I took my Neonatal Resuscitation course the other day, in pursuit of a career as a midwife. It's one of those things that must be under your belt if you want to be a worth while apprentice and assistant. The problem is, most instructors are in the hospital birth mindset...I really, really wanted to be taught by a particular teacher named Karen Strange who is a midwife and has a good reputation as an instructor. Sucks for me that she came to our region only two weeks after Phoebe died...there was hardly any other choice than to take the course while I had the opportunity.
I was worried before the class that my heart would be pulverized when the day was over. When Phoebe was with us there was nothing more to do except allow all the NNR "no-no's" to follow their natural sequence of events: She turned blue, her respirations were labored, her heart rate slow, and then slower until it stopped altogether. The class was bound to bring back those recent memories.
I did fine, really, for the most part I was able to put my own experience from my mind and think more in the caregiver mode rather than the mother mode. There was one thing, ONE little thing that I found remarkably upsetting.....so here are my remarks on it ( :
It was when Karen told the class this: " Most of the time the compromised baby will need 4 or 5 inflation breaths, and that is all. Babies are almost, almost, almost always in good shape to be breathing alone without help....then again, occasionally shit happens." In the space of a few seconds my throat constricted and my eyes welled up against all my inner strength telling them not to. At that same instant the class around me giggled and snickered... I guess thinking, "Karen said shit. Teeheehee!" I don't mind, I don't care, I know without a shadow of a doubt that nobody meant anything by it. It's just that if anyone could comprehend just what it is to be the rare situation in which Shit Happens then there would be no snickering. That will never happen, and I don't care about that either. I'm not "remarking" in a vain attempt to get the whole world to be sensitive to my situation. It's so uncommon, I know. In all those 26 careers as birthing professionals maybe not even one will see true Shit happening.
As for me, though, I'll be sensitive to those rare situations when Shit Happens.
I feel like an entirely different person than the person I was before Phoebe. (After all, Shit is a funny word, right?) The more time that gets between me and the 2 and 1/2 hours that I held my 2lb dying baby, the more I realize how my character is in the process of being formed. As someone recently put it for my benefit, I am the "pottery being fired." God is the potter, of course. It was going to take a lot to make me a more serious person. Without Phoebe I would have been becoming the midwife who blows off every symptom of a complication because my belief was that birth is normal....and complications rare....and I would have never expected to actually witness a true complication. Without Phoebe I wouldn't look at newborns and think about what a tremendous blessing and miracle each one is. Before Phoebe (and the miscarriages) I had a plan for my family - as though we can plan such things. Phoebe will make me a better birth professional, that I can know now without a doubt! When I was expecting her with such a bad prognosis people would try to tell me that I would be a better midwife someday for it...I said no way man - I'll suck at being a midwife because I'll be a little sad at every birth. Now that Phoebe has come and gone, and I brought her into the world and handed her right back over to God, I am able to relate to anyone who has lost an infant. I will be a little sad at every birth, to be sure, but I'll also be happier than before at every birth because I know now just how lucky that mama is that her baby is healthy and that she gets to keep it, cuddle it, nurse it, and get to know it.
Nobody wants to be the one who tears up a little when someone says Shit Happens...wouldn't you rather be giggling? Then again, doesn't everyone (and now I mean those who are birth professionals) want to have plenty of experience? Very few midwives and doctors are able to truly relate to a mom who is losing or has lost her infant *Sigh*
Oh, I just thought of the corniest thing ever!! I must stick it in my blog as the ending sentence to this post. Please envision this last line being said with an air piety...
The grass is always, and will always be, greener on my side of the fence so long as I allow God to water it.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Monday, April 25, 2011
That's the Lord for ya...
I keep discovering just how close God was to me even when He seemed so far off. It's pleasant to discover these little surprises but also a bit humbling...here I was whining about how He wasn't listening to me crying out to Him when clearly He was there all along.
I read this lil prayer book everyday called Magnificat. It has the Scripture for each individual daily Mass written in it according to the Liturgical year. On the days that Phoebe was born and died, I did not read my Magnificat since I was rather preoccupied. Tonight I decided to look back on those days and this is what I found:
I read this lil prayer book everyday called Magnificat. It has the Scripture for each individual daily Mass written in it according to the Liturgical year. On the days that Phoebe was born and died, I did not read my Magnificat since I was rather preoccupied. Tonight I decided to look back on those days and this is what I found:
- The Psalm for the day that Phoebe was born, April 11th, was Psalm 23. My faithful midwife played it for us on her computer after Phoebe was born and I was so hooked that I got my sister to sing it for the funeral. The song has been stuck in my head ever since! Here it is:
Psalm 23
The Lord is my Shepherd: I shall not want.
In verdant pastures He gives me repose;
Beside restful waters He leads me;
He refreshes my soul.
He guides me in right paths
for His name's sake.
Even though I walk in the dark valley
I fear no evil; for You are at my side.
With Your rod and Your staff
that give me courage.
You spread the table before me
In the sight of my foes;
You anoint my head with oil;
My cup overflows.
Only goodness and kindness follow me
All the days of my life;
And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord
For years to come.
- For the day that Phoebe died, April 12th, this is part of the Psalm used for the Mass (I'm not typing the whole thing because....well I have to wake up at 4:00 tomorrow morning...haha):
Psalm 102
O Lord, hear my prayer,
And let my cry come unto You.
Hide not Your face from me
In the day of my distress.
Incline Your ear to me;
In the day when I call, answer me speedily.
- On the day that Paul and I went out at my family's property in search of a nice place to bury her, it was still gray and wintery looking. Within the space of that day and the day of Phoebe's burial, the cherry trees up and down the drive came into full bloom ( :
- I believe I've already mentioned so in this blog, but the day of Phoebe's funeral happened to land on the feast of Our Lady of Sorrows. That really struck me because I had begun to understand in a small way what she had gone through as a mother who had to live to see her Son die. All through my sucky pregnancy I developed a stronger relationship with her because of her sorrows, and I knew beyond a doubt that she would be praying and praying for me as I endured a pain that was, again in it's own small way, somewhat similar to hers.
I could go on for quite awhile about how His hand was there at the birth also (pushing away the nurses and doctor...mwahaha) but I'm getting to tired. I may or may not continue this post another day [ :
Thursday, April 21, 2011
What now...?
I don't know if I am beginning to resent that silly Memorial Ticker at the top of this page or if I'm beginning to love it. Right now it says it has been "1 week and 2 days since she went to Heaven".
Aye me, so many emotions to keep under control. I feel like I look like a walking blob of tangled, messy emotions. One second I feel calm and content with the Master Plan, the next second I see a preggie and I get to feeling like my life sucks. I'm not pregnant anymore, my belly is flat and empty again. No more kicks, no more hiccups. No more peeing 4 times a night - never thought I'd be reminiscent of that - no more shopping for baby clothes, no more sleeping on my left side all the time. No more baby. She's gone. Just like that - a life was brought into existence and taken in two seasons. She was here long enough for her parents to fall head over heals in love with her, and then she left us behind.
I don't like recovering from childbirth with no baby. My mind can hold on to the fact that there is a good God caring for me, but my poor body is just now figuring out that there is no baby to take care of. I am reminded of those poor goats we had when I was a kid. They'd have their babies and we'd take the babies away because we wanted the milk for ourselves and we'd feed the babies formula or something. It hurts my heart remembering how the mothers' were SO upset....in fact it hurts my heart so bad I don't even want to think about it! *hum hum hum*
Yesterday was my 31 week prenatal appointment turned 1 week postpartum appointment. It is a sad, sad, unnatural thing to be going to a postpartum appointment with empty arms. My pregnancy is over, a thing of the past. The baby is buried, the postpartum appointment is complete, the milk is gone. I am left behind with a nature designed perfectly for loving my offspring. Trusting in God won't take away how He designed the heart of a mother.
Is there really nothing else to say? I don't have the words to say what I'm feeling. I don't want to abandon the blog because I don't want this to be over, funny as they may sound, I want to cling to the last drop of Phoebe. I am afraid of forgetting....
Aye me, so many emotions to keep under control. I feel like I look like a walking blob of tangled, messy emotions. One second I feel calm and content with the Master Plan, the next second I see a preggie and I get to feeling like my life sucks. I'm not pregnant anymore, my belly is flat and empty again. No more kicks, no more hiccups. No more peeing 4 times a night - never thought I'd be reminiscent of that - no more shopping for baby clothes, no more sleeping on my left side all the time. No more baby. She's gone. Just like that - a life was brought into existence and taken in two seasons. She was here long enough for her parents to fall head over heals in love with her, and then she left us behind.
I don't like recovering from childbirth with no baby. My mind can hold on to the fact that there is a good God caring for me, but my poor body is just now figuring out that there is no baby to take care of. I am reminded of those poor goats we had when I was a kid. They'd have their babies and we'd take the babies away because we wanted the milk for ourselves and we'd feed the babies formula or something. It hurts my heart remembering how the mothers' were SO upset....in fact it hurts my heart so bad I don't even want to think about it! *hum hum hum*
Yesterday was my 31 week prenatal appointment turned 1 week postpartum appointment. It is a sad, sad, unnatural thing to be going to a postpartum appointment with empty arms. My pregnancy is over, a thing of the past. The baby is buried, the postpartum appointment is complete, the milk is gone. I am left behind with a nature designed perfectly for loving my offspring. Trusting in God won't take away how He designed the heart of a mother.
Is there really nothing else to say? I don't have the words to say what I'm feeling. I don't want to abandon the blog because I don't want this to be over, funny as they may sound, I want to cling to the last drop of Phoebe. I am afraid of forgetting....
Monday, April 18, 2011
Holy Moly!!!!
I would say I've been a faithful person my entire life, from the age of reason on up. In fact, I might even have considered myself a very faithful person. I've always said my prayers at night, trusted in the Lord, gone to Mass every Sunday and sometimes weekdays.
The thing is, there has been something funny going on around here ever since Phoebe died a week ago tomorrow. How many times had I read Psalm 34:18 during my pregnancy when everything came crashing down on me? "The Lord is close to the broken hearted, He rescues those who's spirits are crushed." I read it through tears and received comfort by trusting those words. I thought that is what it meant - that He was near us but we can't see Him, we just need to trust His words. I never doubted the Lord was close to the broken hearted...but DUDE! I never knew He meant He'd be THAT close!!!!! Don't laugh, okay, but seriously I have felt such a Living presence with me since Phoebe died that...well, I caught myself feeling a tad bit embarressed using the bathroom!!!! Haha! Like, hmm...I could use a little privacy once in a while.... I know you're laughing! It doesn't make sense, but I'm just telling you that to impress upon you how incredibly real it has been.
He has been so close to me this past week that I can just about feel His presence physically. It's honestly rather intimidating, it's a tremendously huge sensation all around me. The best way to describe it is to say that it feels like there is a protective barrier between me and the world, His loving arms surrounding me as if to say to the world, "Stay away from this one for awhile, she lost her baby and that is the most painful thing a mother can do".
"After you have suffered a little, the God of all grace, Who called you to His eternal glory in Christ, will Himself restore, confirm, strengthen, and establish you." ~1 Peter 5:10
Phoebe has something to do with this, too. I think when she went to Heaven and gained knowledge and was able to see all my pain from the past few months, she probably felt sorry for me and asked God to comfort me. I know she is present, too, comforting me also...probably trying to tell me that it's not as bad as it seems from my point of view and that she is happy and well. Really, isn't it odd that I felt so comforted only after she left? Her prayers must have something to do with it.
Ya know, I could get used to these special favors. I'm getting treatment fit for a queen! I'm half worried that they will comfort me so well and efficiently that my broken heart will get healed, and then *gulp* I won't fit into the category of "the broken hearted", and God won't have to give me special treatment anymore! Eek! I like this feeling of being followed by Holy Beings who soothe my broken heart. One angel fetches Heavenly hot tea, while another rubs my neck, while yet another sings a hymn and dabs my eyes when they tear up. God holds one hand, and Phoebe, the other.
I've never felt such an urgency to spread the word! It's like I've seen an airplane for the first time from eyes that never fathomed such a thing could exist. I didn't expect to get such tangible help. Don't take this the wrong way, but I don't really miss Phoebe because her spirit is with me in a way I never really thought was possible. I knew it was possible but I didn't think it would feel the same way it feels when someone is standing in front of you looking at you.
I've believed myself to be a faithful person but what I've experienced in the past week has blown what I believed to be "it" out of the water.
Give God a try, I'm telling ya, you won't regret it. And also, you are missing out BIG time if you haven't received His loving kindness and been open to His ways of communication. Do it, do it, do it! There's no better time than now, Holy Week, to head on over to the Church!
PS: Most people I know who are not Christians tell me that we create God in our minds in order to have "someone" to comfort us - in other words, He's a figment of our imagination. Sorry guys, I'm not even that imaginative.
The thing is, there has been something funny going on around here ever since Phoebe died a week ago tomorrow. How many times had I read Psalm 34:18 during my pregnancy when everything came crashing down on me? "The Lord is close to the broken hearted, He rescues those who's spirits are crushed." I read it through tears and received comfort by trusting those words. I thought that is what it meant - that He was near us but we can't see Him, we just need to trust His words. I never doubted the Lord was close to the broken hearted...but DUDE! I never knew He meant He'd be THAT close!!!!! Don't laugh, okay, but seriously I have felt such a Living presence with me since Phoebe died that...well, I caught myself feeling a tad bit embarressed using the bathroom!!!! Haha! Like, hmm...I could use a little privacy once in a while.... I know you're laughing! It doesn't make sense, but I'm just telling you that to impress upon you how incredibly real it has been.
He has been so close to me this past week that I can just about feel His presence physically. It's honestly rather intimidating, it's a tremendously huge sensation all around me. The best way to describe it is to say that it feels like there is a protective barrier between me and the world, His loving arms surrounding me as if to say to the world, "Stay away from this one for awhile, she lost her baby and that is the most painful thing a mother can do".
"After you have suffered a little, the God of all grace, Who called you to His eternal glory in Christ, will Himself restore, confirm, strengthen, and establish you." ~1 Peter 5:10
Phoebe has something to do with this, too. I think when she went to Heaven and gained knowledge and was able to see all my pain from the past few months, she probably felt sorry for me and asked God to comfort me. I know she is present, too, comforting me also...probably trying to tell me that it's not as bad as it seems from my point of view and that she is happy and well. Really, isn't it odd that I felt so comforted only after she left? Her prayers must have something to do with it.
Ya know, I could get used to these special favors. I'm getting treatment fit for a queen! I'm half worried that they will comfort me so well and efficiently that my broken heart will get healed, and then *gulp* I won't fit into the category of "the broken hearted", and God won't have to give me special treatment anymore! Eek! I like this feeling of being followed by Holy Beings who soothe my broken heart. One angel fetches Heavenly hot tea, while another rubs my neck, while yet another sings a hymn and dabs my eyes when they tear up. God holds one hand, and Phoebe, the other.
I've never felt such an urgency to spread the word! It's like I've seen an airplane for the first time from eyes that never fathomed such a thing could exist. I didn't expect to get such tangible help. Don't take this the wrong way, but I don't really miss Phoebe because her spirit is with me in a way I never really thought was possible. I knew it was possible but I didn't think it would feel the same way it feels when someone is standing in front of you looking at you.
I've believed myself to be a faithful person but what I've experienced in the past week has blown what I believed to be "it" out of the water.
Give God a try, I'm telling ya, you won't regret it. And also, you are missing out BIG time if you haven't received His loving kindness and been open to His ways of communication. Do it, do it, do it! There's no better time than now, Holy Week, to head on over to the Church!
PS: Most people I know who are not Christians tell me that we create God in our minds in order to have "someone" to comfort us - in other words, He's a figment of our imagination. Sorry guys, I'm not even that imaginative.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Said and Done: Home from the Funeral
Thanks to those of you who have prayed so constantly for us. Both Paul and I left our daughter's funeral with peaceful hearts, knowing that we had at last completed one of the most difficult jobs any parent could be asked to do. I'm certain it's only because of the prayers that we have been given peace at last.
Here are my thoughts on it:
Heaven is spoken of so casually that the word can almost seem cliche. As humans here on earth we can never expect to grasp the beauty of being face to face with God, but when we hear the word used so often and so loosely it makes it even more difficult to understand the magnitude of what it means to be in Heaven. If Paul and I could even kinda/sorta understand what it means to have delivered Phoebe safely into the arms of God then we wouldn't shed a single tear. We're not supposed to understand, and we don't need to. What we know is that we can't imagine the happiness that Phoebe has right at this very moment, and knowing that makes every tear and every minute of bedrest worth it. We are proud because we feel as though we have joined forces with Christ and His suffering to bring Phoebe to that wondrous place. When we went into the Church today, one of the first things I noticed was the display of a crown of thorns that was set up for Lent. It reminded me that Paul's and my sufferings are intrinsically united with those of Jesus, and it was hard, hard work for all three of us.
I relate everything these days to birth, since I am studying midwifery, and this reminds me so much of labor! The pain seems unendurable, but as soon as you see the "baby" it's all worth every second of it. Paul and I will see the fruits of this labor of love when we go to Heaven and realize the gift we were able to participate in giving to our little one. *Chuckle* Another way I relate this to labor is that all along the way for these past few months I have had moments in which I cried and said I "can't do it" - in those moments the Lord was at my elbow saying "Yes you can, I know without a doubt that you can." Reminds me of a midwife at a birth! The midwife is always right about that, as was God when He persistently said I could it. I did it! I did it, and I'm right proud of myself ( :
Late last week when I felt signs of labor coming on slowly, I wondered and thought it would be nice (if I had to deliver a baby who would die) to do it one Good Friday. I thought that would be a good day for it because it would have significance. Guess what? God had another secret surprise in store for me. Fr. Fasano introduced his sermon at the Mass today by saying, "Isn't it interesting that this funeral of a sweet innocent baby should land on the Feast Day of Our Lady of Sorrows?" My jaw dropped and that was the only time during the Mass that I cried! Me n' Mary have become real buddy pals throughout this pregnancy. I related to her seven sorrows so well; from the Prophecy of Simeon to the day she had to hold her Son's lifeless body in her arms. I knew that if ANYONE could understand my anguish, it would be her.
There is a painting in the Church of Mary, pregnant with Jesus, greeting Elizabeth, pregnant with John the Baptist. On some sundays when I was at my lowest I would look at it and say to myself, "They don't understand what I'm going through...they both went on to have healthy babies...". I looked at it today and thought to myself, "We all three saw our children die before us. NOW we all three have children in Heaven."
It truly has been on honor to be chosen for such a job. Grieving is to be expected until the day we make it up to Heaven also, but that is part of the price we are happy to pay for Phoebe's eternal joy. When I think about it that way I'm like...oh dear, Lord, I want to offer myself as a vessel for more little saints if You want...but *shew* doing this ever again is a terrifying thought.
If this blog is getting to long and boring feel free to stop reading anytime ( ; I'll keep on rambling and don't expect anyone to read it.
I feel that perhaps my life's purpose has been fulfilled.
Oh what was that last important thought I wanted to put down? .....hmm I dunno. Anyway, I thank you because I know that everyone we know has bee praying for our peace of heart, and we got it. I know there are still many dark moments ahead. There will be tomorrow morning, for example, when I wake a few hours before everyone else feeling like my breasts will explode because my body thinks I have a baby to nurse. There will be the days in June when I will hear of the births of the babies that would have been born around the same time as Phoebe, if she were healthy. But I do feel assured that we've made it through the worst, and again, it has been a very high honor to be chosen to do it.
Here are my thoughts on it:
Heaven is spoken of so casually that the word can almost seem cliche. As humans here on earth we can never expect to grasp the beauty of being face to face with God, but when we hear the word used so often and so loosely it makes it even more difficult to understand the magnitude of what it means to be in Heaven. If Paul and I could even kinda/sorta understand what it means to have delivered Phoebe safely into the arms of God then we wouldn't shed a single tear. We're not supposed to understand, and we don't need to. What we know is that we can't imagine the happiness that Phoebe has right at this very moment, and knowing that makes every tear and every minute of bedrest worth it. We are proud because we feel as though we have joined forces with Christ and His suffering to bring Phoebe to that wondrous place. When we went into the Church today, one of the first things I noticed was the display of a crown of thorns that was set up for Lent. It reminded me that Paul's and my sufferings are intrinsically united with those of Jesus, and it was hard, hard work for all three of us.
I relate everything these days to birth, since I am studying midwifery, and this reminds me so much of labor! The pain seems unendurable, but as soon as you see the "baby" it's all worth every second of it. Paul and I will see the fruits of this labor of love when we go to Heaven and realize the gift we were able to participate in giving to our little one. *Chuckle* Another way I relate this to labor is that all along the way for these past few months I have had moments in which I cried and said I "can't do it" - in those moments the Lord was at my elbow saying "Yes you can, I know without a doubt that you can." Reminds me of a midwife at a birth! The midwife is always right about that, as was God when He persistently said I could it. I did it! I did it, and I'm right proud of myself ( :
Late last week when I felt signs of labor coming on slowly, I wondered and thought it would be nice (if I had to deliver a baby who would die) to do it one Good Friday. I thought that would be a good day for it because it would have significance. Guess what? God had another secret surprise in store for me. Fr. Fasano introduced his sermon at the Mass today by saying, "Isn't it interesting that this funeral of a sweet innocent baby should land on the Feast Day of Our Lady of Sorrows?" My jaw dropped and that was the only time during the Mass that I cried! Me n' Mary have become real buddy pals throughout this pregnancy. I related to her seven sorrows so well; from the Prophecy of Simeon to the day she had to hold her Son's lifeless body in her arms. I knew that if ANYONE could understand my anguish, it would be her.
There is a painting in the Church of Mary, pregnant with Jesus, greeting Elizabeth, pregnant with John the Baptist. On some sundays when I was at my lowest I would look at it and say to myself, "They don't understand what I'm going through...they both went on to have healthy babies...". I looked at it today and thought to myself, "We all three saw our children die before us. NOW we all three have children in Heaven."
It truly has been on honor to be chosen for such a job. Grieving is to be expected until the day we make it up to Heaven also, but that is part of the price we are happy to pay for Phoebe's eternal joy. When I think about it that way I'm like...oh dear, Lord, I want to offer myself as a vessel for more little saints if You want...but *shew* doing this ever again is a terrifying thought.
If this blog is getting to long and boring feel free to stop reading anytime ( ; I'll keep on rambling and don't expect anyone to read it.
I feel that perhaps my life's purpose has been fulfilled.
Oh what was that last important thought I wanted to put down? .....hmm I dunno. Anyway, I thank you because I know that everyone we know has bee praying for our peace of heart, and we got it. I know there are still many dark moments ahead. There will be tomorrow morning, for example, when I wake a few hours before everyone else feeling like my breasts will explode because my body thinks I have a baby to nurse. There will be the days in June when I will hear of the births of the babies that would have been born around the same time as Phoebe, if she were healthy. But I do feel assured that we've made it through the worst, and again, it has been a very high honor to be chosen to do it.
Phoebe's Wake
Last night was Phoebe's wake. I'm glad that friends and family were able to see her little body, but for Paul and I....well, she just wasn't there. In a way it was a comfort, because I knew she was somewhere else. Her cute little body was just her old dwelling place; something of the past.
Here is a poem I wrote in loving remembrance, and printed on the prayers cards:
In Memory of Phoebe Leilani Clowes
From time to time among the flowers
A bud may never bloom.
While many make the garden bright,
One withers all too soon.
Of all the pretty roses
All scattered 'cross the eath,
Our precious child left us
Just hours after birth.
With ceaseless prayer and crying
We begged that she could stay,
But God's plans for her were bigger
So He took her anyway.
Still to Jesus we shall go and ask
For strength to carry on.
The road ahead seems bleak and bare
Now that our baby's gone.
With aching hearts and trembling hands
We lift sweet Phoebe's name,
And return our little rosebud
To God, from whence she came.
I'm glad that we are finished with the wake. I am so grateful to everyone who found time to come and extend they're support to us and bear witness to her short life. It really makes me realize what an act of charity it is to attend a funeral! Paul and I were both so pleased to see every face, whether familiar or not so familiar. Such a blessing. Thank you!
I have been a part of the Mommy-of-a-Dead-Child club for awhile now, as I miscarried our first (Angela) shortly after our wedding. When you are one of us you learn about things to say and not to say to someone who mourns for the loss of a loved one. For some reason most support websites list the things you should NOT say to someone. I've heard 'em all by now, of course: "It's better this way - this is nature taking care of a problem", or "You are young, you will have another baby". The worst I ever heard was with my first loss, the loss of Angela at 11 weeks when I was 20: " Were you really ready for a baby anyway?" Someone last night told me that when she miscarried her baby at the hospital the doctor told her to stop crying or he would give her something to make it stop.
Well, I don't think I heard anything of the sort last night at Phoebe's wake. Following are several comments that stayed with me and that have touched both Paul and I deeply. These are the RIGHT things to say to parents who have lost an infant:
"I hope you don't mind, I touched her forehead. I couldn't help myself! I've never had the opportunity to touch a Saint."
"Thank you for all your hard work. You have given us an Angel!"
"Phoebe was obliviously content while you were going through all the suffering you did while pregnant. Even when she died she knew nothing but love. Now that she has died she is enjoying joy beyond our imagination - you are here to pay the price, but you could never have given anyone a better gift."
"How are you feeling physically?"
We received a gift last night that should be included in this list. It was a gift certificate to a nursery for a plant, specifically a "Bleeding Heart". This is the plant that is in my picture at the bottom of this blog. It will live on once planted. I intend to plant it on Phoebe's grave, not only for Phoebe but also to remember all the baby's who have died due to heart defects, and sadly there are many.
Now onward to the Mass of the Angels and the burial of my sweet lil peanut. *SIGH* Paul made the casket himself, and I am so looking forward to hearing my sister and honorary brother and sister play and sing for the burial. In the few days between Phoebe's birth and her burial, they have blessed me SO much by learning the same two songs that we played on the computer when Phoebe was born. <3
Here is a poem I wrote in loving remembrance, and printed on the prayers cards:
In Memory of Phoebe Leilani Clowes
From time to time among the flowers
A bud may never bloom.
While many make the garden bright,
One withers all too soon.
Of all the pretty roses
All scattered 'cross the eath,
Our precious child left us
Just hours after birth.
With ceaseless prayer and crying
We begged that she could stay,
But God's plans for her were bigger
So He took her anyway.
Still to Jesus we shall go and ask
For strength to carry on.
The road ahead seems bleak and bare
Now that our baby's gone.
With aching hearts and trembling hands
We lift sweet Phoebe's name,
And return our little rosebud
To God, from whence she came.
I'm glad that we are finished with the wake. I am so grateful to everyone who found time to come and extend they're support to us and bear witness to her short life. It really makes me realize what an act of charity it is to attend a funeral! Paul and I were both so pleased to see every face, whether familiar or not so familiar. Such a blessing. Thank you!
I have been a part of the Mommy-of-a-Dead-Child club for awhile now, as I miscarried our first (Angela) shortly after our wedding. When you are one of us you learn about things to say and not to say to someone who mourns for the loss of a loved one. For some reason most support websites list the things you should NOT say to someone. I've heard 'em all by now, of course: "It's better this way - this is nature taking care of a problem", or "You are young, you will have another baby". The worst I ever heard was with my first loss, the loss of Angela at 11 weeks when I was 20: " Were you really ready for a baby anyway?" Someone last night told me that when she miscarried her baby at the hospital the doctor told her to stop crying or he would give her something to make it stop.
Well, I don't think I heard anything of the sort last night at Phoebe's wake. Following are several comments that stayed with me and that have touched both Paul and I deeply. These are the RIGHT things to say to parents who have lost an infant:
"I hope you don't mind, I touched her forehead. I couldn't help myself! I've never had the opportunity to touch a Saint."
"Thank you for all your hard work. You have given us an Angel!"
"Phoebe was obliviously content while you were going through all the suffering you did while pregnant. Even when she died she knew nothing but love. Now that she has died she is enjoying joy beyond our imagination - you are here to pay the price, but you could never have given anyone a better gift."
"How are you feeling physically?"
We received a gift last night that should be included in this list. It was a gift certificate to a nursery for a plant, specifically a "Bleeding Heart". This is the plant that is in my picture at the bottom of this blog. It will live on once planted. I intend to plant it on Phoebe's grave, not only for Phoebe but also to remember all the baby's who have died due to heart defects, and sadly there are many.
Now onward to the Mass of the Angels and the burial of my sweet lil peanut. *SIGH* Paul made the casket himself, and I am so looking forward to hearing my sister and honorary brother and sister play and sing for the burial. In the few days between Phoebe's birth and her burial, they have blessed me SO much by learning the same two songs that we played on the computer when Phoebe was born. <3
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
My Birth Story
Surely you didn't think that just because my life is a train wreck right now that I would forget to post my birth story, did you? Well, I finally made it back to bed after yesterday and this morning running around making funeral arrangements for my little sweetie.
I'm so pleased to have something happy to share; although it is sad to lose a baby, the birth was great. I'm pretty sure that God felt bad that He couldn't use all our prayers the way we wanted, so He went ahead and applied them to the birth itself. ( :
One thing you have to understand about me in order for this birth story to make sense is that I'm...well, I'm pretty arrogant. I don't like be proven wrong. I didn't want to raise false alarm and drama by saying I was in labor only to be enduring regular pregnancy discomforts. I woke up at 3:30am on the 11th with bothersome contractions. They kinda came and went through the morning and early afternoon, and we went about our day normally. By mid afternoon they were causing me significant grief but I've got and excellent poker face so nobody knew, not even Paul, and me being so stoic I didn't say much about it. What I did was say that labor could be coming in the next few days or weeks, so we needed a plan. Around 7pm I called my midwife to work on that plan - and as if to confirm my worst fears and seal the deal for Worst Pregnancy Ever, she sadly told me that with my low iron and the amount of blood loss I'd had, she had to risk me out of home birth! She knows me well....so before she got off the phone she warned me not to attempt an unassisted home birth because it really could be dangerous.
By 9:30pm I was not a happy camper, but did I tell anyone I was in labor? Nope. Poor Paul, what a position to be in. Here I am, I'm supposed to be the one who "knows" these things but I wouldn't admit to anything still. He said to me around that time, "Ya know Gina, you're acting pretty labory if you ask me..." I kept pacing , kneeling, leaning but pshawed him for saying such a thing. I was wondering if having such low fluid was just making braxton hicks feel much worse. We took a few belly bump pictures in between contractions as a keepsake for this pregnancy, since we didn't have any yet.
Finally at 10:00 we hit the dusty trail to Winchester Medical Center. We parked at 10:30, and I checked in at the Emergency Room. Perfect poker face. A lady had to wheel me up to Labor and Delivery (hospital policy) and we talked and joked all the way up. I provided all my information to the front desk without a single wince...oh but I'm sly, I just leaned this way and that when need be so that she wouldn't think I was being a big baby about a little pain. They took me to a weird little back room (that's when Paul came in) and asked me to pee in a cup. Looking back on it, that was right during transition. I peed but....forgot to pee in the cup. Oops. I went out into the room again, they wanted me on a bed. A....BED....to do things that I had so dreaded about a hospital birth. I began to face the fact that I must be in labor. I started roaring, something I would be doing a lot of in the next 15 minutes or so. I roared at the nurse "Nooooooooo waaaay am I getting on that.....BED!!!!!" Ok, so the way they felt they could deal with that was to have me walk down the hall to another bed! The nurse told me that the doctor would check to make sure I was actually in labor. The plan was to do an ultrasound, and check my cervix. I did manage to get on that bed with great misery and loud roaring, but I was getting that little catch we get in our throats when it's time to push. They didn't have time to do those things. The doctor wanted me in....you guessed it...another bed, the bed that I was supposed to deliver in lying obediently on my back. I made my way to that room, it was 11:25, and as the nurse and doctor bustled around as quick as they could to "set up" for the birth, I reached down and caught my baby girl before they had a chance to give me an IV, before they even turned on the bright overhead light (one of the things I really, really dreaded about a hospital birth), and before anyone had time to enforce the order to get in bed. Nobody even saw except Paul, the way I'd wanted it. My world had shrunk quite a lot, and at that moment I don't remember anything but the soft skin of my daughter finally in my arms and that sweet, miniature cry that meant she was still alive. However, Paul tells me I hadn't quite finished my roaring spree, for when the nurse came to take Phoebe from me to do whatever it is she wanted to do, apparently I roared one final roar: "She's MINE!!!!!", and then I snuggled with my daughter, content, in the bed assigned. I got to do the things that every mother should be able to do - I admired her tiny toes, delicate fingers, felt her soft hair, and kissed her incredibly soft face. Although the midwife who had supported me so constantly throughout my entire difficult pregnancy didn't make it on time for the birth, she was on the scene just minutes later to continue emotional support. Those few hours we had with Phoebe were perfect.
I'm pleased with this birth in many ways, one of them is that it turned out to be an unintentional experiment for my doula work. A successful one! I had actually been with that same doctor for a birth as the doula, and she was like any doctor then- making orders and not exactly including the mother in the decision. But I came in and since I was in transition I wasn't really thinking or caring about doctors, so I decidedly did things the way I wanted. The nurse and doctor were delightfully timid about their suggestions for the rest of our time there. Example: " Ma'am, do you...uh...is it ok if we uh, maybe try a shot of pitocin to get the placenta out? Or maybe you don't want that....", and "Gina the doctor wanted to know if you would let her check you one more time. Would that be ok with you?" Magical respect! As if I was in charge! The only thing that made me feel like a patient in a hospital was the plastic armband. When the placenta was born I declared casually that I'd be taking it home with me and the nurse said, "Ok dear, I'll put it right in a container for you." I'm not foolish enough to think that the circumstances being what they were didn't contribute to this impressive change of behavior, but I have concluded that the mother being 100% adamant about her plan and assuming the role as ring leader is the best way to have a good hospital birth.
The hospital staff was very respectful about giving us our space. They just disappeared and left us to get to know our little one. The lights were dim in that room from the moment we walked in. It was very peaceful, and although there is a hospital policy that limits guests to only three, they never said a word when family began trickling in to meet the newest member. I had been worried that there would not be the usual joyful energy that is a part of normal birth, but it was there. We were happy and smiling the whole time Phoebe was alive with us. I'll remember that birth every bit as fondly as I remember Jonah's birth.
I'm so pleased to have something happy to share; although it is sad to lose a baby, the birth was great. I'm pretty sure that God felt bad that He couldn't use all our prayers the way we wanted, so He went ahead and applied them to the birth itself. ( :
One thing you have to understand about me in order for this birth story to make sense is that I'm...well, I'm pretty arrogant. I don't like be proven wrong. I didn't want to raise false alarm and drama by saying I was in labor only to be enduring regular pregnancy discomforts. I woke up at 3:30am on the 11th with bothersome contractions. They kinda came and went through the morning and early afternoon, and we went about our day normally. By mid afternoon they were causing me significant grief but I've got and excellent poker face so nobody knew, not even Paul, and me being so stoic I didn't say much about it. What I did was say that labor could be coming in the next few days or weeks, so we needed a plan. Around 7pm I called my midwife to work on that plan - and as if to confirm my worst fears and seal the deal for Worst Pregnancy Ever, she sadly told me that with my low iron and the amount of blood loss I'd had, she had to risk me out of home birth! She knows me well....so before she got off the phone she warned me not to attempt an unassisted home birth because it really could be dangerous.
By 9:30pm I was not a happy camper, but did I tell anyone I was in labor? Nope. Poor Paul, what a position to be in. Here I am, I'm supposed to be the one who "knows" these things but I wouldn't admit to anything still. He said to me around that time, "Ya know Gina, you're acting pretty labory if you ask me..." I kept pacing , kneeling, leaning but pshawed him for saying such a thing. I was wondering if having such low fluid was just making braxton hicks feel much worse. We took a few belly bump pictures in between contractions as a keepsake for this pregnancy, since we didn't have any yet.
Finally at 10:00 we hit the dusty trail to Winchester Medical Center. We parked at 10:30, and I checked in at the Emergency Room. Perfect poker face. A lady had to wheel me up to Labor and Delivery (hospital policy) and we talked and joked all the way up. I provided all my information to the front desk without a single wince...oh but I'm sly, I just leaned this way and that when need be so that she wouldn't think I was being a big baby about a little pain. They took me to a weird little back room (that's when Paul came in) and asked me to pee in a cup. Looking back on it, that was right during transition. I peed but....forgot to pee in the cup. Oops. I went out into the room again, they wanted me on a bed. A....BED....to do things that I had so dreaded about a hospital birth. I began to face the fact that I must be in labor. I started roaring, something I would be doing a lot of in the next 15 minutes or so. I roared at the nurse "Nooooooooo waaaay am I getting on that.....BED!!!!!" Ok, so the way they felt they could deal with that was to have me walk down the hall to another bed! The nurse told me that the doctor would check to make sure I was actually in labor. The plan was to do an ultrasound, and check my cervix. I did manage to get on that bed with great misery and loud roaring, but I was getting that little catch we get in our throats when it's time to push. They didn't have time to do those things. The doctor wanted me in....you guessed it...another bed, the bed that I was supposed to deliver in lying obediently on my back. I made my way to that room, it was 11:25, and as the nurse and doctor bustled around as quick as they could to "set up" for the birth, I reached down and caught my baby girl before they had a chance to give me an IV, before they even turned on the bright overhead light (one of the things I really, really dreaded about a hospital birth), and before anyone had time to enforce the order to get in bed. Nobody even saw except Paul, the way I'd wanted it. My world had shrunk quite a lot, and at that moment I don't remember anything but the soft skin of my daughter finally in my arms and that sweet, miniature cry that meant she was still alive. However, Paul tells me I hadn't quite finished my roaring spree, for when the nurse came to take Phoebe from me to do whatever it is she wanted to do, apparently I roared one final roar: "She's MINE!!!!!", and then I snuggled with my daughter, content, in the bed assigned. I got to do the things that every mother should be able to do - I admired her tiny toes, delicate fingers, felt her soft hair, and kissed her incredibly soft face. Although the midwife who had supported me so constantly throughout my entire difficult pregnancy didn't make it on time for the birth, she was on the scene just minutes later to continue emotional support. Those few hours we had with Phoebe were perfect.
I'm pleased with this birth in many ways, one of them is that it turned out to be an unintentional experiment for my doula work. A successful one! I had actually been with that same doctor for a birth as the doula, and she was like any doctor then- making orders and not exactly including the mother in the decision. But I came in and since I was in transition I wasn't really thinking or caring about doctors, so I decidedly did things the way I wanted. The nurse and doctor were delightfully timid about their suggestions for the rest of our time there. Example: " Ma'am, do you...uh...is it ok if we uh, maybe try a shot of pitocin to get the placenta out? Or maybe you don't want that....", and "Gina the doctor wanted to know if you would let her check you one more time. Would that be ok with you?" Magical respect! As if I was in charge! The only thing that made me feel like a patient in a hospital was the plastic armband. When the placenta was born I declared casually that I'd be taking it home with me and the nurse said, "Ok dear, I'll put it right in a container for you." I'm not foolish enough to think that the circumstances being what they were didn't contribute to this impressive change of behavior, but I have concluded that the mother being 100% adamant about her plan and assuming the role as ring leader is the best way to have a good hospital birth.
The hospital staff was very respectful about giving us our space. They just disappeared and left us to get to know our little one. The lights were dim in that room from the moment we walked in. It was very peaceful, and although there is a hospital policy that limits guests to only three, they never said a word when family began trickling in to meet the newest member. I had been worried that there would not be the usual joyful energy that is a part of normal birth, but it was there. We were happy and smiling the whole time Phoebe was alive with us. I'll remember that birth every bit as fondly as I remember Jonah's birth.
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