.

These are all the things we wanted to share with you yesterday... and I tried to dig deep down inside and find the words, but I couldn't. Yesterday I just didn't feel OK.

You left a big hole in our hearts, and it isn't always easy to fill it with love... but everyday we try.

There were so many things we wanted to give you, to share with you, to teach you... yet you're the one who taught us the biggest lessons in our lives.
  • You can't take life for granted.
  • You have to enjoy the time you have with those you love... even when your heart is breaking

We try to honour these lessons everyday. Slowly we're finding our way back to normal... a new normal.

So don't worry about us Anya. We are thinking of you. We love you. And we're OK.

Sending you all the love inside of us,

Mom and Dad

Sunday, May 18, 2014

Crafting for Anya: Four Months Later

Tomorrow will mark five months since Anya was born and died. Alex and I are planning a little something special.

For now, I wanted to take the time to show you all the beautiful art that was created almost a month ago now, on April 19, by the family and the friends who joined us in celebration of Anya and the love she brought us.

You can view the album here.

From Crafting for Anya: Four Months Later


This art is a testament to all the love in our lives. To me, it is more beautiful than any of the million dollar art pieces sold at auction.

I am truly grateful to have so much love in my life. Anya's legacy is love - simple, powerful, love. I carry it with me everywhere, and I integrate it into the new me.

Monday, May 12, 2014

The Day After Mother's Day

Mother's Day was hard, but it was also filled with love and celebration. On Mother's Day, I felt like a mother, as my mother heart and its suffering were recognized.

And the day after Mother's Day? It's hard too. It's hard because I woke up to sunshine and birds chirping and a fresh breeze blowing into our room. I woke up to summer, and Anya still wasn't there. I still don't get to be a mother to her - at least not in the way I want to be.  And on the day after Mother's Day, who will celebrate my broken mother heart?

I'm jealous of all the mothers out there whose children love them, hug them, kiss them everyday. I'm jealous because they still feel like mothers on the day after Mother's Day.

I try to be strong. I try to see the good in life. But on the day after Mother's Day, all I feel is grief because my daughter will never know the smell of summer.


Sunday, May 11, 2014

Mother's Day

I have a secret to share with you. This isn't really my first mother's day.

My first mother's day was one year ago. I remember it well. We surprised Alex's mom with a happy grandmother's day card and shared our joyful news.

I am grateful for that mother's day with Anya. I am grateful for the time my daughter and I got to spend together.

This mother's day is harder. It loomed ominously over me all week.

On Tuesday I bought myself a mother's day card to try and ease my pain.

On Wednesday I tried to reframe my heart-wrenching reaction to every pregnant woman I cross, not despairing at my loss, but taking the opportunity to remind myself of the perfect 9 months I had with my daughter.

Still, by Friday I was in tears, unsure if I would even want to get out of bed on Sunday.

This morning I did get out of bed.

With the pull of all the love around me, and after being served breakfast in bed.



Alex had another surprise, an invitation to celebrate our daughter and my motherhood.

Today, on my second mother's day, we planted a tree in our garden, with the hope that over the years we might watch it grow as we had dreamed Anya would.

And a few years from now, if new life and small hands comfort us on mothers day, we will look at Anya's tree and think of all she gave us.

Motherhood taught me to love, deeper than I ever had before, and that is my mother's day gift from Anya.


Thursday, April 24, 2014

How We Move Forward

Rule #1 of Grief: Everyone experiences loss in their own way.

Death doesn't discriminate. We are all hit by the finality of death sooner or later. Since we approach life with different baggage and personalities, so it is with death.

But the loss of a child is a different kind of loss. Or so they say... I don't have any other point of reference. How does it compare to the loss of a spouse or to facing one's own imminent death?

Rule #2 of Grief: Don't compare (see Rule #1).

Is miscarriage less sad than full-term pregnancy loss? Is it harder to lose a child you had a few years to get to know? Or is it harder to have only 9 months and 1 day of memories to look back on?

All the books I've read seem to say it depends on the person.

Don't compare.

And yet, we all compare ourselves to others. Everyday.

Am I normal? Am I better? Am I worse?

Did I love my child enough?

That is the question I ask myself, the guilt I feel...

When I hear about mothers who spiraled into clinical depression after the death of their baby. They can't sleep. They can't get out of bed.

I sleep like a baby. I get out of bed every single day.

Or when I read quotes like this one, from Still Standing Magazine's Facebook page,
"It takes invincible strength to get out of bed every day and parent our children we can no longer hold, see, touch or hear. Every bereaved parent is a hero."

It doesn't take me invincible strength to get out of bed. I just do it.

I still love life. There is so much I want to do!

Did I love Anya enough?

Of course, I know these feelings are irrational. I am thankful for my (and Alex's) incessant optimism, contentment and happiness, persistent through all this grief and pain.

But I still have that mild nagging guilty feeling in the back of my mind. I still compare my experiences to others.


Saturday, April 19, 2014

Dear Anya (From Dad)

Dear Anya,

I first saw your face four months ago, today. I have seen that beautiful face everyday since. In my thoughts, in photographs, and, as I go about my day, in the many babies of the world. Sometimes, I see myself in the parents of these babies - and I wonder.

What kind of parent would I have been to you? How would I have helped you through the difficult times in your life? I picture myself drawing on all of my experiences to give you comfort, encouragement, and the strength to get through anything.

But none of my experiences can help you get through death. I do not understand it. Although I like to hope that you still exist in some form (other than in our memories), I feel powerlessness at being unable to help you through the next step of your existence. And that's a difficult thing for a parent to feel.

I didn't have the chance to comfort you in life, and I am stuck with an unquenchable need to find some way to do it. So I find work that, had you lived, might have brought you a bit of additional comfort. I work around the house - the home you never got to see. I paint. I fix things. I make it a little bit better, bit by bit. It helps, but it also makes our home more and more different than it would have been were you still with us.

As time goes on, the differences between the life we lead today, and the life that we should have led together get bigger and bigger. While that makes me sad, my daughter, you should know that me and your mom's lives are still better for having had you in it, if only for the briefest of moments. I feel so much love for you, Anya, more than I knew I could feel. Thank you for bringing me this love.

I miss you. I love you. I carry you in my heart every day.

Dad.

Thursday, April 17, 2014

Old Me, New Me

Good things still happen.

A case in point: I have been named the recipient of the 2014 CLA Emerging Leader Award.  I have been honoured by my library peers. I feel so happy, grateful and (I can't help but repeat myself) honoured! The library community is filled with passionate and dedicated leaders. I have the pleasure of working with them, learning from them every day.

So why am I writing about this here, instead of on my 20-Something Librarian blog?

Because I am a different person now. I no longer feel like the 2013 version of Kayleigh Felice who won this award. And I am struggling with that.

As I was telling a friend this morning, my focus has shifted. Anya's death changed my outlook on life. Wise person that she is, said friend pointed out, Anya's living would have changed my priorities too...

No longer,

Kayleigh Felice
Librarian.

But rather,

Kayleigh Felice
Mother (first) and Librarian (after).

I still love libraries, undoubtedly. I am still dedicated to my job. I believe libraries can play a crucial role in building more educated, inclusive and close-knit communities. I want to work with my wonderful colleagues and my amazing community to make our library better.

So why do I have this nagging feeling that I am no longer the emerging leader I once had the potential to be? Again, I come back to shifting priorities. Over the past 6 or 7 years, my "extracurricular" and volunteer activities have been largely focused on libraries.

Now I feel like I might have been a bit myopic. There are just so many other projects to which I also want to dedicate my time. To name a few...

  • There is so much to do (so much I can do) to help the thousands of grieving parents touched by perinatal death in our community.
  • My grandfather is 84 years old, and I want to share as much time as I can with him.
  • My brothers and sisters are just becoming teenagers, and I feel like I have something special to offer them. For that I need to be present, available.
  • I want to garden.
  • One day, I want to have more children.

These and more are all things I want to do for myself and for Anya. I want her to live through me. I want to keep a part of Anya alive through the change, the growth and the increased capacity for love she gave me.

So yes, I want to give back to the library community. But I also want to do so much more with my precious (and short) time here.

I think that makes me a more well-rounded person... but what does that mean for Kayleigh Felice, CLA's 2014 Emerging Leader?

I guess it is the never-ending struggle for balance faced by mothers everywhere.

Monday, April 7, 2014

Grief Will Shake Your Confidence

Grief will make you sad. Grief will make you angry. Grief might even make you depressed or anxious. Grief will shake your confidence. It has shaken my confidence.

Grief has shaken my confidence in God... more like shattered it. I simply can't believe that there is any reason, lesson or reward in the after-life that is worth this suffering.

Grief has shaken my confidence in the future. Somehow I had managed to become relatively confident that Alex and I would outlive our parents, that our children would outlive us... that death was something I could worry about when I was older.

To quote Joan Didion, "Life changes in the instant." It is out of our control.

We know this of course. We hear it on the news every day.

We. Don't. Think. It. Will. Happen. To. Us.

Eventually,  it will.

Grief has shaken my confidence in myself... and this is the hardest of all. Grief has made me a different person. I was once confident and independent. Now I am vulnerable and needy. I worry about whether or not you can love this new me.

Really, the question is, Can I still love myself?

I feel like a teenager all over again.

But I haven't lost hope. I remind myself to have compassion... for myself. I remind myself to trust in the love that surrounds me.

Wednesday, April 2, 2014

Questions and Answers

When Kayleigh and I first announced that we were expecting, we probably never went more than a couple of days without someone recounting their own experience to us. There was quite a range: Pregnancy is wonderful / Pregnancy is difficult ; giving birth is an incredible experience  / giving birth is incredibly hard; holding your baby for the first time is a magical experience (there seemed to be consensus on this one). 

Only after losing Anya did we start hearing about the other kinds of experiences - ones that people don't readily share with beaming parents-to-be. Stories of similar losses. Stories of miscarriages. Close calls at birth. 

In the days and weeks that followed our loss, there were a number of questions about loss which I had never really paused to consider. Questions I probably never wanted to consider. But questions worth exploring nonetheless.

Here's the first one I asked:

How often does this happen? How often does an infant who showed no irregularities prior to labour die shortly after birth?

According to the 2013 Perinatal Health Indicators for Canada (kindly provided to me upon request by the Public Health Agency of Canada), 3.6 infants per 1000 live birth die within the first 27 days - dubbed neonatal deaths. That's a 0.36% death rate, leaving us excluded from 99.64% of surviving babies.

But this does not actually represent the number I'd like to know. This represents all live births, including cases where babies had identified health problems, or were premature. To try and get a bit closer, we can look at the proportion of deaths by cause:



Depending on the source, Immaturity appears to be classified as under 24 weeks (according to the ICE grouping cited in the Perinatal Health indicators), or 2500g. Anya did not meet either of those categories. 

At this point, it is still difficult to rule out other causes of death (apparently 3.5 months isn't enough time to provide autopsy results.. but that's another story) - Still, this graph helps rule out the top cause, and 38% of deaths, leaving us with a number of 2.232 per 1000. 

For whatever reason, there were data quality concerns with the numbers from Ontario (which was therefore excluded), but even without Ontario, there were approximately 240,000 live births in Canada in 2010. 0.2232% makes over 500 similar deaths per year (and over 850 total neonatal deaths).

That makes for a remarkable amount of heartbroken parents every year. More than I could have thought.

That number opens the door to many more questions - questions that can't be answered with these particular data tables. 

How many of those parents went on to have healthy children? How soon afterwards? How many of those parents had to relive a similar experience multiple times? What is the rate of depression of those parents, compared to the general population?

Statistics can be great. They can provide an indication of how things will likely turn out, and perhaps take a bit of fear out of the future. But lets be honest - even if we had those numbers, we might have some trouble having much faith in them. That's the unfortunate effect of being on the wrong side of 99.77%.

Saturday, March 29, 2014

Memories, Art and a Special Invitation

I've heard it said a few times now... When a person dies, you turn to the memories they left behind for comfort. When a baby dies there are few memories, and a lifetime of "should have been" to mourn.

When I think of Anya, I think of a baby growing inside me and of a newborn in my arms. I also think of a toddler taking her first steps, a young girl on her first day of school, a teenager heartbroken in my arms, a mother. I think of how proud of her I would have been, and I think of all the decisions she would have made that I might not have agreed with. I think of how happy she might have been, and I think of all the love that would have surrounded her. Anya is all that she was and all that she may have been.

We have two ultrasounds and one day's worth of pictures of Anya. Most of my memories of her are abstract feelings that exist only inside my heart. Still, Anya was in our lives for a whole nine months; longer even, as her story began when Alex and I decided to start a family. And I wanted to bring Anya's story to life.

I started creating an album. An album filled, not only with photos, but with emotion and art. This album has also become a way of working through my grief... Of expressing the intense feelings, for which I simply can't find words. It has been an outlet for my love. It has been a lifeline.

Now, I share this album with you: Art Album for Anya

To commemorate the four months that will have passed since Anya came into our lives, Alex and I will be hosting a special event on Saturday, April 19. We will be inviting friends and family who have been touched by Anya or by our story to come and make a page of their own to add to my scrapbook. All materials will be provided. Please message Alex or I if you are interested in joining us for this special day.


Sunday, March 23, 2014

A Family Tradition: Three Months Later


March 19 marked 3 months since Anya's death. And so, last Wednesday, we took some time to celebrate our love for our daughter.

This month's gesture was simple, yet incredibly meaningful. We framed a photo of our small family and we placed it at the top of the stairs.

For those of you who don't know the history of our house, a little over a year ago, Alex and I bought my grandparents house. Our home holds lots of happy memories from my childhood. It is a house filled with love, and we now include all the love of our small family to the pile of wonderful memories this house holds.

For as long as I can remember, my grandparents had framed photos of their five children hung lovingly in the staircase. The eldest Felice daughter was in the first photo at the top of the stairs, the youngest son's photo was hung near the landing at the bottom, and photos of their three other children held their respective places in the middle.

Now, in continuing with this tradition, a framed photo of Anya, our first-born daughter, has been hung just where it belongs at the top of the stairs.

---

A side note about the photos we have of Anya :

On December 19, in the hours of shock, confusion and pain that followed Anya's death, a nurse at the hospital suggested she get in touch with a volunteer photographer who could take pictures to commemorate our family's one and only day together. An hour or two later, we welcomed a wonderfully compassionate and attentive photographer into our little cocoon. This photographer was a volunteer for the organization Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep, which offers free photography services to parents who have lost a baby. Thanks to this photographer and this organization, we now have a few more mementos to add to our small pile. We are ever so grateful!

Wednesday, March 19, 2014

Creating Occasions for Happiness

Spring will be here soon. We all hope... And with spring comes renewal.

I had been dreading spring for the better part of the past 3 months. Spring means moving forward, leaving behind Anya's winter and continuing to live, while our daughter doesn't. This season that belongs to Anya is difficult to leave behind. I feel the universe pushing me forward, though part of me isn't ready. But as the weeks go by, I also feel my desire for fun and happiness returning; slowly, inconsistently, surely.

Alex and I have been capitalizing on this desire, motivating and disciplining ourselves to do something fun.

We have revived our cooking challenge. Each week, we decide on a theme and cook something new.

We tapped our maple tree for sap, in the hopes of collecting enough for a "sugaring off" party and bit of maple syrup!

We went on a fabulous Caribbean cruise and finally got some sunshine. How that sunshine has made all the difference!

There is good in moving forward. There is the possibility of life, of happiness. There is the feeling of hope that comes with looking to the future. There is confidence; the confidence that I can look back on our joyful time with Anya, without crumbling at the thought of her death.

So many adventures and so much love await our family (of two? three? I am never sure. Someday more?). If only we are lucky enough to continue to live.

Thursday, March 6, 2014

A Day, A Lifetime

This week has been incredibly difficult. Anya was born, Anya died 11 weeks ago today. Sometimes it feels like a lifetime, sometimes it feels like yesterday. Still it hurts, it hurts like nothing I've ever experienced before.

There are moments when I feel I need to justify my pain... to justify that I am still aching two months later. No one has invalidated my grief... but I feel the need to tell you in case you don't understand...

Anya was my daughter. She was my child. She may have lived less than an hour, outside the womb, but I love her as much as you love your children. It doesn't matter that she had already died by the time I got to cuddle her in my arms. I held her with as much love as if she had been alive, with every fiber of my being, just as you did when you held your newborn baby.

When I think back to December 19, I not only think about the shock and sadness of losing Anya, I also think about the love we shared. I really think we only shared half the story when we told you of Anya's birth and loss.

We spent that day together, as a family.

My dearest Anya,

Our day together was the most beautiful (and most sad) day of my life. I held you close, my daughter. You fit into my arms just right. You belonged there.

You were so perfect.

I remember how you felt in my arms, at 5 pounds, 13 ounces (bigger than your mom as a newborn). You felt so light, so small. You felt so real, so concrete. A whole human being. 

You were perfectly still. Neither limp, nor rigid. Just like the most perfect doll.

I remember your smell. You smelled like my womb, like inside me. You smelled so familiar and so good! With just the faintest smell of soap mixed in.

I remember the feel of your skin, so smooth, so flawless. Your lips, so small and gentle and lip-like, just like your dad's. Your hair, so soft, almost as soft as down feathers.

That day, I held you - and dad held you - and we poured all our love into you, and into each other. And we knew all the love you had for us.

That day was all I could have hoped for... sort of...

My strongest wish, my need, was to hold you skin to skin. That is something I got to do. Our connection in the womb, and skin to skin was so powerful, so amazing. Though my need to hold you against my skin is still so strong... I find comfort in dad now.

There are many wishes I had. I wanted to feed you from my breast, to bathe you, to take you home to our nest. I wanted to have more time. But all these unfulfilled hopes and wishes are simply summed up: I wish you had lived.

Love, Mom

Sunday, February 23, 2014

This One Goes Out To Our Friends and Family: Two Months Later

Wednesday marked the two month anniversary of Anya's dirthday.

(Dirthday = death + birthday. Another parent at a loss for words came up with that term.)

As in our Letter to Our Daughter: One Month Later, Alex and I thought it important for us to take time to remember all that Anya has brought us. This time we lit a candle, took out a photo of Anya and focused on all the love in our lives.

We have a lot of love in our lives.

The most precious gift Anya brought to my life: she inspired me to love much more deeply than I ever thought possible. Anya filled me with love, a love that grew inside me every day of our 9 months together. And all that love is still there.

Anya also inspired all of those around us to share and express their love. Love has poured into our lives  from all sides, from places I would never have thought to look.

  • Elementary school friends have come over to our house to help with basic jobs (making dinner, tidying my disastrous craft room) or just to say hello
  • A few friends not seen since high school and university have sent heartfelt messages, cards and precious keepsakes
  • Friends we saw only a few times a year have shared lots of their time. We have opened up our hearts and shared tears like we never had before. Our friendships have grown closer... more intimate
  • My sister has made our home her home away from home. She visits and cares for us often
  • Our midwives continue to send their love our way
  • We have met with other bereaved parents and supported each other through this heavy, heavy loss
  • And each and every one of our close friends and our family have been there to support us
Two of my work friends made a similar comment to me, on two separate occasions: If one were to try and take any good out of Anya's death, it would be that we have grown closer in our friendship, that we share more love and more of our time.

I'm redefining what friendship means to me. I had always thought of the love around me in terms of the people who surround us in our everyday lives, those who mark special moments and occasions with us. But love is so much more than that. Love exists in the people whose paths we may have crossed years ago, often not even realizing the friendship and caring would still be there years later, when we needed it most.


This love and support has been my lifeboat. Thank you.

After Anya died we received hundreds of cards and messages. We continue to receive new messages of love and friendship every week (some people even kindly indulge my overwhelming need by sending me messages every day!).

And so, to commemorate Anya's life and love, we decided to put all of these messages in a box. (I printed out every Facebook message and email too.) We sat by our candle and picked 10 messages at random, and we read them to each other, to remind ourselves of all the love around us.

What messages of love came to us that day? Here are just a few (posted anonymously)...

Je constate que cette jolie tête est très active, je suis très fière de toi. Alex est un mari choyé. Tout comme ma fille, un jour tu feras une maman remarquable, tu es une fille fantastique que j'aime beaucoup.

Think only about yourself and Alex. Love each other, hold each other and never let go.

J'ai lu la note de ton mari sur Facebook. Il est éloquent, courageux et généreux.

You mean the world to me, Kayleigh, as Anya meant the world to you. Always remember that's how much I love you.

Anya restera toujours marquée dans ma mémoire: une belle petite fille à la peau délicate. Un beau petit nez et de magnifiques petites lèvres en forme de coeur.

And a love letter from my husband...

I believe with all my heart that our happiest days are still ahead. Our road has led us into a thunderstorm. I can't tell you when it will end, but it will end. I can feel the sunshine. It will come, and we will be together and appreciate it more than we ever did. You are simply the best, and only person, I could ever love so deeply.

We've decided to keep these messages in a box in the living room. That way, when we need a little love and support, all we have to do is pick a message at random and let it warm our hearts.

Monday, February 17, 2014

Redefining Happiness

People keep telling me how strong I am, though the truth might be more accurately reflected in this quote, spoken by a grieving father to his stillborn son...

"Forgive me when I cry [...] Occasionally, I can't help it [...]
"Forgive me when I don't cry [...] I can't help being happy because it's my nature [...] know that I'll never forget the seven and a half months of joy you brought us."

(From the book Knocked Up, Knocked Down by Monica Murphy Lemoine)

The truth is, I'm not strong, or at least not stronger than any of you. A lot of the time I'm sad and angry. I have at least one or two good cries every day - the sobbing out loud, wiping my runny nose on my arm, almost can't breathe kind of crying. I wake up and go to bed with an ache in my heart. I often go through the motions, numb from the pain. I want to hide somewhere safe and stay there.

But that's only half the story. Every morning, I get out of bed early. I eat breakfast. I shower and make myself presentable. I find things to do, things that make me happy. I go to yoga, I make crafts, I read. I meet up with friends. I drink lots and lots of tea. And I still smile and laugh. I do these things because human nature is to go on living, because my nature is to be happy, because I'm grateful for this life.

I'm grateful I get to experience all the beauty and love in this world. I'm grateful for my husband Alex, always. I'm grateful I finally decided to let myself fall in love with him. (I'm grateful Alex was so patient and persistent.)

I'm grateful for all the friends and family who love me and support me. All the people who never get tired of hearing about Anya, who never hesitate to wrap me in their arms and fill my heart with warmth. All the people who write to me, knowing I compulsively check for new messages, needy for hope and love.

I'm never going to be as happy as I used to be. I will never have that same assurance that everything is going to be okay. I will never feel so perfectly joyful and satisfied that everything in my life is as it should be. To paraphrase a friend, I am Kayleigh + Anya now and a part of me will always be missing.

So instead of striving for greater happiness, I've decided to experience more love and compassion. I've decided to share more kindness and to give more generosity. In this new life of mine, I will spread as much love as I can to those around me. Because love always grows, even as happiness waxes and wanes.

Monday, February 10, 2014

Coping

From time to time, as mourning parents, we hear some odd compliments. Things like 'Great job getting out of bed and doing something with your day'.

And we're surprisingly thankful to hear that. 

It's a reminder that we could easily (and understandably) still be hiding from the world.

For the first few days, that's all we could do. Doing our best to cope was getting out of bed. Crying. Writing. Thankfully, we were lucky enough to have Kayleigh's mom and sister (Michelle & Sarah) to take care of us. 

Little by little, we were able to start setting some goals. Things outside of what absolutely needed to be done. Very short term goals, at first - things that we should do today, like getting 15 minutes of sunshine (on our midwife's advice). 

Then, we were able to look a little further. Sign up for a support group. Seek psychological help. And schedule some distractions (thanks Sarah).

Coping with the loss of Anya has been a different struggle every day. Sometimes it means talking about it. Sometimes it's about staying distracted. Sometimes it's even staying home depressed. It's like being lost in a forest without a compass or a map. I don't know which route to take, or what obstacles we'll face. All we can do is stick with the route that feels right, and hope that it only gets smoother from here. 

So far, it's not a smooth road. It gets a little better, then it gets a little worse. We've so far been wonderful at reminding each other that in the horizon, our future still looks beautiful. But we need to get there.

And so many of you are helping us get there. With every word of support, with every thought. With every distracting message. We are not going through this difficult journey alone, and that's all that we could have asked for.

Today is Day 54. Today was a difficult day. Day 55 might be better. But if it's not, that's okay too. 


Tuesday, February 4, 2014

A Gift to My Daughter, A Gift to Myself

A snow angel for my baby girl
Lately it seems every day is just as hard as the day before, if not harder.

I try to find a balance between letting myself feel: the sadness, the pain, the anger, and keeping myself busy with things I enjoy: friends, books, crafts, yoga, my husband.

But it isn't easy, there is a big black hole inside me that I can't fill. I keep imagining my heart falling out of my chest, blood and all.

People tell me to be strong. I try, mostly for Alex, but also because I know that there are so many people and so many things I still love about life. I know one day I will be happy and life will be good again, though it will never be as good, as absolutely perfect as the 9 months of bliss I shared with my husband and my daughter in 2013.

People tell me to honour Anya. I've thought about this phrase a lot: Honour Anya. What does that mean? I can't honour Anya, she isn't here.

Yesterday, walking through the pristine fresh snow, soaking in the bright rays of the afternoon sun, I finally figured out what honouring Anya means to me.

It means making sure that Anya is a force for good in my life. Remembering all the love she brought to our family. Remembering to appreciate all the wonderful people and things around me.

Most importantly of all, honouring Anya means refusing to let the pain of her death overshadow the love and joy of her life. It means not letting Anya's death become the moment when my life fell apart, and I couldn't put it back together again.

Friday, January 31, 2014

This Happens to Other People

There isn't a single week that goes by without newspapers printing sad headlines. Headlines of deadly accidents... rare diseases. These things happen in life, and we're all very much aware of it. We know it happens. But it happens to other people. People who are meant to exist only in headlines.

For the rest of us, life is supposed to be reasonably predictable. The drive home will be safe. You will get over that cold. And your children will outlive you, bring you joy, and be the greatest legacy you could leave behind.

Seemingly healthy babies do not die. 

On December 19th 2013, and in the days that followed, Kayleigh and I were forced to consider questions that we simply could never have fathomed having to consider. How could we have? Losing a baby after a perfect pregnancy is simply not something that happens.

The first difficult question: "Would you like there to be an autopsy?" 

I can absolutely understand why some parents would opt not to have one. "You want to do... what... to my baby?". For us, even while we were still holding our daughter, we knew we needed to have answers. If we could not fix what happened, maybe we can learn something that will be useful next time.

The second difficult question: "Would you like to cremate her?". 

It's hard to understand how people decide where to draw a line - but for us, this was an option we could not even consider from the outset. We had recently done our wills, and when discussing the question, we were both okay with cremation - in theory. But to be holding your newborn baby, and asked to consider whether her body should be destroyed? It was simply not something we were able to say yes to.

"Would you like there to be a funeral?"

In hindsight, I am glad we did. But it wasn't an obvious choice. "Why should we?" we asked "No one even had a chance to know her. What is there to remember?". The outpouring of support, though, played a good part in convincing us that we were far from the only ones grieving. Offering a place for our amazing friends and colleagues to show their support was good for all of us. A moment of togetherness, in honour of our daughter, is a beautiful memory to have.

"Where should she be buried?"

There is a cemetery a short walking distance from our house. But even when we found out that they could do a burial in the winter, it wasn't as obvious a choice as it might seem. The cemetery is right along our daily commute- would we be okay being reminded of Anya every single working day? We discussed it, and decided that, really, the last thing we would want to do is forget. A reminder - any reminder- of our beautiful daughter is something that we cannot turn into a negative. Including her grave.

What I Have to Believe

We still don't know what happened to Anya. We are hoping the autopsy results will give us answers, but we may never know. At the moment, I'm okay with that.

When speaking of Anya, people often ask me:

  • Would you still want to be followed by a midwife in the future?
  • Do you think it would have made a difference if Anya had been born in a hospital?
  • Would you return to the birth centre next time you're in labour?

And what I ask myself:
  • Was I too blazé when I was pregnant? Was I careful enough?
  • Was it something I ate?
  • Did my pelvis somehow crush Anya's head and cause her brain to hemorrhage?
  • If I had pushed harder, longer, faster, would Anya still be alive?

Here is what I have to believe to stay sane and not drive myself crazy with guilt and what ifs:

Yes, I would still be followed by a midwife in the future - or at least some combination of a midwife and a doctor, depending on the autopsy or any future test results. I trust our midwives completely. If test results indicated medical expertise was necessary, I know they would recommend (and I would want) to be followed by a doctor. Our midwives took the time to get to know Anya, and now they are caring for our hearts. I don't think I could get through my next pregnancy and birth without their support.

No, I don't think it would have made a difference if I had been in a hospital instead of the birth centre. I ask myself this question a lot. Sure, if I had been in a hospital, they may have used forceps or done an emergency C-section, and Anya might have been born 15 minutes earlier. But I believe Anya would still have died. We met a couple recently, in a very similar situation to us. Their son was born in a hospital, after an emergency C-section, but that didn't save him from dying. Medical advances have made a huge difference in childbirth. But we can't control life and death, and sometimes seemingly healthy babies still die.

Next time I give birth, it will be in a hospital. As much as I have to believe it wouldn't have made a difference if Anya had been born in a hospital, I do have a tiny, minuscule sliver of doubt. And that is enough to sway my decision.

As for the questions I ask myself, I realize they are mostly irrational. Still, I will be less blazé - less naive really - throughout my next pregnancy, I will be more attentive to what I eat, and I will try to remain sane knowing I may never have answers to the question Was it something I did?

Wednesday, January 29, 2014

Who Are You My Daughter?

Anya,

You left us so quickly, we barely got the chance to get to know each other. Everyday I think about who you were, and who you might have been.

What I know about you, my dear sweet daughter:

  • You were calm. You moved softly and gently within me.
  • You shared my love of nature. You were with me, kayaking on Stones Lake, on lac Poisson blanc; swimming in Taylor Lake; splashing in the Atlantic Ocean.
  • You shared my love of Anne of Green Gables, as I read to you in the bath, as we visited in PEI together. You and I were kindred spirits.
  • You were efficient like dad. You were conceived in a blink of an eye. You were positioned head down, low in my womb and ready to go after as few as 5 months of pregnancy. You were determined to be born as soon as you reached full term. You came to us after 7 short hours of labour.
  • You had beautiful, curly, red hair.
  • You were meant to come into our lives. Dad and I knew we were having you, Anya, before you were even conceived. We were always going to have you, Anya.

What I wonder about who you might have been:

  • What colour would your eyes have been, once you grew out of the baby blue eyes phase?
  • What would your smile have looked like? Would your laughter have been quiet or loud?
  • Would you have liked school? What would your passions have been?
  • What would your flaws have been?
  • What kind of a mother would you have been? I keep wanting to imagine you pregnant, in labour, giving birth, and caring for your children.
  • Would your hair have stayed curly and red? Would you have liked your red hair?
I wish I could watch you grow up and share my life with you. I imagine you a baby, a young girl, a teenager, a grown woman, all at once, in a blink of an eye. All the things you will never be!

But I won't despair Anya, because you were! You existed. We shared our lives together. And I loved you.

Mom


Saturday, January 25, 2014

Our Birth Story (Part 2)

December 19, 2013

6:59 AM

Mom:


Our midwife brought you to the reanimation table. Everything happened so quickly.

I was confused - in shock. I didn’t know what was happening.

You weren’t breathing or crying. I couldn’t go to you. My body had nothing left. I couldn’t even sit up. And there was the placenta to come still.

I told dad to go to you - to comfort you.

I was lying in bed - powerless, confused. I wanted to be with you! You should still have been on my belly, skin to skin.

I hadn’t even seen your face. I had to ask dad to check that you really were a girl! I felt desperate - things were not as they should be!

The paramedics were there to help. I watched as our midwife intubated you. Dad and Mamie watched, hoped - helpless, powerless.

Someone decided it was time to transfer you to the hospital. Dad would follow. I really, really insisted Mamie accompany him - drive - to the hospital. I could see dad falling apart - and I couldn’t go with him or be there for him - the best I could do was make sure he wasn’t alone.

Our midwife went ahead in the ambulance. Dad and Mamie got ready to go. The second midwife insisted they drink a few sips of juice, take some breaths.

Dad didn’t look well - he was lost, so worried, in such shock. We never ever expected this!


Dad brought me my cell phone, so I wouldn’t be totally alone. He kissed me. He left. He was going to you Anya, as fast as he could!

Dad: 

In that minute, my beautiful Anya, you were born. You were alive. My initial reaction was to be stunned - You weren't yet crying, or moving, but I kept telling myself 'this scary moment is something that many, many parents go through'. It would only last a moment, then things would be normal.

Our midwife massaged you, to get you to start breathing on your own. I saw you start to turn pink. I smiled a little. "I think.. I think this is good." Suddenly, I was asked to cut the cord - my brain didn't have the time to process the request. Our midwife cut the cord, and placed you on the reanimation table.

Your heart was beating. You just needed a little extra help, I told myself. I watched as our midwives started doing chest compressions. After a few seconds, mom asked if you were okay. I couldn't answer. I didn't know what to answer. I was stunned, and I felt more powerless than I ever had in my life. I managed to reach and grab your tiny hand. "Dad is here", I thought, "Come on, Anya. Cry."

But you didn't cry. You needed to go to the hospital. And just like that, for the first time, our family was apart.

"I can't leave my love just a few minutes after she gave birth!", I thought. But your mom insisted. After being incredibly strong through labour, she somehow managed to be incredibly selfless in letting me go to you. She insisted that Mamie drive, seeing that I wasn't in any shape to go by myself. After a sip of juice, and telling mom how much I loved her, I was off.


7:20 AM

Mom: 

Our second midwife came to care for me. Sometime in the past few minutes, I had delivered the placenta. I only vaguely remember noticing as it happened…

There had been a bit of tearing. She stitched me up.

Someone washed me with a warm cloth.

Dad:

With Mamie, on the way to the hospital, she thought it would be a good idea for me to call my mom. I did. I asked her to head to the hospital - something was wrong. For the first time, I thought 'What if she doesn't make it?'. Before that, the worst that could happen, in my mind, was that you might have lacked oxygen, and it could have caused damage. 


7:30 AM

Dad:

We arrived at the hospital. I went to the emergency department, and told them that I was here for my daughter. They asked me for some information, then I was led to a waiting room just outside the ambulance entrance. They told us that the doctor would be with us as soon as possible.

Then we waited. And waited. The wait felt like forever. I asked doctors passing by 'Can I see my daughter? Is she OK?'. I was met with a 'Someone will be out soon'. No one could tell me that you were alive. I've never felt anxiety like I felt during those long, long minutes.


Mom:

There was a police officer in the hall. He said he had to check the room. I should have known then that something was really wrong. I was in shock!

Our second midwife covered me. The police officer looked in. He gave instructions not to move anything in the room - in the beautiful orange room in which I had dreamed of welcoming you to the world! (I wonder how many healthy babies have been born in that same room since…)

I kept asking myself what I had done wrong. It felt like the police officer was there to check that I had taken proper care of my baby. All the officer said to me was: Bonjour. Yet I felt so guilty, by his mere presence…

The police officer returned to the hall.

The birth attendant made me some food.

I was famished! In shock - and famished! All I could focus on was the food in front of me. I ate muesli cereal with milk and fresh fruit. It was the best bowl of cereal of my life! (If it seems irrational that I would want to eat at a moment like this… I can’t stress how categorically hungry and unable to think of anything else I was in that moment.) I ate 2 toasts with PB & J. And I ate an over easy egg.


8:00 AM

Dad:

My mom arrived. We still hadn't heard anything. We kept waiting. And waiting. There was a group of paramedics standing around, chatting... acting so normal. I finally lost it.  In anger, I told them: "We've been waiting for god knows how long - I would really, really want to know if my daughter is alive. Can you please get the doctor?"

The doctor came out, with our midwife. I hurriedly asked "Is she OK???". He shook his head. "Did... she die?". He nodded. 

My poor Anya.

That was the moment where I completely fell apart. 

I cried like I never had before. In the midst of it, the doctor was explaining that they had tried everything. Our midwife, visibly shaken, tried to explain how you had always been a low risk birth. I angrily answered something along the lines of 'Then how did she die??'.

I couldn't stand anymore. 

I don't remember the next few minutes very well. My mom hugged me. Mamie hugged me. They started making calls. 

I was asked if I wanted to see you. I nodded. They told me that I couldn't touch you, not until the coroner had signed off. I was taken into the ICU. On a stretcher, there you were. Looking so beautiful. Asleep. A police officer was on guard, close to you. A doctor explained that we would be given a room for the day, and that we would be able to see you again when the sign-off had happened. 

We walked towards the elevators. Numb. Stunned. "This isn't what was supposed to happen."

Mom:

I was left alone for a time. There were two other women giving birth now, where before we had been alone.

I called or texted your aunt Sarah… I don’t even remember now. She would make her way to Gatineau.

I tried to call two of my coworkers, but there was no answer.

I asked to go to the bathroom and a new midwife (that I was just meeting for the first time) helped me.

I asked for my midwife… (not the one who had delivered you, but the one who we saw regularly - the one who was supposed to have been there for your birth… in my mind at least). I knew her. I trusted her. But she wasn’t available.

8:15 AM

Mom:

I kept asking if there had been any news from the hospital. No, there hadn’t.

I kept asking if I should express some milk for later. I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to produce milk for you if we were apart too long.

I was in shock, in denial. I refused to believe anything serious was happening. You were going to be OK. You needed a bit of help, but you would be fine. And you were going to need me to feed you, my daughter, my Anya. It was going to be my job to take care of you.

8:30 AM

Mom:

The birth attendant  was sitting with me. The new midwife came in and asked her to call my midwife. The attendant was confused - Why? She wasn’t on call? She wasn’t supposed to come into work this early. The new midwife said to do it because I had asked for her, because I wanted her, needed her.

I saw that she was trying to communicate something with her eyes. I panicked and started to cry for the first time. I had seen it in her eyes: they knew something they weren’t telling me. They knew you had died! Or so I thought…

The new midwife asked me what was wrong, if I had felt something in my connection with my baby.

I shouted inwardly: No! I can’t feel what’s happening to my baby! No one’s telling me anything! I have no idea what’s going on! Is Anya OK? Is my daughter still alive?

I didn’t express those thoughts out loud though… I explained to her that I thought I had seen something, bad news in her eyes. I thought she knew something and wasn’t telling me. I thought that was why she had asked that my midwife be called. She told me (Pretended? I still wonder…): No news yet.

Sometime later, my midwife's trainee arrived. We had been on the phone with her a few hours earlier, she was the one who reminded us about the pressure points, with her soothing voice… before our world fell apart… She took care of me. She hugged me. She showed compassion. I felt taken care of, truly, for the first time all morning. What a gentle soul!

I went to the washroom again, with some help to walk across the room.

I waited.

I suddenly noticed how tired my body was, how sore my legs and arms were. She massaged me.

I waited.

9:00 AM

Mom:

My midwife arrived. Again, I asked: should I express some milk for Anya? She suggested we wait until we arrived at the hospital. (Again, I wonder how much they already knew…?)

Would it be too late to express milk if we waited? No, she said. My body knew how to produce milk. (Little did I realize then that my body wouldn’t know when it didn’t need to produce milk…)

I waited.

All through the wait, I held on to hope. Everything would be OK. The doctors were helping my baby, and I would be with her soon. It would be as if none of this had happened. Life would go back to the way it was, the way it was supposed to be.

I waited.

9:30 AM

Mom:

We were waiting for an ambulance. Legally, the birth house couldn’t discharge me, couldn’t let me go, for at least 3 hours - except in an ambulance.

It was rush hour. There was a snowstorm and lots of road accidents. My health was not at risk. I was fine. The paramedics had other priorities.

Everything was perfectly normal with my recovery, just as everything had been perfectly normal all through my pregnancy. So what could have happened?

Eventually, we were on our way. Enough waiting with no idea what was happening to my daughter!

The roads were slippery and snowy. I don’t remember if anyone spoke on the ride to the hospital. It was a short drive. I don’t think I thought of anything much… I noticed how the world continued on, though I was staying still, in limbo. To me it seemed that everything had stopped.

I remember very specifically my thoughts as we turned into the hospital. It was the first time I let myself think about what might be happening, what might have already happened, to you.

I wondered if you would live. I wondered if you would have severe brain damage or serious health problems. I wondered which outcome was worse… for you… for dad and I. And I’m ashamed of that thought. 

I should have wanted you to live no matter what! I shouldn’t even have wondered if there was a fate worse than death! Yet every now and then I still come back to that question. What if you couldn’t move and you couldn’t communicate, couldn’t understand the world around you? What kind of life is that? Would you, could you, have been happy? Would your dad and I have been happy? Would I have been able to love you as deeply, as wholly as you deserved? As much as I love you now?

9:45 AM

Mom:

We arrived at the hospital.

My midwife went inside to get a wheelchair. We had to walk (waddle) to the entrance. I settled into the wheelchair, and she wheeled me into the elevator.

I don’t remember having any thoughts in that moment. I must have been in shock, in denial still, protecting myself from what was to come.

She wheeled me into our room.

There was dad.

I remember… he was wearing a red t-shirt.

He looked at me, and he shook his head with sadness and despair in his eyes. And I knew you had died.

I thought: What? No! She was mine!

And I broke down crying. Your dad and I held each other.

Dad:

We had been waiting in the room for at least the last hour. I was getting angry that they hadn't managed to get your mom here, yet - She deserved to know. I imagined how anxious she must be - probably a mirror of what I had experienced downstairs, outside the ICU. I wanted to be there for her so very much.

Before your mom arrived, I got to hold you for the first time, my beautiful child. I wanted so badly to take care of you. 

When we received word that mom was on her way, they took you away for a little while - our wonderful nurse was wise enough to recognize that if she saw you being held, your mom would get the wrong impression.

She arrived, in a wheelchair. I shook my head, and mumbled 'She didn't make it'. Your mom said "No. But... She was mine... She was mine."

We held each other.

The rest of the day:

Mom:

We spent the day together in that hospital room. When the nurse first asked me if I wanted to hold you, I hesitated, though only for a moment. I was horrified that to see you would mean I couldn’t deny it, you had really died.

I took you in my arms Anya, and I cried. You were beautiful. You were perfect. You were real - you had really been born - you had really existed!

You were mine, my daughter, and you had died.

Dad:

That day is still a blur. So much of your family came to see you that day, my beautiful Anya. I wish you could have seen how loved you were. I held you, looked at you, and tried to tell you about all the things we should have gotten to do together. I had so much to show you. Your wonderful home was ready for you, if only you would wake up. 

But you didn't. 


On today's playlist: