You are currently browsing the monthly archive for April 2009.
Yesterday this blog registered over 10,000 hits. I’m not so sure that is something to celebrate, as I wish I didn’t have this blog/memory site in the first place—but, it has been a nice way to be able to share my little guy with friends and relatives.
However, most people don’t find this site because they are looking for my Dekar—a good portion are drawn to this site because of the Sample Infant Obituaries. Since I originally posted Dekar’s obituary, I don’t believe a day has gone by that somebody hasn’t stumbled on this site in search of a sample or template on how to write a baby/stillborn/infant obituary. I find that incredibly sad—-to know that every single day, somebody is suffering a loss of a baby. 😦
From April 27th, 2009
Today Dekar would have been 10 months old. On my FaceBook account I simply typed out “Ice Cream”. I knew what it meant, and it didn’t matter if anybody else did.
This time “Dekar Day” is hitting me a bit harder because I am also dealing with the loss of another baby.
On April 8 I went into my first prenatal appt., very excited about the first ultrasound that I would be having with my new pregnancy. The due date would have been in mid-November. As soon as Dr. Jeakle started the ultrasound, I knew something was not right. He was humming—when my husband hums, I know that something is up—and the volume on the machine was not turned up so that I could hear the heartbeat. I knew it was taking too long for him to find what he was looking for. Long story short, my doctor saw the little baby just fine, but the heartbeat was not detected. I was numb. It was not what I expected at all. Add to the frustration is the fact that the little baby measured perfectly—according to my date I would have been just over eight weeks along, and that’s how big the baby measured. The baby’s heart may have stopped beating seconds before the ultrasound.
I left that appt. not understanding anything any more. I just looked up at God and threw Him some question marks.
I had hoped to let the miscarriage happen naturally, but found the waiting to be harder than I anticipated. It reminded me of the time I was waiting on Dekar to be born. Even though I knew Dekar may not be born live, I had that tinge of hope to hang onto. With this—-there was nothing. I was just waiting for the inevitable. Two weeks later, after no signs of miscarrying, I requested another u/s and went home with the confirmed bad news–but still desiring to miscarry naturally.
I couldn’t take it. Once I got home everything hit me hard again. I called the doctor’s office and left the message that I am emotionally spent and didn’t know what I wanted. The doctor called me back and was again very compassionate–he didn’t push me into anything and he let me make my own decisions through the whole process. We scheduled a d&c, which was performed on Friday, April 24th. I was not happy about it, but I felt it was better for me and my family to get it done.
Today I received a call from the hospital to see how I was feeling after the surgery on Friday. My pain is keeping me up at night, so I did a follow-up directly with Amy, Dr. Jeakle’s nurse. Pain meds would be ordered, and after talking “business” I asked if she had a Girl Scout, since I wanted to buy some cookies and didn’t know any who were taking orders. Found out that ordering was over, but Dr. Jeakle’s wife orders extra. Good. At least I can get some Thin Mints and Samoas.
While in town to pick up the pain meds and ice cream treats for Dekar Day, I got a call on my cell–it was Amy, telling me the cookies were in. That was quick, and such perfect timing! I asked how much they would be, and she said, “Nothing. I think you could use some G.S. cookies so we threw a bag together for you.”
Indeed, she and some others at the office (I am not sure who) put together a bag for me—four boxes of Girl Scout cookies, other candy treats, and a candle. It was a random act of kindness that meant more to me than they will ever understand. They went beyond their “work” mode and treated me with a measure of warmth and friendship that I won’t forget. It was just. so. nice.
After I got home I plopped in front of the computer with a box of cookies…..(and those who know me know I am not sappy)—-I got a lump in my throat when I saw a bunch of my friends let me know that they had eaten ice cream, or planned on it, in memory of Dekar. Through facebook and email, I was told they remembered…..
Tonight as I eat my ice-cream with my husband, I expect it to have a whole different feel to it. I will not only be mourning the loss of Dekar but also mourning the loss of a baby I never met, but desperately wanted to. Maybe they are eating ice-cream together in heaven?…..
Before I go to bed I’ll look at my children and thank God for the gifts that He has given me. And I will be sending up a special thank you to Him for putting people in my life who will show a random act of kindness and for all of the others that remind me they care—especially at a time when I needed it the most.
that some people have too hard a time facing the fact that babies die. I guess they don’t want to look into the eyes of a mother who lost a baby too soon, because then they may have to actually face that reality. I guess it’s much easier to not say anything, look away, or to say a quick hello and move on.
I guess it’s easier to believe that these types of things happen to people we don’t know–and they would never have to deal with this painful reality face to face. It’s much more pleasant to think that it could never happen with thier own pregnancy or their own baby. Or their daughter, or sister. It only happens to the other people. It happens to the other people they don’t know and people who don’t live by them…..
Then once the “other person” IS somebody they know, or somebody who lives by them I guess they don’t know how to handle it.
It’s really understandable. I’ve never been in this position before either.
Before last spring, I’d never even thought I would hear such devastating news—that the child I was carrying would not live long, if he was born live at all. I handled it the only way I knew how: I cried. and cried. and cried.
Before that day I’ve never had to find the strength to just make it through each day of my pregnancy, not knowing if that kick I just felt would be the last one I’d ever feel from my son.
I’ve never had to pray for a miracle and plan for a funeral. I never had to wonder if my baby would be born live or still. I never had to talk to a funeral director or call a photographer to get “final” and only pictures of my child.
I used to be the one who always felt blessed, knew that all would go well and that I’d have many sleepless nights ahead of me because of the diapers and crying……but now I would have sleepless nights coming to grips with the fact that Dekar was not with me and never would be again on this earth. My sleepless nights were only filled with silence or the sounds of my own crying.
There was no way to practice for the position I was all of a sudden placed in. There was no rule book to follow and no way to know how I would make it through each day. I didn’t know what I was suppose to do or how I was to act. So, I wrapped myself fully into the roll of being Dekar’s mother.
After all, that part didn’t change. I was still Dekar’s mother.
I was celebrating each movement, yet already grieving the loss that was already in the depth of my heart.
While the other pregnant ladies anticipated their baby showers and decorated their nursery, I was deciding between cremation or burial and picking out what would be Dekar’s first and final outfit.
Instead of arranging our house for another little person, I was praying that I’d be able to bring home Dekar, even for only one day.
I’ve never had a baby die in my arms before Dekar. I’ve never had to watch my children and husband cry for the little life that was lost before our eyes.
And I’ve never had to face people who say nothing about the loss of my son.
And this is one thing that I don’t know what to do with.
I have no idea.
All I know that I can do is bless God that these people have never had to do the things that I did last year. I hope they never will.
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