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