Oh my...

I think I'm pregnant....

These days...

It's been a few weeks since I blogged. I've been feeling a little better, but this morning, for some reason, I woke up with a lot of anger and feeling so painfully jealous of people who are pregnant or who have gotten to keep their babies. Even the ones who also lost a baby. At least they have one, had another one, type of feeling. At least they're pregnant, type of feeling. It really really hurts today.
There's something I haven't mentioned yet. My sister is pregnant. My younger sister. She thought it would be fun for us to do this together. It would have. But she found out about 10 days after we lost Evangeline. So, she conceived right before we lost her. We knew it was a possibility that this would happen, but bless her soul, she told me that if she hadn't conceived she would wait for us to start trying again. That's how much she loves me. Unfortunately, life takes strange and unfair turns that we can't yet understand. So, my belly and arms are empty. While she's nervous, she has the hope and the naivety of joy. Yes, I know she has lost some of that innocence, watching our pain, but God willing, she will never know what I know. That the very heart of your soul can be almost literally ripped out and you will have to find a way to go on. She's 10 weeks today. I would be almost 32 weeks.

Today is a hard day. Today is a hard day, but I have to keep in mind that there have been many better days in between. Most days are almost okay. I got a tattoo of her name, on my wrist. It makes me feel better. However, it did not dawn on me until after that there will forever be questions from strangers or acquaintances as to what it means. I will need to find an answer. A simple sentence to explain without making people feel horrible. Because I want people to ask about her. I want people to know. She is my daughter and I will talk about her every opportunity I get.

I ordered a book called "Born to Fly-An Infant's Journey to God" by Cindy Claussen. It's a short little book, a conversation between a baby in his mother's womb, and God. It goes through this infant discovering his parents and their love for him which he reciprocates, to his journeying to God and asking God to protect his beloved parents until they can all be together. It brought so many tears, but this time they felt warm, and healing. Not like the hot tears of pure grief or the cold tears of anger. I recommend it to anyone who needs another step on their path to resolution. I found it at http://www.borntoflyonline.com

The doctor has already given us the green light, whenever we're ready. How can we ever decide that? It's in His hands, because I'm terrified.

Our memorial mass

     Once again, we are surrounded by love and support from all sides. We know how blessed we are to have these people in our lives. We arrived at the church yesterday to see that there were already many people there, aside from my dad, aunt and uncle who were practicing the songs, many people from Patrick's church in the West Island had come all that way to help us celebrate Evangeline's short life and to mourn with us. My family was there, and so many friends. For such a tiny little baby, there were so many people who loved her already.
    The priest we had asked to lead the service, was the same priest who married us. I found so much of what he had to say, so very insightful. He said that Evangeline came to prepare the way. He also talked about how her name means "a little good news", and she was. In the short time we had her with us, she was the best news for us. Even on a bad day, all I had to do was think of her, and know she was coming, for everything to suddenly be okay. And now she's come and gone, and here I am, changed. I am a mother. My daughter is an angel. I had a baby. I have a baby. We are orphaned parents for now, but parents still. Yesterday was a difficult day, but I know the worst is behind me. I know that the future isn't what it used to be. But we still have a future. And hope.
     I guess I'm sad today. I didn't expect that. I thought I would feel more closure, but I feel like I've put her in the past, and she doesn't belong there. She belongs in the present and in our future. I need to find a way to keep her there. I miss her terribly....with every ounce of my being.

Last night

...at Fabricville, I met another woman in my family tree of grief. (I stole that term from Elizabeth McCracken, an author who writes about her experience in her book An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination)

I was buying light pink ribbon, meters and meters of it (50, to be exact) to wrap around little votive candles with Eva's picture and birth/death date, to be given out at her memorial mass. I figured I'd buy extra (I needed about 42 meters, by our calculations), and Natalie (my sister in law) said I could keep the rest if I have another daughter. So I smiled a funny smile and said "Yeah...." The saleswoman who had been helping us look and measure and choose said "Oh, how old is the baby?" So, I stopped, turned around and said, "Actually, I was pregnant, and we lost her at 23 weeks" and she said the best thing she could say in that moment. "Oh, honey, I lost a baby at 7 1/2 months, I understand. There's nothing anyone can say and most people say the wrong thing but this is all you can do." She opened her arms to me and I leaned forward and hugged her back. She went from a stranger, to someone who knows me better than many people. She said when it happened to her, people would say things like "At least you didn't get to know him", and I said "People like to tell me at least I'm young and I can have more", so she replied, paralleling what my heart says each time I hear that phrase "But you won't have her..."
So, after that I left that area to pay and turned back to her and said "I'll be thinking of you," to which she replied "I'll be thinking of you." Strange how not alone I am, that even in the fabric store, I find someone who understands and also wants to share.

Over supper with my in-laws last night, my mother in law (love her!) also asked Patrick what he would have wanted his brother to be named. Louise is another mother who understands. She lost a baby too. Patrick's twin brother. The boys were born at 30 weeks, and his brother lived only a few hours, a result of anencephaly. He's always been known as Pat's brother, or more officially Baby B or Bébé Deux. And so last night they named him. Benjamin Joseph Denis Cormier. Patrick's brother finally has a name. Louise said last night that she had always wanted to name him, but wanted Patrick to help. She wanted him to like the name. Now that he understands the loss too, it was the right time. We really like the name Ben, and will keep it on our list if we ever have a boy.

Then I spent hours trying little pink bows on candles, attaching my babygirl's picture. Louise and Natalie helped too, but had to leave to drive back home and sleep. It was a labour of love. Pat eventually went to bed and I stayed up and finished. They're really pretty, and I think I have enough to give them to some people I know would appreciate them. It was a good night. Still, I'm looking forward to tomorrow afternoon, when the mass will be over, and we can look to the future.

"One day this will be a grace in your lives."

Today, Patrick and I met with the priest who will be presiding over the memorial mass we're having this weekend. He started by saying that there were many people praying for us and named some in particular. At this point, he went to the door, because there was someone outside. It was one of the women he had just referred to, Anna. She wanted to offer her condolences. Then she shared that she and her husband had also lost their first baby, a boy. She said that it had taken her close to 9 years and three more children, to get to a place where she felt resolved and at peace with losing Arthur. She spoke lovingly of her children and the special relationship they have with the older brother they've never met. She also mentioned that she considers herself to have four children, not just the three surviving ones. In her, I felt hope. I have said over the past month, that I know there is hope, that women have shared stories with me that inspire hope in me, but this was concrete. She said that her second baby, a girl, was turning 24 today. And then she said something that I have heard in different forms in the last little while, but have not believed until the words came from her mouth. "One day, this will be a grace in your lives." She said that she still loves and misses her first born, but that she loves him as she loves his siblings, and each magnifies the love for the other. I so look forward to being there, where she is now, 25 years later. She spoke of the joy she and her husband felt when the doctor placed her second baby on her, healthy and pink and real. And that she would love to meet our second baby. I felt such love coming from her, and for her, and don't think she could ever realize how much. I hope to one day, be that love and hope for someone else. That would be a grace.

I miss you my sweet babygirl....

The gift of music ♪

     The other day, I was in my neighbour's car on our way out for supper and we were talking about how certain things can stir up memories all of a sudden. Things like a smell, or a taste of something, or a song. It led me to think about music in general. There are songs, that when I hear them now, I can remember being in an entirely different place and still feel those same feelings. For example, when I hear "Please don't go Girl" by the New Kids on the Block, I'm back in my old bedroom, on the top bunk, with a friend from school on the bottom, and we're making long loopy chains of coloured jelly bracelets. Wow, right?
     This led me to think that it goes further than that. Sometimes, there's a song I've heard a bunch of times, and don't really have any feelings associated with it. Until something happens. The other day, I decided to bring my iPod with me on the treadmill instead of reading a magazine like I often do. I started playing songs on YouTube, looking up songs that I've heard and like, that might bring me comfort (I was feeling sad, and thinking about BabyGirl). So, I went to a song called Bring on the Rain by Jo Dee Messina. Nice song, kinda fit my down mood, but I knew I needed something more inspirational. So, in scrolling down the side I found a song I had heard before, called Bring the Rain by MercyMe. Yowza. I was inspired to type up the lyrics and post them on my FB page, just to have them there, and perhaps inspire others going through difficult times. The song is about accepting to have the bad times, with the good times, if it's all for God's greater glory. I needed to hear it just then. So I was on the treadmill, running, and listening to the music, and crying, and praying and running, and crying... And then I remembered another song that my aunt had shown me a few weeks ago, that I had forgotten about from years back. This was "The Anchor Holds" by Ray Roltz. Now, this song hit me even harder. The only reason I didn't post this song on FB was because it hit me too hard, perhaps. It was too personal. I felt, in that moment, as the crying had turned to heavy sobs (try running and sobbing one day...it's an experience) that the song was written for me. While day to day, I'm getting by, and even feeling happen, or at least myself about half the time, this is still the most unimaginable pain, and the biggest void I've ever felt. And yet...the Anchor holds. Here are the lyrics.


I have journeyed
through the long dark night
out on the open sea
by faith alone
sight unknown
and yet His eyes were watching me

CHORUS
The anchor holds
though the ship is battered
the anchor holds
though the sails are torn
I have fallen on my knees
as I faced the raging seas
the anchor holds
in spite of the storm

I've had visions
I've had dreams
I've even held them in my hand
but I never knew
they would slip right through
like they were only grains of sand

CHORUS

I have been young
but I am older now
and there has been beauty these eyes have seen
but it was in the night
through the storms of my life
ohh thats where God proved His love to me

CHORUS

CHORUS 




     The second verse about having dreams that you've held in your hand, only to have them vanish like sand....That's it, right there. I am back in the hospital, holding my sweet little girl in my hands. And then I'm at her burial, holding her tiny little urn, with the grains of sand that were left of her. And yet, the Anchor holds. 
     I have felt Him even in these moments, these days, these weeks. I know it is only because of Him that I am standing, and even smiling. He has put incredible people on this road with us, from our families, our friends, our neighbours, to the incredible women (friends and strangers) who have reached out to me to say that I'm not alone. That is Him, comforting me. Putting the right people in our path. That day, I needed something, and so He sent me these songs, to help me get through the moment and to the next....

Tomorrow...

Good morning! Today is finally Friday, which means we're closer to next week, when my husband once again falls on his week off, after this horribly long week of night shift! We're both looking forward to it. I was dreading this week, as he was doing this very shift when we lost our angel, (lost our baby? gained an angel?) and he hadn't had to do it since. It has gone by faster than I expected, which means 1) that I'm becoming more comfortable in my own company again (yippee!) and 2) that nothing is really as bad as I dread it will be.
Even the pain.
Of course, that first weekend, in the hospital, was worse. Worse than anyone can imagine. As were the first few days. Okay, maybe weeks. And everyday there are moments of profound loss, grief and horribleness. But, as the grief counsellor I talked to suggested, when I allow these feelings to naturally come, they also naturally go...
The hardest part, lately (because it changes often), is dealing with the idea of next year. Dealing with the due date, and all the events we were looking forward to celebrating as a family. I was due sometime between Jan. 31st and Feb 3rd, and they say most first pregnancies go past the due date, but we knew that Evangeline would be here by Valentine's Day, our own little cupid. (Indeed she is!) We looked forward to celebrating Easter as a family, our first mother's/father's day. Patrick's parents had wanted to rent a beach house on the coast of Delaware as his family did when he was younger. I envisioned laying out near the water, with our sweet little dark haired baby on a blanket, sleeping peacefully. And there'd be Thanksgiving, and we'd be thankful for her and all that she'd brought us in those first 9 months, and her first Halloween. She was going to be a ladybug. The costume was waiting for us at Véro's. And finally Christmas, she'd be almost a year old. Next year will be so difficult.
These are the things that hurt the most, not just losing her, but losing this chunk of what would have been, what should have been. Part of our own future is gone, with her. And it's not fair, but that's the way it is.
People like to say "you'll get over it", "you'll move on", "time heals all wounds", but it doesn't. Not this kind of wound. I don't want to move on, I want my baby. I don't want to forget about her, and put her in the past. She belongs in my future, not in the past. Moms like me, I imagine, are constantly struggling to keep their babies alive in their hearts now, not just in the past. One day, God willing, I will have more babies, more healthy, full term babies who will know my voice and call me "mommy". But this first baby, Evangeline, will be just as real to me as she is now, just as loved as the babies I hope to have. That's why it's so important when people tell me they'll remember her. It makes it easier for me, not to have to go around and remind everyone...

Yes, I lost my first baby. Her name was Evangeline. She would be just over a month old today. I love her and miss her everyday.

One month. ❀

This morning I woke up to sunshine. It's not what I expected today. I expected dark cloudy skies, wind and rain and maybe snow, freezing all it touches. But instead, it's warm (for November) and sunny. I guess it parallels this past month in a way. I thought, on Oct. 3rd, that I would never recover from this pain, I thought that on Oct. 9th too, at the burial, and the following week. But then something started happening. I swear it's because I started praying hard than ever, just for God to give me peace, to heal my heart and my spirit. I complained to my dad that He wasn't working fast enough. So, my wise father asked if I had given my pain fully to God. Well, no. Then he reminded me of a little poem magnet we had stuck on the fridge growing up:

Like children bring their broken toys with tears for us to mend
I brought my broken dreams to God because he was my friend
And then instead of leaving Him in peace to work alone
I stuck around and tried to help in ways that were my own
At last I snatched them back and said "How could you be so slow?"
"My child," he said, "what could I do? You never did let go."

(Author unknown)

Indeed. It's a lot like that. I think part of my spirit is recovering slowly because I feel like maybe I can make a difference, like I can do something. That will come in pain. That's not to say that I'm feeling no pain and that I'm back to my old self. There is no old self, that's how deep this wound was felt. She is dead. I am in the process of rebuilding this new me. I was talking to a friend the other day and I kept saying, in conversation "Before...you know..." about things I had said and done and felt before we lost Evangeline and realized that I see life as very B.E and A.E. Before we lost Eva and after we lost Eva. I had one such life change when my parents split up, but that was over 10 years ago, and luckily, while that feeling of before/after divorce is still there when I think about those days, it's no longer a reference point in my daily life. It will remain to be seen whether this will be.
I miss her so. I miss everything about her, even the things I had dreamed for the future. Her death took away a chunk of my life, part of "what lies ahead" is gone and can never come back. There will always be scars. Perhaps, like an episiotomy, when the heart rips apart, the scar is stronger, heals better, than with careful little cuts. Maybe I'm just lucky that I know how to grieve.  It was hard to fall asleep, alone, last night (we are back to the night shift for Patrick) as I kept thinking, "one month ago, I was in a hospital bed and the world was crashing down around my heart"...

But today, I see the sun shining and feel like Eva is smiling and playing up there and that while all is not well, maybe all is at it should be.

♥

Not alone...

     Yesterday I heard the news about British pop singer Lily Allen and her boyfriend Sam Cooper. They were 6 months pregnant and lost their baby this past weekend. Just last week I was musing that while every now and then a celebrity will come out and say they've suffered a miscarriage in the past, it is rare (I guess as rare as it is in "normal" pregnancies) that they share stories of later pregnancy losses. Since yesterday, as I've scoured the internet for new about what happened to them, I've found a few others... But there's such a sense of shame around the whole thing.
     It's only now, living through this, that I notice how taboo this topic is. I've known people who've had miscarriages, and unless they've told me about it themselves, I'll avoid the topic. I've felt sympathetic to their pain, but couldn't imagine it. So, I would say nothing. I don't think it dawned on me to offer condolences for their loss. I know better now. I also know that the father needs love and support as well.
     This feels like a scattered, disjointed post, and I'm sorry for that. What I'm trying to say is that pregnancy loss shouldn't be this way! When a couple loses a child, we are allowed and expected to condole and grieve with the parents. This baby that I carried in my womb, the babies of all these women- these are our children. They're not foreign ideas or concept or tissue matter. They are, truly, tiny little perfect babies. Even in their imperfections, should that be the case, they are perfect to us. We should be allowed to share our stories as much as any other mother. It seems our society has a hard time with death in general. We don't know what to say, how to say it, what to do. I can tell you, for myself, even the words "I don't know what to say", bring a sense of comfort. A sense that my loss is larger than words can allow. And it is. A hug. A gentle "how are you holding up?" or "do you need anything?" Those all work very well. Ask me about our daughter! Ask me who she looked like, what her name is....
     I wonder if perhaps, my meaning in all this will be to help others. I feel already like it brings me a sense of comfort and peace to reach out to others who are hurting in this way. I was reading about the celebrations held all across North America on October 15th, to remember our babies. There is nothing in Quebec. Not one. In Ontario, I think I counted about 10 different public candle lightings. Not here. Although I have a few theories as to why this is, I don't fully understand. But, I think if I'm in a place next year where I can make that little difference, I'd like to do that.

*****

I was wondering this morning, as I watched the usual parade of horrible memories in my mind, whether it will ever stop. I know, it's barely been a month (tomorrow in fact...), but will I ever have a quiet peaceful moment, not invaded by the memories of that weekend in the hospital? All the things leading up to our losing our little sweetheart play through my mind. Conversations between us and nurses, things the doctors said, pushing, hoping, the fear, those minutes when they told me and life changed in a instant....

<3

My husband ♥

     I was just thinking back, to all the little babies that have come into our life in the time since Patrick and I have been together. The first was my little brother, Zach. (He turned 5 this summer) I remember the first day that Patrick met him, he was probably 2-3 days old. He flat out refused to hold this little bundle, afraid that he would break him/hurt him/make him cry. But I, being the stubborn girlfriend, like any girl, wanted to see how my new-ish boyfriend looked with a baby in his arms. I got up, put the baby in his arms and backed away. There's a picture somewhere of Patrick looking terrified and mystified at the same time. I think he's still kinda annoyed about that. Since then, he has flat out refused to hold any infant who he considers still breakable. Oh, he's the guy all toddlers love as he blows raspberries on bellies and throws shrieking kids as high as parents allow, but babies scare him.
     When we were in labour, the nurse asked if we would want to see/hold our little angel after it was over and my immediate reaction was, of course! Patrick was much more hesitant. I'm not sure how much of it was his fear of the unknown, (would she even look okay??) and how much was his fear of babies. He agreed immediately, just by hearing my relief at the idea of once, just once, holding our little girl. When the time came to bring her back in after the labour process was finished and the nurses had done whatever needed to be done, our room was cleared as the nurses wheeled her in. One nurse handed her to me, ever so gently and I was stunned by how tiny and light she felt in my hands. Her father and I stared at her through our tears, and the nurse took a few pictures for us. Then they left us alone. I kissed her and told her how I loved her, that I was sorry, and that I would have done anything to keep her. Then I told Patrick he could hold her. I half expected him to say no, but there was no hesitancy. He took her gently from my arms and caressed her. He could have held her on one arm, but he held her with both as he cried and whispered words of love to his first born. He held her, that afternoon, even longer than I did. He told me he couldn't put her down, but I think he meant that he couldn't let her go. After our parents each held her and it was soon time to wheel her away forever, we all said a prayer while I held her one last time. Patrick softly started singing in my ear The Lights of the City, a song my family sings at funerals, and just when we're together and reminiscing. Finally he placed her in her little basket inside the incubator. How I would have loved to put her to sleep every night.... Patrick was able to, just that once. Before he may have wondered whether he could handle parenthood, and now, he can.

The Lights of the City:

John tells us of a city so high up above
Where we'll meet in a spirit of love
We'll meet over yonder in that heavenly place
There, we'll see each other face to face.

Refrain:
I can almost see the lights of the city
Shining down on my
I can almost see the lights of the city
Forevermore I shall be free.

John tells us of the time when time will be no more
In the days when the trumpets shall blow
We'll meet over yonder in that heavenly place
There we'll see each other face to face.

John tells us of the water which brings us to life
When we drink, we will not thirst for more
When we're born in that water, a heavenly place
We'll be brothers and sisters face to face.

Losing Eva....

Good morning,
Yet another family member had a baby last night. I read it on FB (family lives far away) and told myself that I would try to seem happy when I shared the news with Patrick. But I couldn't. Even if I had pretended, he'd have known, probably because he feels the sadness too. He held my hand and was sad with me. I hate that this happy news makes me sad. All these women I know, having babies, are wonderful, lovely, incredible women. It's not (at all) that I want them not to have their babies, or to go through what we're living- I just wish I could have mine. I feel like everyone gets to keep their babies but us-even if I know it's not true. I know other wonderful, lovely, incredible women who didn't get to keep their baby/babies (!), but all of them now have at least one, and I'm sitting here with my arms empty. I really hope that this time next year, that part has changed.

We hope to start trying maybe around Christmas but certainly by early next year (that's our decision now, which could change as we work through our grief process). Not that it will make this pain go away, but because it will probably make make it less significant, less all-encompassing. It will always hurt. Evangeline will always be missed. People will think either that we're rushing it, trying to replace her. Others will think that we're over it, that we've moved on, we're all better. Neither is accurate but hopefully we'll be a little better. We'll never be "over it" though. I don't think death is something you can recover from, it's something you survive and learn to cope with. Losing Eva has forever changed the way we view the world, the way we view our life. Nothing is guaranteed. Nothing is certain. Life will never be simple again.

I'm sitting outside today as I write this, it's 11am, and it's chilly out. I've started the Game On Diet challenge with some ladies I love. So far, it's working, on a few levels. I've spent less time on the computer, more time writing, thinking. I'm working out even more than usual, drinking lots of water and actually losing weight. It's been just under a week, and so far, the weight loss has been pretty steady. I know it will get more difficult, but at least it helps me focus on other things and get healthy again. It helps me feel less out of control, which is something I desperately need these days....
S. <3

*Sigh*

I knew it was a mistake. I should have left well enough alone.

I met a girl on one of the pregnancy forums while I was still pregnant. We were due the same week. It was a lot of fun. We became Facebook friends. Now, I'm not pregnant. She still is. So, in the week following Eva's passing, I decided to hide her status updates so I wouldn't have to see them, but today I got curious. I went to check out her wall. She has a beautiful round belly, looks radiant, and has a closet full of little pink clothes.

I can't help but think 1) Wow, I'm glad I hadn't done that much shopping yet.... and 2) Gosh, I hope her baby is okay.

And this is a week when I'm generally feeling better. Life, or its routines at least, is starting to get back to normal....Unless I start thinking. Hence, the sigh. It's strange these days, and my darling sweetheart husband would agree. There are moments, when you almost forget, and then you remember and feel bad for smiling or laughing. And then you just feel bad, we miss her so much. She was only around for a few months, but changed us so completely.

I spent close to 45mins talking to a grief counsellor last night, and it just confirmed that I'm doing this properly, and that all my feelings really are normal. Even the yucky, dark ones. I pretty much knew that, and I know that even those feelings are less intense than they've been....but they still creep in sometimes. The feeling that it's my fault, that I failed us all. That nothing will ever work. That other people don't deserve to be happy either...

And yet, in all this, there are already little miracles, little signs. I asked Eva for a ladybug to show me she's okay and happy, and she sent me one within the hour. I have been surrounded ever since. That's something. Someone prayed to God for our little Evangeline, who hadn't talked to Him before. That's something too.

No one can say I'm not being open at least....
<3

Here's the real beginning...

They say to start at the beginning, but that is not where my heartaches begins. I’ll start with some details, and then jump to the middle. The rest, you’ll learn along the way. My name is Sarah. I’m 30 years old and a substitute elementary school teacher. For the past two years, I’ve been married to my incredible husband Patrick, who is 27 years old and a police officer. We’ve been together since June of 2005, when we first met. This spring we moved into our beautiful little bungalow surrounded by some of the best neighbors a person could dream of. This is the neighborhood where you want to raise a family. And that brings me to our story....

Once we had settled into our home (just barely!) we decided the time was finally right to start trying to get pregnant. In May, after only a couple months of “hard work” we found out that we were indeed expecting our first child. We were over the moon, overjoyed and only somewhat overwhelmed. Since forever, my most important ambition in life was to be a wife and mother. More than any other dreamed profession or career path, this is my heart. To be a good wife and mother. Finally, and so soon, our dreams were starting to come true. 

I was removed from work because I had no immunity to one of the childhood diseases rampant in elementary schools, and not allowed to return until 20 weeks. I started feeling nauseous at 5 weeks, but that only lasted until 11 weeks. It was a relatively uneventful pregnancy otherwise. There was some mild spotting at times, always discussed with the doctor and deemed normal. And so, we planned, we painted, we read books, articles, websites, we spread our news with those closest, keeping in mind that we were still in a danger zone. We borrowed baby items from those who had them to lend. Most importantly, we dreamed. I knew fairly early on that I was carrying a girl. They say a mother knows. Patrick so desperately wanted a girl, and so told himself it was probably a boy in my belly, to stave off the disappointment. We also knew that she would be Evangeline. For as long as Patrick and I have existed together, we always knew that our daughter would be Evangeline. And so she was. 

Of course, I had the same anxieties that any mother has, maybe more. I think it runs in my family, the worrying. I did plenty of it. When we finally got to our 12 week ultrasound, I waited in the waiting room with my husband and my mom. There was a delay, and unfortunately Patrick had to return to work. I later learned that the couple right before us had found out their baby had died. The appointment was wonderful, with the doctor saying there was a very low risk for Down’s Syndrome and related trisomy issues. When I called Patrick after the appointment, he was so excited that he asked me to bring the ultrasound photos straight to him at work. I also was so thrilled to tell him the doctor’s impression, “He said the baby already has a cute face and he thinks it’s a girl!” 

Once we passed the first trimester point, we were excited to start sharing the news more publicly. I was starting to show a little by then, but only to those who knew. We had been talking to my belly for weeks already but by 15-16 weeks, Patrick had read, the baby can start hearing. So, we started playing songs for her. “Evangeline” by Marie-Jo Theriault or Les Muses, and “Ma Belle Evangeline” from the Princess and the Frog soundtrack. I also liked to play “Never Alone” by Jim Brickman and Lady Antebellum. 

At around 19 weeks, I was sitting on the couch watching TV when I first felt it. For about 2 weeks, I had been feeling little goldfish feelings inside, but this time was different. It was a kick, followed by 5 more. I cried. I called for Patrick to come, but she wouldn’t budge again. It took almost another week for her to finally kick her daddy. Around the 20 week mark, we had our ultrasound to make sure everything was going okay. Patrick finally got to see our very wiggly little baby moving around. She was being stubborn, but the doctor finally had all the measurements she needed. Aside from having somewhat immature kidneys, which we were told would resolve itself, she was perfect. And she was, in fact, a girl. Her growth was on target, and I asked the usual questions: placenta? (perfect, in my back) amniotic fluid? (normal) cervix? (fine), all was well. 

I loved rubbing my belly. Patrick loved rubbing my belly. My sister, Becky, loved rubbing my belly. We were the first ones in our family circle to be expecting, and we were all so excited. I started back to work, a few days a week, and kept up my regular workouts, I had gained only 9 pounds, and was more than halfway done. Our doctor was so happy with the way everything was going. 

On a Friday night, after a long day of work, I was getting ready for bed. Pat was on night shift so I was alone. When I went to the washroom, I noticed a bit of pink on the toilet paper. I thought...strange.... I figured I had been too active lately and needed to lay down. So I went to sleep. In the morning it was still there. I consulted all the usual websites, my mom and one of my closest friends. We were all in agreement that I should spend the day with my feet up, and rest. So I did. I updated the registry I had started that week, watched TV, drank lots of water. At around 6pm, I woke Patrick up (night shift) and said I thought I should go to the ER. I had a sensation in my lower abdomen that I could only describe as weird and the spotting was slightly more instead of less, and I needed to put my mind at ease. He would still go to work, as I probably had a long wait ahead, and my dad would come kill the time with me in the waiting room. 

When I got to the ER, I was called immediately into triage, and then when I told them my symptoms was put into a wheelchair and sent straight up to Labor & Delivery. At that point, there was some bleeding, but the baby monitor showed that Evangeline was fine, wiggling around, with a strong heartbeat. The nurse, pregnant herself, said she would just check my cervix before sending me home. She checked, and after a bit said she needed to get a colleague to verify something. Hmmpf. At this point, Sue, my Dad’s wife came through the curtain. My dad had the foresight to send her instead, knowing the physical exams might be weird with him around. And so Sue held my hand while the second nurse performed her exam. When she looked at me, I knew there was a problem. The pregnant nurse had already left in tears.The second nurse wrapped her arms around my bent knees and took one of my hands. She said, “You’re dilated 5 cms already and your baby is not going to make it”.  

I called Patrick. I called my mother and my one of my best friends. I called my sister. Because I was not allowed to stand, the doctor got Sue’s cell phone number and called me on it, just to confirm what the nurses had been whispering about. It looked like I was suffering (we all were...) from an incompetent cervix. Basically, my cervix decided to dilate on its own, without pain or contractions. It would continue to do so. To further complicate things, my amniotic sac was bulging through my cervix. The nurses said I would probably deliver tonight. The doctor said if I could hold on through the night, maybe tomorrow, there would be some hope. I was wheeled into a private room, and on the way in the hallway, was my strong, handsome husband with tears running down his cheeks. In the room, I was poked with an IV bag, several antibiotics in case it was an infection causing the premature labour and of course, a catheter. 

The family started to arrive slowly. They came just to share their love, they cam to pray, to sit with us, to cry, to keep watch. I could not cry. I started to, once, when we had just reached our quiet little room, and realized that the heaving sobs could my body to move in ways I worried would further dilate my cervix. I had to be strong. I had to have hope, for Evangeline. 

Later that night after most people had left, maybe 2am, I drifted off to sleep, with Patrick curled against me on the tiny cot bed. I had tubes and needles everywhere, so I couldn’t move without planning. A bit later, Pat moved to the chair to see if it was more comfortable, but I couldn’t sleep without him there, so I stayed awake and prayed. In my head I yelled at God, but I was otherwise numb. In denial. Hoping. Finally he returned to the narrow little bed, and I dozed again. When I awoke we laid together, before dawn and talked. We cried. We tried to understand how and why this would be happening. We couldn’t. Around this time, I started feeling mild contractions, more like Braxton Hicks. Over the next few hours they would increase in strength, duration and frequency, but were not like I’d seen in the movies. They were very uncomfortable, but not really painful. They were, however, terrifying, as I knew that each one was bringing us closer to where we did not want to be. I did not know, however, that by 8am, I was already 10 cms dilated. 

When the doctor arrived, she was in tears. She said she had prayed all night that I would stop contracting, that the antibiotics would work, that she could somehow do the cerclage (stitching my cervix shut) that she wasn’t supposed to do, as I was too far dilated already. She said, despite my being dilated, Eva was still no closer to being ready to come out. I was given something to increase the contractions, and the doctor explained that after an epidural she might need to use her hands inside me to guide her little body out, which would be painful for  me. The anesthesiologist came in yelling, asking what I wanted done. At this point, the medication was kicking in and I was in constant pain, one incessant contraction. This doctor said that my doctor wanted to deliver our daughter in our room, but that she thought it’d be best to wait 45 more minutes and “have the fetus removed” (per words, translated from French) in the OR, by myself. I asked her if I could see the baby if we did it her way, she had a weird sneer or smirk or her face and said “The fetus will come out in pieces, of course you can’t see it!”  I looked around the room, to see if maybe I had heard wrong, but Patrick was just staring at her with his jaw hanging, and my mother in law looked like she could spit. My mother was looking around in confusion (she doesn’t speak French). The nurse, however, cut in almost immediately and said “Here, we deliver the baby in one piece, and you can hold her as long as you like”. Decision made. 

As the doctor prepared the epidural, Patrick and a nurse had to held my body down. I was shaking constantly, from the pain, fear, anxiety, from a horrible sense of being out of control and from anger and the woman poised with a needle at my back. It was the only time I thought that maybe I would die. It was over quickly and then we settled in to wait for it to take full effect before I started to push. In the meantime there were details to attend to. The nurses were wonderful. They had to ask us horrible questions, questions no parents want to hear or answer. Do you want to see her after? Would you like us to take pictures? Do you want a little pink knitted hat for her? Which funeral parlor should we contact for pick up? They were like angels in blue, and we knew they had seen this before and yet still felt part of our pain. I asked one if they happens a lot, and she said “Once is too many”.

Then I was asked to push. I did, with all my might. Or, with all the strength someone could muster when pushing her child to her death. It wasn’t working. In a regular labour, the baby does a lot of helping to push his/herself out. Evangeline was too little to help. Or maybe she knew it was too early. So, they amped up the drugs again. The doctor said we would just wait, and let nature take it’s course. The nurses said 2-4 hours. Patrick went down to the cafeteria to get his first meal in over 24 hours. Family members came in to see me, but within just a few minutes, I knew something had changed. There was a pressure that felt lower than my cervix. A friend went rushing to find Patrick. My mom came back in the room, and the nurse called the doctor who had already left the building. I had to summon all I had to wait. In the end, Evangeline was born with her daddy on one side of me, her Nana on the other side as the doctor struggled into her scrubs. The nurse was there for hold her. It was Sunday, October 3rd, at 2:06pm. I was 22 weeks, 4 days pregnant. Patrick baptized her with water that he and his mother had consecrated for this purpose. She was already gone. We knew that would probably happen. We had been told that with all the drugs, her little heart wouldn’t be strong enough to survive the contractions. 

Outside the door, our family had huddled, waiting to hear, to see.... They heard my anguished sobs, the first real tears I’d allowed myself, and they knew. 

An hour or so later, they brought her back to us, wrapped up in a white knit gown, with her little pink hat. The nurses had taken some pictures and took a couple more with us. She was 1lb, 3ozs, and about 13”. She was so fragile, so tiny, so perfect. She had tiny little fingernails and my nose, but otherwise she looked like her daddy, but with lots of dark hair already. We spent our only time as a family of three. We cuddled her, kissed her, sang to her. We told her how much we love her. Then, we invited her grandparents to come meet her. They each held her and spoke their words of love. It meant so much to us to be able to share her with others who were awaiting her arrival. It was a moment we’ll treasure forever. We prayed as a family.

Later, everyone had left except for my mom. Patrick had fallen asleep on the reclining chair, and the nurses were slowly unhooking me from all the machines. My mom brushed my hair, and washed my face and neck, the way I’d have done one day for Evangeline. Eventually they had me use the washroom to prove I could, and then gave me a Rh-vaccine. There was no allergic reaction and my bleeding was stable. I was cleared to leave. It had been 5 hours since I gave birth. 

It was such a short time, but it’s such a long road. I have found small mercies in this already. My mother, who had wanted so much to feel her granddaughter move in the weeks before she left us, finally got to feel her move, just hours before it was too late. Until the very end, I prayed for a miracle. I still think I’ll get my miracle, it just won’t be what I expected....

I just spent hours writing it all down....

And as a testament to my state of mind, I didn't save it. 5 pages, gone...