A Year In Review

I sent a holiday card this year with a note of thanks on the back for all of your generosity and kindness.  Unfortunately, the print turned out very tiny and pale, making it difficult to read.  I reprinted it here for those who had a hard time reading it.

Hello Family and Friends,

2012 brought many ups and downs for our family.  In early January, we learned we were expecting our second child.  We were beyond excited to be expanding our family.  In March we traveled to Florida where Cole splashed in the ocean, fed a giraffe at the Naples Zoo, and ate cookies for breakfast with Poppy every day.  Spring brought the wonderful news that Cole was going to have a little sister.  We couldn't believe our wonderful luck.  Summer quickly arrived, and we spent much of our time at the neighborhood pool.  In August Cole started experimenting in the big pool, and before we knew it, he was swimming independently with a life jacket.  Summer turned to Fall, and it was time for our baby girl's arrival.  We sadly learned on September 8th that our girl's heart had stopped beating.  Our dreams of raising our daughter crashed to the ground.  With broken hearts, Debra delivered Molly Christine on September 9th, her exact due date.  We returned home with empty arms, but hearts full of love for both of our children.  Throughout this sad time, we have learned so much from both Cole and Molly.  Cole shows us every day that even during times of despair, there is always a reason to laugh. He talks about his sister in the most wonderful ways, and he has opened up our hearts to the possibility of relationships with those we have lost.  And our perfect Molly.  She has taught us the greatest lessons about life and love.  At times it is hard to be grateful, but because of Molly, we are better parents to Cole, we are more patient with him and each other, and we no longer take anything for granted.  Molly has taught us that tears are not a sign of weakness, but rather, a sign of immeasurable love.  Throughout the past 3 months, we have been touched by so much kindness from family, friends, and neighbors.  We can never thank you all enough for your support.  Losing Molly has been excruciating, however the love that has poured into our home has been overwhelming.  When we didn't know how to stand on our own, you held us up.  We are forever grateful.  

Because of you, we know Molly will never be forgotten.
We wish you peace, love, joy, and hope in the coming year,
Brendon & Debra

As I look back at 2012, I know Brendon and I have so much to be thankful for.  Brendon has a job he loves, and I get to stay home with our quickly growing boy.  We both have wonderful families that we get to spend time with fairly often.  I am particularly blessed to have my sister Deanna so close, both emotionally and physically.  With only 4 blocks separating our homes, we get to spend a lot of time together, our children are growing up together, and we always have an extra set of eyes, ears, and hands when we need them.  As she told me the other day, my kids are hers and her kids are mine.  I know the devastation of losing Molly has hit her almost as hard as it hit us, and yet, she has been a remarkable source of support and strength.  Grateful does not even cut it.  Without Deanna, Jake, James, Ella, Tommy, and Tess, our family would have been lost during the past 3 months.  Sometimes it truly does take a village, not only to raise happy children, but to have happy parents, too.
 
Our trip to Florida in March was our first family vacation since Cole was born.  It was wonderful, with trips to the beach, a visit to a park that had a train ride, swimming in Nana and Poppy's pool, and quiet times with my parents who I missed so much.  This trip also gave us an opportunity to tell my parents that we were expecting Molly.  Despite the fact that my pregnancy didn't end the way we thought it would, I can still appreciate all the excitement and joy the news of our second child brought us and many others during most of this past year.  Finding out she was a girl was an extremely happy day.  When I was pregnant with Cole, I was convinced that I would live in a houseful of boys forever.  Knowing we were having a girl changed everything.  I was suddenly dreaming of tutus and pink blankets and ridiculous dresses.  Again, I am grateful for that excitement.  I may never get it again, and even though Molly isn't here, I still cherish the plans and dreams I had for her.

 The summer brought hours and hours of fun at the Hill Farm Pool.  We are so lucky to live close to the pool, and we were able to join this summer due to the generosity of a friend.  Cole and I spent many hours in the baby/toddler pool.  My belly was big by then, and the summer was hot, so I could often be found sitting in the 12 inches of water asking Cole to pour water on my head.  All summer I had been offering Cole the chance to go in the big pool, the catch being that he had to be potty trained.  Something clicked in August, and we spent the end of the summer in the big pool with his cousins.  Within a week, he was swimming independently with a life jacket.  He was so brave.  One of the strongest memories I will always carry with me of Molly's pregnancy is of how slowly, over the course of those 3 months, my swimsuit seemed to get smaller and smaller.  By the time the pool closed, my belly peeked out from under the suit.

 

And, yes, then came September.  Molly was due to arrive.  We were excited and anxious and waiting, waiting, waiting...Then our world changed.  We left the hospital with empty arms and broken hearts, and came home to a house that felt too empty.  However, our home quickly filled with love and generosity and hope and kindness from neighbors, family, and friends.  We can never thank all of you enough for your help during this season of our lives.  The meals, the yard work, the letters, the thoughts, the prayers...you have held us up.  Your strength became our strength.  You never let us feel like we were alone in our loss.  Molly is our daughter and Cole's sister, but you showed us that she is more than that.  She would have been a member of our community, a blue eyed little swimmer or diver or soccer player or gymnast.  You would have known her, and your support has shown us that just like us, you will not forget her.  We absolutely could not ask for more.


And although our Fall was different than  we planned, life kept moving.  We carry Molly with us, and we keep moving.  September was an overwhelming blur, but as we moved into October and November, it became easier to do family activities.  Pumpkin patches, farms, celebrating Cole's 3rd birthday, selecting a Christmas tree.  Taking one step at a time, we were able to do these special activities with Cole.  It wasn't always easy, but for better or worse, we are a family.  When Cole is older, I don't know if I'll be able to tell him accurately how much he helped us through this time.  He gave me a reason to get out of bed every day.  He gave me a reason to start leaving the house again.  He showed both Brendon and I that through our sadness, we could still laugh and be happy.  And he gives me the opportunity to talk about Molly every day.  He occasionally has those fantastic snippets of "Molly Moments" when he'll tell me something she likes, or did, or says, and Cole always says he loves her before going to bed.  She is part of him, part of us.  And Cole never lets me forget.  I love him immensely for that.

As the holidays approach, we've been pondering ways to incorporate Molly into our traditions.  We have a stocking for her that hangs next to Cole's, and we have several new ornaments on our tree for her.  We contributed toys to a toy drive, and we've asked family to make donations in Molly's name to http://www.mikaylasgrace.com/ or https://www.nowilaymedowntosleep.org/.  Please know that you will not make us sad by talking about Molly this Christmas.  Speaking her name will only let us know that you are remembering her, too.  If you don't know what to say, just tell us you are missing her with us during the holidays.

As 2013 nears, we are hopeful.  Hopeful for new life in our home, hopeful that Cole will continue to grow and be funny and sweet and smart and chatty.  Hopeful that we will continue to heal.  Hopeful that our girl will continue to show herself in whatever ways she can - an unexpected yellow flower, a butterfly sighting, a story from Cole, a lovely dream.  Hopeful that we will continue to learn from this experience.  We wish you hope, happiness, laughter, and healing as the new year approaches.  New Year, New Hope.

I will not let the world view me with pity and think, "Look at what her daughter has done to her."  May they instead watch me and think, "Look at the woman her daughter has helped her become." 
~Erin Gaston

Butterfly Baby

Today marks 8 weeks since I delivered Molly.  Again, it feels like forever, and it feels like a single moment all at the same time.  My memories of September 9th are as vivid as ever, and yet, I can tell I'm beginning to heal.  My heart is slowly getting sewn back together.  But the seams from the break will always be there.  I will never quite look at life the way I did on September 7th.  I will never assume that pregnancies end happily.  I will never see a baby or child and think that she is anything less than an absolute miracle.  I will never let a day pass without telling Cole that I am so grateful that I get to be a part of his life.  And I will never have a day when I don't think of my beautiful Molly.

Grief is truly the strangest thing I have ever experienced.  There are so many levels to this pain and so much confusion.  On any given day, I feel happy, sad, guilty, grateful, joyful, depressed, anxious, and hopeful, just to name a few.  I laugh and cry every day.  I feel happy and sad at the same time, all the time.  Happy to be at a pumpkin patch with my family, and so sad that Molly isn't there with us.  Happy seeing Cole and Brendon play together every evening, and yearning for Molly to be on my lap while I watch them.  Happy to celebrate birthdays with my nieces and nephews, and devastated that I will never see Molly rub frosting in her hair on her first birthday.  And it isn't just now that time has passed that I feel these mixed emotions all the time.  I very clearly remember feeling happy after I delivered Molly.  I know some of it was the post-labor and delivery hormones, but I also genuinely felt happy just holding my girl.  As horrible as it was that she wasn't breathing and her heart wasn't beating, I was still so happy to see her face and hold her hands and touch her toes and kiss her perfect little lips.  I was finally holding the girl I had dreamt about for not only 9 months, but practically my whole life.  I couldn't help but be happy and sad in that moment.

 

Some people may look at my 39 weeks and 6 days of pregnancy and see it as a waste of time.  That if we didn't come out with a live baby, it wasn't worth it.  And I'll admit, this thought crossed my mind (followed by intense guilt.  Ah, guilt.  I could write an entire book on that.  So many people have told me to just "let the guilt go."  That's like telling someone to "just relax" if they can't sleep.  I can't "just let it go," but I can accept that I feel it and work towards believing that I couldn't have prevented what happened.  I'll get there).  Ultimately, despite the way my pregnancy ended, despite the fact that I had to let Molly go, I would never take any of it back.  I would never wish those 39 weeks and 6 days away.  I got to feel her kick and see her shake my belly with her movements.  She is one of two people that know what my heart sounds like from the inside.  I know that for her short life, she was comfy and warm inside of me.  And eventually, I got to see her and snuggle her and dress her and hold her hands.  Briefly, but I still was able to do these things, which I've sadly learned that many parents never get to do.  And I got to have these perfect, irreplaceable moments:

As short as our time with Molly was, she brought us so much love.  Love not only for her, but also for each other.  I never questioned that I married the right man, but through this experience, I've learned the strength of my marriage.  Brendon is truly the most patient, kind, and supportive man I've ever known.  Losing Molly could have ripped Brendon and I apart, but it did the opposite.  I can't speak for him, but I know I love him more now than I ever have.  Molly taught me never to take a day with Cole for granted.  I love his kindness and his humor, his laughter and his amazing memory, his obsession with cars, and his impressive vocabulary, which now includes Euoplocephalus and many other dinosaur names.  My heart is overflowing with love for both of my children.  The pain, sorrow, sadness, and grief I feel over losing Molly will never overshadow the joy I feel for getting to love her.  She will forever be my perfect girl.

Some people call babies who have died "Angel Babies".  I can't explain it, but that term just doesn't sit well with me.  However, butterflies are also a symbol for lost babies, and I absolutely love that image.  I recently read Flight Behavior by Barbara Kingsolver, a novel about climate change with an underlying theme of loss and hope.  One of the characters in the book believes that butterflies are the souls of lost babies.  And even though I wouldn't go so far as to say Molly's soul is in a butterfly, I find deep comfort in images of butterflies.  Butterflies are beautiful and hopeful and complicated and evolving.  I didn't know how deeply I could love someone until I had to let Molly fly.  I am also reminded of a quote by Nathaniel Hawthorne: "Happiness is a butterfly, which when pursued, is always just beyond your grasp, but which, if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you."  Oh, how true.  When I search for Molly, she's beyond my reach, but she pops up when I least expect her and I feel her fluttering by.  Whispering in her brother's ear.  Sending her cousin Tess to give me a hug.  Loving me the way she can.  And I will love her right back, always.


"It's a happy life, but someone is missing.  It's a happy life, and someone is missing."
~An Exact Replica of a Figment of my Imagination by Elizabeth McCracken

The photos were taken by Amandalynn Jones.  She is a volunteer photographer for Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep, a national organization that provides photographers to families who will not get to leave the hospital with their baby.  We could not be more grateful for these photos.  We will treasure them forever.
http://www.amandalynnjones.com/photography/
https://www.nowilaymedowntosleep.org/

Sibling Connections

It has now been five and a half weeks since we said both hello and good-bye to Molly.  At some moments I think, "I can't believe it has already been five weeks."  A minute later I'll think, "It's only been five weeks?"  Grief is so strange.  My days feel like a roller coaster ride.  People often tell me how strong I am, how they could never handle going through this, that I am handling this well.  First I tell them that if they hang around long enough, they are bound to see me fall apart.  It happens at least six times a day.  Then I say, yes, they could handle it if they had to.  I didn't choose this.  No one would.  But when life throws something at you, you can either crawl in a hole, or choose to survive.  I have Cole to take care of.  I have a wonderful husband to think about.  Crawling in a hole isn't an option.  So I choose survival.  I choose to get out of bed in the morning and live through another day.  To cry and laugh and miss Molly and hold Cole and kiss my husband and talk to my sister and constantly wonder why Molly isn't here and be grateful for all the blessings in my life.

A week or so after Molly died I was looking at memorial jewelry on Etsy.  I wasn't sure exactly what I was looking for, but I knew I wanted a necklace or a bracelet with Molly's name or initials.  I mentioned this to my sister Deanna, and she told me not to buy anything quite yet.  She had already purchased a necklace for me, and I ruined her surprise.  The necklace is very simple.  It has two small discs, one for each of my children with their initials, and two small birthstone gems.  In some small way, wearing it makes me feel a little better, a little closer to Molly.  Cole often touches it and looks at the letters saying, "C for me, and M for Molly!"  I'm glad that the necklace has become another physical reminder for Cole that he has a little sister.  I've become more comfortable talking to Cole about Molly.  We talk about her being in Heaven and how much we love her.  Occasionally Cole says some surprising things...

Last week I had a visit from my friend Kelly who lost her son Jonah a few hours after he was born.  Kelly and I were talking when she first arrived at my house, and Cole was being a bit shy when out of the blue he said, "Our baby went to Heaven."  Kelly responded, "I have a baby in Heaven, too.  Sometimes babies live, and sometimes they go to Heaven.  My baby's name is Jonah."  Cole started giggling and said, "Oh, JoJo."  Kelly looked at me astounded and asked if I knew anyone named JoJo.  I told her that we didn't.  She then told me that her family refers to Jonah as JoJo.  The logical side of me says Cole heard the name Jonah and just turned it into JoJo because that's what almost-three-year-olds do.  The non-logical, desperate for a connection with my daughter part thought Molly is talking to Cole!  She knows Jonah and is telling Cole they play together!  And since I can't really know why he said that, I choose to believe that in some way, Molly was whispering in Cole's ear and telling him about her new friend.

A few days later Cole and I were playing and one of us brought up Molly.  I don't remember the exact conversation, but I know I asked Cole if he loved her, to which he answered yes.  He then told me that Molly tells him stories and sings to him.  I asked him what her stories are about.  He said animals.  Again, could be nothing.  Could be his imagination.  But I don't care.  If he says his baby sister sings to him from Heaven, who am I to say she doesn't?

The last significant "Molly Moment" he and I shared was in the car.  Cole and I were driving to the UW campus to pick Brendon up from work.  On the way there, we passed a construction site.  Cole saw a crane and said, "Look at that white crane, Mama!  It's outside Molly's window!"  My eyes immediately filled with tears.  I have never referred to that side of the car as "Molly's side."  Cole made the connection all on his own that that's where she would sit.  And again, I think, Maybe she is sitting there.  Maybe she's keeping her big brother company.  Maybe he can somehow feel her presence.  Maybe he can see her.

Somehow my son has a connection to my daughter that I cannot describe or explain.  Somehow his mind, which is not bogged down by grown-up logic, has let her in.  I am choosing to believe that these incidents are not random.  I am choosing to believe that these two little people, separated by the bounds of life and death, somehow cross that barrier and spend time together.  Whether it's true or not doesn't matter.  It makes me happy to think they have a connection, that they somehow still have each other.  When I can look past my own grief, I get incredibly sad for the sibling experiences Cole and Molly will not have together.  If in some small way they are having some sibling connection now, then it is definitely something I am grateful for.  And I just hope I get to hear about it.

"Love means you breathe in two countries."
~Naomi Shihab Nye

A Father’s Perspective – My Molly Story

It’s been a month now since September 9^th, a date that we will forever call “Molly Day” in honor of the beautiful stillborn daughter that we brought into the world that fall evening. Those days already feel so far away, and yet they remain so fresh in my mind. After reading Debra’s two beautiful and insightful blog posts since then, I realized that it’s important for me to share my experiences as well, both for myself and for all those who have supported us. As a husband in this situation, you have to put yourself second and provide love and support. But as a father, you also can’t overlook your own loss or forget to reflect on what has happened to you. This story is that lesser-heard view, from a father’s eyes.

Saturday, Sept. 8^th began as a pretty normal weekend morning. We were anxiously waiting for Molly’s arrival, due the next day. Right at 40 weeks, we were at the finish line of a long wait for our baby girl. Debra had been having contractions on and off for about a week, and I had been convinced Molly was going to come early. I had been extremely busy at work for months, trying to wrap up loose ends before my planned two weeks of “paternity vacation,” and at the time I was grateful to Molly for waiting and giving me a few extra days to check some extra things off my list. Looking back, I so wish I could give those work days back and instead have her safely arrive early.

We were a bit concerned that morning, as we realized that Debra hadn’t felt Molly move in a while, but Molly was quiet sometimes and we didn’t think too much of it. After a visit to the park with Cole, with still no movement from Molly, we came home and tried to stir her up. Throughout the pregnancy, Cole’s voice was the one thing that consistently got her moving, and I like to think they formed a connection even though she never got to see him. On this day, however, even Cole couldn’t get any results. Caffeine didn’t work either. After we put Cole down for his nap, Debra spoke to a nurse on-call, who wasn’t too concerned but suggested Debra go to the hospital to check things out. Still not really worried, Debra left for St. Mary’s Hospital while I stayed home with Cole.

A half-hour or so later, I got a call that forever changed my life. It was Debra, in tears, telling me that the doctors weren’t finding a heartbeat. With those words, a chill instantly washed over my entire body that I pray I never feel again. She told me another doctor was coming in soon with different equipment to try again and that I needed to get there right away. I frantically called her sister, Deanna, who was visiting with their parents at her home a few blocks away, telling her come over for Cole so I could rush to the hospital.

I drove quickly, muttering prayers over and over again that there was a mistake and that Molly was fine. Halfway to St. Mary’s, Debra called again and confirmed my worst fears, that there was no heartbeat. I’ll never forget as she wept, “How are we going to tell Cole?” Cole had indeed been very aware of the pregnancy, talking about being a big brother, holding and feeding his sister, and we were so excited to see him with her.

Looking back on it all, I wish I could have been with Debra as she and the doctors began to realize that Molly was not alive. I can’t imagine the awfulness of those moments, which must have felt like days, desperately waiting to find some sign of life. I wish I could have at least been there by her side so that she didn’t have to go through that experience alone.

When I arrived at St. Mary’s, I parked the car and sprinted from the parking lot, across the skybridge, through the hospital to the birth suites. Having worked at St. Mary’s for several years in the past, I knew exactly where to go but never imagined myself running there in a situation like this. After I got to the room, another doctor came in for a final check. I knew what the outcome would be, but I still stared at the ultrasound screen, praying somehow that we’d still find life. We did not. Molly was gone. In shock with tears in my eyes, I held Debra tight as she wept for several minutes.

We discussed options with the doctors, and Debra decided she still wanted to attempt a natural delivery (labeled a VBAC because she had to have a C-section with Cole’s delivery). I still admire the courage in her decisions while facing this terrible situation, opting to go through the pain of labor and delivery despite knowing what the outcome would be. We decided to go home first so that we could process things with our family, get a night of sleep, and then return in the morning to induce labor.

A few hours later, we were at Deanna’s house, and I stepped outside so I could call my parents and then distract myself by playing with the kids. But soon, I received another scare when Deanna ran out to get me, saying that Debra was pale and sweaty and needed to go to the ER. In the end, it was just an anxiety attack from the stress of everything, but we couldn’t take a chance, so we quickly kissed Cole goodbye and rushed back to the hospital.  

When I brought Debra into the ER, I could read the smile on the face of the desk nurse, who was anticipating a joyous pregnant woman and her husband coming in to deliver a child. I quickly cut her off and explained our situation to avoid an awkward conversation, and I watched her expression instantly change to the serious, sad look that we saw so many times that day. Debra was escorted up to the birth suites while I once again parked the car and sprinted back to the birth suites for the second time that day.

In the many hours of labor that followed, Debra and I held each other and took turns consoling each other between the waves of contractions. From my cot next to her bed, I kept my hand stretched out to hold her hand through the night while we both tried to get a bit of sleep. I kept wishing I could do something to carry more of the emotional and physical burdens for her. Thankfully we were blessed with two amazing nurses who coached us, took care of us, and cried with us. Finally, around 6:30 pm on Sunday, September 9^th, 2012, Molly Christine Dybdahl was born.

I was the first to get to hold Molly, and her body was still warm from the womb. She looked perfect and beautiful, with a cute little nose and what appeared like a slight smile, leaving no clue as to why we lost her. She had wispy brown hair and the same funny toes that Cole and I share. My mind kept imagining her suddenly breathing or crying or opening her eyes as I rocked her in my arms. Until that moment in my life, for whatever reason, I hadn’t really cried since my childhood. But that all changed as I held her. Tears ran from my eyes, and my body shook as the sadness kept hitting me in waves. I kissed Molly’s head and kept telling her how sorry I was. I wanted to soak up every second I had holding her.

We stayed overnight in the hospital, keeping Molly in the room with us. We took pictures of her and took turns holding her when we could. As I emailed the sad news to family, friends, and co-workers, it all began to feel a bit more real. I kept tearing up every time I thought about Cole and how much I just wanted to hold him in my arms, so that I could protect him, shower him with love, and feel that heartwarming boost he always gives me.

In the morning, Molly’s body was beginning to show signs of deteriorating, and we knew we’d soon be facing another incredibly difficult moment. Her skin was cold. A trickle of dry blood had come from her nose, and the memory of trying to wipe it off will sadly stick with me forever. We took turns holding her for the last time. All too soon, it was time for us to let her go. Saying goodbye and watching the nurse take Molly away was more than any parent should have to do. Debra and I wept together before gathering our things and leaving for home.

Much has happened in the four weeks since then. A private funeral. Placing her ashes in her new memorial flower garden in our backyard. Visits with family and friends. Returning to work after two weeks. But the constant reminders are still there. Every morning when I wake up, I see our nursery door open with the sun shining in, and I’m reminded that Molly is not inside sleeping safely with the door closed like we had imagined. At night, I rest my arm against Debra’s belly and half-expect to feel Molly kick. My mind often jumps to the future that will never be and the amazing girl and woman Molly that would have been. I find myself wondering if I’m feeling the way I’m supposed to or grieving the right way, even though I know there is no “right way.” My brain is often preoccupied, working in overdrive as my subconscious tries to make sense of a seemingly impossible situation.

And yet, life moves on, and I’m reminded of so many things we have to be grateful for. Debra and I have a wonderfully strong marriage that has proven it can get us through anything. We have the loving support of so many family members, friends, and neighbors who are looking out for us. We have an amazing son who makes us laugh and beam with pride every single day, and who still checks in every so often, asking with a smile, “Dada, are you happy now?” Even in the shadow of tragedy, the people in our lives light our way, guiding us to a brighter future.

As we move forward, Molly will forever be a part of our family. Even though she never quite got to breathe the air or see the world with her eyes, she is still our daughter. She is still a sister, a granddaughter, a niece, and a cousin. She is still a person. She was with us for 40 weeks, hearing our voices and feeling our touch.

I know that Molly is in a good place, wearing a yellow dress, smiling down on her new memorial flower garden with other relatives who have left this world, and whispering in Cole’s ear. I hope somehow she can feel how much her dad loves her, and that she knows I’ll find her again someday. Our family will move ahead and grow, but we will never forget.

A Garden for Molly

Three weeks have passed since my world changed forever.  I've learned many things in the past few weeks that I wish I didn't know.  I now know that the rate of stillbirth in the United States is 1/200 births.  I now know that many funeral homes do not charge for services provided for lost infants.  I now know that there are several infant loss support groups in Madison.  I also learned about organizations such as Mikayla's Grace, which provides memory boxes to parents leaving the hospital without their baby, and Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep, which provides local photographers that come to the hospital and take family photos with babies who will not make it home.

The past three weeks have also shown me what wonderful, supportive, generous people I am lucky to have in my life.  An extremely thoughtful and kind neighbor set up a meal calendar for our family.  I have not cooked since Molly's death, and I won't need to for at least two more weeks thanks to a stocked freezer.  In addition to the meals, many neighbors have stopped by with cards for us and gifts for Cole.  And last weekend when we needed help clearing our vegetable garden so that we could turn it into a memory garden for Molly, my yard was filled with family, friends, and neighbors.  So many people were here that most of them ended up standing around because there was not enough work to do.  I should have had them clean my house!  We felt so loved to have so many people supporting us.  And hearing the laughter and squeals of all the children running around the yard made my heart smile.  I know Molly was with us that day.

This past Saturday, Brendon's family and my family came to our house to help us bury Molly's ashes in the new garden and to plant flowers that will bloom for her each year.  We picked mostly yellow flowers since that just seems to be her color.  At the hospital after she was born, the nurse offered us a yellow hat or a pink hat.  I was going to go with pink, but Brendon said he'd always pictured Molly in yellow.  After that, the color yellow just seemed to keep popping up.  We bought Cole a train named Molly, and she of course is yellow.  We brought yellow sunflowers to the private funeral Brendon and I held for her.  I'm finding it comforting that many of the trees in our neighborhood have beautiful yellow leaves right now.  As I drive down our street, I imagine Molly saying to me, "I know you miss me, Mama, but I'm happy.  I made these trees beautiful so that you could think of me."

A few days ago we got a visit from our friends Alli and Shawn.  Alli asked us how we came up with Molly's name.  I realized at that moment that no one else has asked us that.  It made me so happy that Alli asked that - she was recognizing that Molly was real, and even though she died, Brendon and I are still proud of her and want to tell people what little we can about her.  She weighed 6 pounds and 2 ounces.  She was 18 inches long.  She had beautiful, long fingers, and Brendon's funny toes.  She had her brother's nose, and lovely little lips.  And the name Molly means "Wanted Child."  Her middle name, Christine, is after my Mom.

Another friend, who also lost her child the day he was born, recently told me she'd love to see photos of Molly if I'd like to share them.  I was very touched that she asked.  I've been hesitant to show pictures of Molly to people because I don't want to make anyone uncomfortable, and seeing photos of a dead child may seem morbid to some.  But again, like any other Mom, I'm proud of my baby, and I want to show her off to anyone who'd like to see a photo.  (I've found two good websites on what to do when a friend loses a child.  They are as follows:  http://www.glowinthewoods.com/how-to-help-a-friend/, http://facesofloss.com/friends-family/10-ways-to-support-the-person-in-your-life-who-has-just-lost-a-baby)  I have several regrets about things I didn't do when we were in the hospital, like not taking a lock of Molly's hair, but my biggest regret is that we didn't allow anyone to come and see her.  After having some time to process everything, I now know I would have liked to have had my family meet Molly while they could.  We also chose not to bring Cole to the hospital because we thought it would have been too confusing.  And while that's still true, I deeply wish I had a photo of my two children together.

Yesterday Cole and I were in the car with my oldest nephew James.  In the random way almost-3-year-olds talk, Cole was telling James that we went to buy dirt earlier that day.  James asked why, and Cole proceeded to tell him that we bought dirt for Molly's garden "so she could play in it."  He went on to say that baby Molly was too sick to come home and she got to go to heaven.  He said that he loves her and he wants to snuggle her and feed her.  Moments like that absolutely break my heart, but it also makes me so happy that Cole is thinking about his little sister.  She is a part of our family, and as hard as it is that she's not here, I don't want him to be scared to talk about her.  And I don't want him to forget she existed.  Maybe he knows something I don't.  Maybe Molly is playing in her garden.  I hope so.

"Pain does go away, and happiness is on the other side.  Although the pain comes back, so does the happiness.  It is like waves in the ocean, coming and going...coming and going...breathing in and breathing out..."
~Lia Gay

When Hello Means Good-bye

As most of you know, Brendon and I were expecting our second child in early September.  We knew we were having a baby girl and were beyond excited to be giving Cole a little sister.  My pregnancy had been fairly uneventful.  Around 35 weeks, my doctor thought I was measuring a bit small, so I had some extra tests done over the next few weeks.  I had several Non Stress Tests to make sure the baby was strong, and I had a very detailed ultrasound to measure growth.  After all the tests, it was determined that our baby girl was doing fine, but just may have been a little small.  I was advised to relax and enjoy the rest of my pregnancy.

My due date was September 9th.  On September 8th at 39 weeks and 6 days, I wasn't feeling much movement from our daughter.  I called Urgent Care, and the nurse I talked to told me everything was probably fine, but advised me to call an OB on-call.  After doing so, I was told to go to the hospital and get monitored.  I went reluctantly, thinking it was a waste of time.  However, when the nurse started hooking me up to the monitor, she couldn't find a heartbeat.  She tried a more precise Doppler without a better result.  An ultrasound soon confirmed that our daughter no longer had a heartbeat.  I called Brendon to tell him what was going on.  He rushed to the hospital, and together we tried to process the news we thought we'd never have to face.  The daughter we dreamed of and hoped for and loved for 39 weeks and 6 days was gone.

The doctor presented us with some options of what to do next.  While giving me the option of a repeat c-section, they encouraged me to continue with my plans for a VBAC.  The doctor I saw was very reassuring and told me that he was confident a VBAC would be successful.  We decided to go home for the night to be with Cole and process everything, with plans to come back in the morning to start an induction.  My parents happened to be in town for a visit, so we had dinner with them and my sister's family.  It was a great blessing to have my family so close.  After dinner, I started to feel strange.  I was lightheaded and hot.  My sister took one look at me and ran to get Brendon to take me back to the hospital.  We tearfully kissed Cole good-night and went back to the ER.

The doctor I saw determined that I was having an anxiety attack, which made sense.  After I calmed down, we decided to stay at the hospital and start the induction process.  A balloon catheter was inserted at 10pm on September 8th to help me start to dilate.  By midnight, I started having contractions that were strong enough to keep me awake.  I tried to sleep, but the contractions were too painful, so I began walking around the room.  At 2:30am I took a sleeping pill, which did nothing to help me sleep, and at 3:00am, I received some pain medication so I could sleep.  I got another dose at 5:00am.  I slept until about 7:30am, at which point I started walking around because the contractions were less painful that way.  At 10:00am, I needed to rest, so I laid down after a shot of Morphine.  The Morphine did not help with the pain, and I was back walking around within an hour.  Whenever I was walking, Brendon was right there with me.  During every contraction, he held my hands or rubbed my back.  He was the amazing birth partner I knew he'd be.

We got a visit from our Pastor in the early afternoon.  She prayed with us and cried with us and blessed our baby.  All the while, my contractions were getting stronger and stronger.  I decided to get some stronger pain medication so that I could eat and rest.  This medicine helped for a few hours, but around 3:30pm, I was in intense pain.  At this point, the balloon catheter came out.  I was between 4 and 5cm dilated.  I also started having contractions I cannot describe.  By 5:30, I was 10cm dilated.  When they told me this, I got incredibly scared.  The labor process had given me a huge distraction from the emotional pain I was enduring.  I was suddenly faced with the fact that I was going to bring a child into the world who would not be breathing.  I was scared of what she would look like, and I was scared for what I would feel like once she was no longer inside of me.  But I didn't have a choice.  She had to come out.  And at 6:31pm on September 9th, after 45 minutes of medication-free pushing, our beautiful, perfect-looking daughter Molly Christine was born.  Stillborn.  But still born.

Brendon held her first.  I've never really seen my husband cry before, and I could have spent my entire life without seeing his tears if it meant we would have been able to bring a healthy Molly home.  As soon as I was physically ready, he passed Molly to me.  The three of us sat on the bed together for a while.  The nurse took some photos, which I am extremely grateful for.  I wasn't sure if I would want pictures, but I treasure the few we have of our daughter.  We kept Molly with us overnight, and the next morning, we had to say good-bye.  It was impossible.  I don't know how I let her go for the last time and watched the nurse take her body from the room.  I still can't believe we left the hospital without a car seat and diaper bag and our lovely girl.

I think of her constantly.  I long for her, I miss her, my entire body aches for her.  I think of how Cole would have looked with his baby sister in his arms, how Brendon would have been such an amazing, gentle, sweet Daddy to our daughter.  My mind tricks me into thinking she's in the next room or still in my belly.  The day after Molly was born, I told Brendon that I felt like she was still inside of me.  He wisely responded with, "She will always be inside of us."

Amongst this tragedy, we have found many blessings.  The two nurses who spent the most time with us at the hospital were truly a gift.  I was able to have a VBAC, which I desperately wanted to achieve.  I am extremely proud of the way I delivered Molly, and it was amazing to finally learn what my body can do.  Neighbors have been bringing food each day.  Some people have brought gifts for Cole.  My sister has been beyond supportive, despite dealing with her own grief over losing her niece.  And Brendon and I have found a strength in each other and our marriage that we didn't know was there.

Cole has been a champ.  He doesn't understand what is happening, but he is of course affected.  He's handled spending time away from Brendon and me with incredible grace, and when nothing else can, he makes us laugh.  Yesterday he said to me, "Mama, is the baby out of your tummy?"  After I responded that she was, he said, "Can you run with me now?"  I laughed and was reminded of what is important in his life, and that is being able to play with his Mama and Dada.  Although my heart breaks at the fact that he will never know his sister on Earth, I am grateful that he is too young to fully grasp what has happened.

Everyone I talk to always ends the conversation with, "Please let me know if there's anything I can do."  If you are wondering that, just please let me talk about Molly.  I'm going to cry.  I'm always going to cry over losing Molly, but I desperately want to talk about her.  She will always be my daughter.  She will always be on my mind.  It hurts a little less when I can share her and my grief with others.  This pain comes in waves, and when I can share a small memory or get out how I'm feeling, the wave of pain is a little smaller.

Although we are in pain, we are hopeful.  Hopeful that Molly is happy, being held by our grandparents.  Hopeful that Molly never knew and never will know pain.  Hopeful that we will be able to go on and have more healthy children.  Hopeful that we will see Molly again and be a family.

"Life is a blend of love and loss, but love is always stronger.  Love lives forever."