April

I was in a funk most of this month. April is a hard month.

I wrote earlier about how Madelyn's birthday snuck up on me. I loved being with my family, but it didn't really allow me time to prepare and grieve a little. Last year, it was the week leading up to her birthday that was hard for me. This year, it's been the weeks after.

We moved Sadie into her own room last week, and I cried the first two nights. I think that was sign enough that something was definitely up. Nathan kept reminding me that she was just across the apartment, but it wasn't that. "I didn't wait so long for a baby just to put her in the other room all night!" I cried like a dramatic baby. My first baby was taken away from me. Because of that, Sadie has almost never left my side. I realize I need to come to terms with that.

I have learned these past couple weeks that the best way to help me get over this April rut, is to think about, write about, and talk about Madelyn. That might seem strange and counter-productive, but it helps me so much. When I bury it down, I just end up sad and cranky. When I think about her, even the really hard parts, I feel at peace.

I am at a place now where the memories of Madelyn don't hurt like they did. Sometimes they make me feel a little sad, but most of the time it feels good to remember her, especially how much I loved her. I used to think about her every day, but life is so busy now, I don't miss her like I did. When I am allowed to miss her every once in a while, I feel better. I don't have it bottled up. It's not hidden away, causing me to cry when my baby is in a different room.
So today I am going to write down memories I have of her, and what happened, and the aftermath. Just little stories. They aren't really going to be super uplifting, but I want to get down the raw emotions of that time before they leave my memory completely. When I wrote Madelyn's story, it was still too hard to re-live many details. I want to have these details written. Even when they hurt, I want to remember them.
This is really a post for me, my healing, and my own history keeping, but read on if you'd like! Warning, it's going to be insanely long.

I remember the first time I heard about a stillborn. (Isn't that kind of a weird memory to have? As I look back, I really feel like I was being prepared for this my entire life). I was walking to a friend's house with a different friend. I was 8 years old. She told me that a few years back, the mom of the friend whose house we were walking to had a stillborn. She didn't use that word, but she said she gave birth to the baby when it was dead. I remember thinking how awful that was and it made me a little sick. As I got older I learned the term "stillborn," and new a few people who had them. It still seemed like the worst thing to me.
Some of the first people I told I was pregnant were my two work best friends, Brady and Kimese. They took me to lunch to celebrate. On our way back to the school, Kimese was telling her labor stories. Then Brady told us about his sister-in-law who had a stillborn. He told the whole story and then said, "I have no idea why I told you that story. That's an awful story to tell, I'm sorry." I laughed and told him it was fine. I didn't tell him that having a stillborn was already something I had thought about several times.
During Christmas, about 4 months before Madelyn was born, I was messaging with a friend who told me how happy she was that I was pregnant. I told her, "I just hope it all turns out okay." She thought it was so weird that I said that since I was past the "scary" stage for miscarriage. I told her about stillborns and she didn't even know that was a thing. She told me there's no way that would ever happen and it had to be super rare if she hadn't even heard of it.
Conference weekend (a few days before she was born) was really the last time I remember feeling BIG movements. There may have been more after, but I didn't pay much attention to them. It was the Saturday morning session, and Nathan and I were watching it in bed. She did a huge roll, then it felt like she kicked about 4-5 times in a row, really fast. I'd never felt her move like that before. I laughed and said, "Well Madelyn is enjoying conference!" I like to think it was at this point that she knew she was leaving soon, and she way saying goodbye.
Over the next day or two, I could tell something was different. She had lost all her energy. Just small movements here and there. Everyone said it was normal; that babies movements slow down at the end of a pregnancy. I don't blame any of these people who told me it wasn't a big deal. I could have gone in. I chose not to. Not blaming myself has been the biggest challenge to overcome. Although I know now, nothing could have saved her. My doctor believes she went quickly, and was gone before I even realized something was wrong.
The day I knew she was gone, I was supposed to go to my night class, and was in the parking lot waiting for my carpool. I called Nathan and told him movement had gone down even more. He told me to call the nurse and I did. She told me to head to the hospital. She told me, just like everyone else did, that things were probably fine. But I knew. I got out of the car and immediately started crying as I told the women in my carpool what was happening. They told me everything was fine. But I knew. That 30 minute drive to the hospital was excruciating.
I picked up Nathan, and I could tell he knew too. The nurse who started looking for the heartbeat thought everything was fine too. She was even a little rude to us at first. "People come in ALLLLL the time saying they don't feel movement in the last few weeks." But we knew. When she couldn't find the heartbeat, she suddenly softened a bit.
"Maybe you have an anterior placenta."
I knew I didn't have an anterior placenta. She went to go get an ultrasound machine.
She looked around at our baby for a little bit, but neither of us asked questions, because we knew. I didn't know it at the time, but Nathan said he could see the screen, and saw her heart. Her very still heart. She left to go get a doctor and I finally found my voice again, "Is something wrong?" I asked, hoping she'd tell me my gut was wrong.
"Maybe," she said. And she left.
The doctor came in and, again, we asked no questions. It was only a few seconds before she said the words still seared into my brain,
"It looks like, for some reason, this baby didn't make it."
I knew that's what had happened, but it didn't make the words any easier to hear. I stayed calm, asked a few questions about delivering. They told me we could start right then, or we could go home. We decided to go home and collect ourselves before beginning this. I am so glad we did that.
The second they left and shut the door, I cried like I have never cried before. It was loud, it was ugly, it was gut wrenching. I felt like someone was squeezing my heart. Nathan held me and cried the same type of a cry. I can't explain the pain I felt in those moments. I had never heard my husband cry before.
Our baby. Our little girl. Our Maddie. The baby I had wanted since I was a child. The baby we prayed for. The baby we already loved with all our hearts. The baby who had a room in our home filled with toys and clothes and an already set-up crib. She was gone. She was dead. She would never sleep in that crib. She would never take a breath.
I got back into my clothes from the cold hospital gown I was given, and I texted my mom. "We lost the baby." I couldn't bring myself to call her because I didn't think I could talk. "Are you joking?" She replied. Before I even had a second to respond she was calling me, and I knew I had to answer.
I told her everything, and I cried so hard. She asked if I wanted her to tell my sisters, but I said I would. A couple minutes later I texted back and told her to call them for me. I had lost my voice again. She said she was on the next flight out.
We headed home in near complete silence. I told Nathan I wanted a giant dirty diet coke from Sonic. Drinking caffeine didn't matter now. On our drive, Nathan called his mom, and she did her job to spread the words to his family. We got our drinks and drove home. Then we sat in our parking garage.
"I don't want to go inside. I don't want to see the nursery yet."
"I don't either."
"Let's go buy something."
It may seem silly, but it was the only thing that could distract me. It was around 7pm at this point, and we went to Walmart and decided we were going to buy a new TV. Our phones were blowing up, but I couldn't check them. Every text made me cry. It was almost funny to think about the news spreading around to all our loved ones, how everyone's hearts were breaking for us how they were all reaching out; and we were sitting in a Walmart contemplating buying a new TV. People walked all around us, just having another normal day. I was experiencing the least normal day of my entire life. Strangely, it felt good to be be surrounded by people who didn't know how our lives were being ripped apart, and ignoring the calls and texts from the people who knew. Almost like it wasn't real. We lived in a different world in that little TV section.
We stared at new TV's forever, but left the store empty handed. The TV section of the down-town Walmart still makes me a little queasy.
We got Del Taco and took it home.; finally having the courage to go inside. Neither of us ate our tacos.
Nathan walked over to our white board calendar and erased the big words on the side that said, "MADELYN COMES NEXT MONTH!!!" He also crossed off "prenatals" on our shopping list.
"We still need those," I said. "We will get pregnant again soon."
Nathan didn't say anything.
I told Nathan I didn't want to hold her after she was born. In fact, I didn't even want to see her. I basically said I wanted to pretend it never happened. We would get pregnant again, I told myself, and we would name her Madelyn. We would start over and we didn't have to even think about what was happening. I was in complete denial. I wanted to pretend she had never existed.
We stood in her nursery and cried that night, holding onto the one thing we had left: each other.
I took a shower and took a sleeping pill. I wanted nothing more than to black out into dreamland and not notice my giant baby bump that wasn't moving at all.
We woke up early the next morning and packed a hospital bag. We ate a huge breakfast at Kneaders and I tried not to cry in public. I was doing better than I thought I would.
We went up to the front desk and everyone already knew who we were. The way they said, "Hiiii," in that sympathetic, drawn-out way, made me start crying immediately.

We got things started and my little sister showed up with bright red, puffy eyes. I cannot tell you how much it meant to have her there. She stayed the entire day. My mom joined a little later. Having them there was a good distraction. We even laughed. I was still in denial a bit, still telling myself I didn't want to see her.
The nurse asked when I wanted my epidural. I asked if I had to wait until a certain point.
"You can get it right now if you want. You don't have to be brave today, sweetie."
I appreciated her kindness, but I thought it was ironic. I was about to give birth to my dead baby. I had no other choice but to be brave.
That night, I got a new nurse. She'd had a stillborn a few years back. She was so sweet. I felt like if she could have a stillborn, and still work as a delivery nurse, I could make it through.
The night came, and I hardly slept. The morning came, and so did Madelyn. I felt a little rushed since she came just minutes after I woke up, but honestly, nothing can prepare you for giving birth in a silent room. Nothing can prepare you for your doctor laying your lifeless infant on your stomach. Nothing.
 I had changed my mind about holding her, and I am so glad I did. She was beautiful. She had my nose. She had lots of hair. And I loved her so much. Everyone in the room got to hold her, and then Nathan and I spent some time alone with her. Nathan said a sweet prayer and gave Madelyn's body a blessing. Giving her back to the nurse and watching her be wheeled away was the hardest moment of my life. There was no life in Madelyn, but her body was the only thing I had left. And then it was gone.
We had to make a lot of big choices that day, choices I wasn't ready to make. We chose not to bury her body and have a funeral. We chose cremation instead. This was a really hard choice, and still hurts my heart a bit today, but I know it was right. We prayed about it, and really came to terms with it. We knew we couldn't drag out the goodbye any longer.
Another decision was made that I really do regret, and it still makes me cry to this day. A photographer takes free pictures of stillborn babies. I said no. They asked a couple times, and I declined. I was still in denial at that point, thinking the pictures would make it harder. We have a few iPhone pictures of her, and that's it. My heart aches for more pieces of her. I don't think I will ever not regret that decision.
Nathan and I laid together in the small bed in the recovery room and I prayed and prayed that they would let me leave. After a couple hours, they finally did. I tore a little, but it wasn't bad. On the way home we picked up more diet coke. Then we went home, and we started the new, baby-less life we never planned on.

I used to wonder how people wake up in the morning after losing someone you love. But you do wake up, because you don't have a choice. You wake up every single day and just hope it was a really bad dream.
Everyone told us how strong we were, and I hated it.
I wasn't strong. I cried everyday. When I said my prayers, I told God how mad at him I was. I never left the house. I became a shell of my former self. Food didn't taste good. I couldn't listen to music. I wasn't strong. I was barely surviving.
They also told me, "I could never do it."
But guess what, if it happens to you, you don't have a choice. You have to do it. It made me feel so stupid, as if I wanted this challenge because I knew I could do it. I can tell you, most of the time, I didn't think I could do it.
That Spring was hard. Flowers and gifts rolled in that made us smile for a minute. We have about 30 vases from all the flower arrangements we received. It's a beautiful and sad collection. We ate out a lot. It was like dinner was the only thing I had any control over. We didn't go out much besides to get food. I went back to work, and my kids helped give me purpose and joy again, though my heart still ached. We got a cat who hugged me and I held her in Madelyn's nursery and cried. Mother's Day rolled around a few weeks later, and I couldn't bring myself to go to church. My birthday was 2 weeks later, and Nathan asked me what I wanted. "A baby," I said, and I started to cry. Her due date was a few days later. It felt like the painful dates would never end. Spring is supposed to represent new life. Mine was painted with death.
Summer came, and I put on a good face. I cried a lot, but I had hope in the future. We tried for another baby as soon as we could, and it wasn't happening. I have shared that story before. It was hard. Really, really hard. The strength and hope I felt over the Summer crashed hard in the Fall. I was depressed and defeated. I can see now, I wasn't ready for a baby. Sadie was anxiously waiting until I healed before she came. And she came the minute I did.
On Thanksgiving, we went on a walk around the Merkley's property in Idaho. I walked up a hill by myself to look at the sunset. I thought aloud, "Why can't I get pregnant." I instantly had the words pop into my head, "Because you have to let me go first." I knew what I needed to do. And I did it.
In the next few weeks I also worked on letting go of the obsession to get pregnant. I stopped going in for the ovulation blood tests. I stopped trying to time everything perfectly. I told Heavenly Father I was okay with whenever he wanted. Winter came. And so did Sadie.
I had lived all 4 seasons without Madelyn. I had survived.
Spring came again, and I felt the first kicks of Madelyn's little sister as she grew inside me.
That Spring was painted with with rebirth. With new beginnings. With life.
And I was healed.