Good Old Facebook

I would like to start by apologizing if this post sounds angry, self-righteous, or self-pitying. I have said before that my goal is to be totally honest in sharing my feelings, and this is one of those posts that is totally honest. It may also be angry, self-righteous, and self-pitying, but it is at least honest. I have thought and thought about whether to post on this topic, I've asked trusted friends for advice, and I've talked to other moms about whether I am being too sensitive or confrontational. What it comes down to is that this is something that is bothering me, and the best way for me to make it stop doing so is for me to write about it and let it out. Just know that this all comes from a place of goodness, a desire to help and educate, and a need to give a voice to myself and other mothers of children who are dead to the world, but still very much alive in our hearts.

To say that losing Max has changed me is to put it lightly. To say that my grief has transformed me is more accurate. Max's death and the sense of loss and grief that I continue to feel have completely eradicated parts of my personality and replaced them with new ones. Where it hasn't done that, it has at least altered other parts. This includes my sense of humor and what makes me laugh. I am more sensitive, and I am definitely more easily offended. It used to take a lot to upset me. I rarely thought that a joke "crossed the line," and I'm sure I am guilty of offending many with my one liners and sarcastic comments. I've always had a pretty dry, sarcastic sense of humor. That hasn't changed, but I am perhaps a little more reserved with my wise cracks now because I know what it means to be offended by what is meant to be a harmless joke. I used to be amazed at how offended people could get over silly little jokes. Can't they just forget about it, I wondered. Why do they let it bother them? Now I understand. It's an involuntary reaction. At least for me it is. I don't want to be upset by anything that someone says, especially when the person is either (a) completely ignorant or (b) well-intentioned (or at least not ill-intentioned). Still, sometimes things bother me, and I can't help it. I try to "forget about it" or let it roll off my back, but I can't. If you know me or are a follower of this blog, then you are probably assuming that this little diatribe has roots in some recent experience. You would be correct. As ridiculous as it sounds, this all started with Facebook. If you are on Facebook, then you have undoubtedly seen the Ecards that people have been posting like it's their job. Here is an example:

These cards always have some sort of "old time" drawing accompanied by a "funny" message. A few weeks ago, one of my Facebook friends posted this one:

Things that I still find funny:  witty one-liners, a clever pun, people falling, dirty jokes, impromptu karaoke sessions with Aaron Baker. Things I don't find funny:  insensitive jokes like this one, bragging about the fact that you are blessed enough to not know what it's like to lose a child. Honestly, I don't find jokes about dead anything to be very funny. Remember that viral video that shows a little girl playing with a dead squirrel? Creepy, not funny. That said, I do understand why people would find this funny. It can be seen as a statement on the high expectations placed on moms today, it can be a statement about how dangerous the world can be and how demanding it really is to be a mother. It can also be seen as an incredibly insensitive thing to say to a mother who can't say that all of her children are alive. Maybe I would have thought it was funny before Max died. Maybe I would think it was funny today if Max were still alive. I don't think I would, but I don't have the luxury of knowing whether I would or not. I can say that I've always been a little bit too superstitious to joke about my kids' lives, but that's beside the point. The point is that Max did die, and that changed me. Not only do I find this ecard unfunny, but I find it pretty offensive. I wish I didn't. I wish I could brush it off, but I can't. I don't want to be bothered by petty things like this, but I am. Like I said, I'm more sensitive now, especially when it comes to comments about anyone, especially children, dying. I just don't think it's something to be taken lightly. The last thing that I want people to think about me is that I'm bitter or that I use Max's death as an excuse to hop on a soapbox and preach about how to be a good person or mother, so let me try to explain.

The first time I saw this, it took my breath away for a second. I read it again. I stared at it for a while. I didn't break down and cry or spend the whole day focusing on how horrible it made me feel. I did think about it though. A lot. I wondered if I was being crazy or hypersensitive because it did bother me. Obviously, I understand that this cartoon is meant to be harmless. It's not literally saying that if you have a dead child, then you are a bad mom. I get that. But it is a little insensitive to those of us moms who can't say that all our children are alive. Still, I wasn't about to comment on the photo or make a big fuss about it. I just tried to forget about it. It came up in a conversation with Lori, though, and she felt the same way as I did. Then, a few more friends posted it. And it still bothered me. Now, I do not believe that any of my friends who posted this picture meant any harm by it. I don't think that they ever in a million years thought that it would offend anyone. I don't think they saw anything potentially hurtful about it. They wouldn't have posted it if they thought it would seem insensitive. I know that about these people, so if you are one them, please believe me when I say that I don't think you're a jerk, I don't hate you, I won't defriend you, and I don't want you to feel attacked. If I thought you were a jerk, I wouldn't be friends with you.

When I started seeing this picture more often, I felt like maybe I could do something good by writing about it here. I know that my blog has helped many of my friends and family members figure out how they can be supportive and helpful throughout my grieving process. It has also helped people figure out what not to say or do. With that in mind, I hope that you will see this post not as a rant or complaint-fest by me, but rather as a post that might educate you or open your eyes to something you didn't consider before. I would venture to say that we all know someone who has lost a child. Consider this: one in four women has lost a child to miscarriage, stillbirth, or infant death. If you are reading this or if you're my friend on Facebook, then you at least know me. Besides me, you probably know at least one friend or family member who has suffered a miscarriage. Beyond that, you probably know several people, both old and young, who have outlived their own children. When I think back to Max's funeral and the first few days after his death, I can remember the shock that I felt at discovering just how many of my friends and family members had lost children. I had never heard of these children. I never even knew that most of them existed. Hearing the stories of these children made me sad, but it also made me realize that I'm not alone. There are a lot more of me in the world (and in my social circle) than I ever knew. When you have friends and family members who have lost children, it changes your relationships with them, like it or not. You have to watch what you say a little more carefully, you have to be a little bit more forgiving, a little more flexible, and a little less selfish. I know that my friends and family members have had a heavy burden placed on them since Max died. I need them more, and they have been wonderful about giving me more of themselves than I ever asked before. They didn't ask for this extra responsibility, but they have taken it on without complaining (to me at least!). What I'm trying to get at is that everyone in the world knows someone who has lost a child, so it is up to all of us to be sensitive of that. I know that it's impossible to please everyone, but it is possible, even easy, to resist offending a few of us. I understand that it takes a little extra time to consider whether something you are about to post could be offensive or insensitive to others, but I promise you that it's worth every second it takes. I, like every mom who has lost a child, encounter hundreds of difficult moments daily--moments that test me, moments that remind me of Max, moments that remind me of what I will always be missing, moments that remind me that inconsolable pain will just be my reality sometimes. Yesterday, I opened the envelope that I knew contained Max's birth certificate only to find it stamped boldly with "INFANT DEATH." Seeing this, although obviously true, took my breath away just like seeing that post on Facebook did. So, next time you're wondering whether you should post something for all the world to see, take a second to consider whether posting it will make me or another friend unnecessarily encounter yet another difficult moment that reminds us of what we have lost.

Welcome, Quinn!

As you probably know (or have at least assumed), Quinn is here! Scott and I checked in to the hospital on Tuesday, July 3 around 6:30 am. I started my first dose of the medicine used to "induce" labor around 9:00 that morning. I won't go into details about the medicine or how it works, but I will say that it doesn't actually begin labor for you (like Pitocin sometimes does); it simply prepares your body for labor and then allows your body to do the rest. Under the recommendation of a friend who also happens to be a midwife, I decided that I wouldn't opt for this method of induction unless I was already beginning to dilate. Anyway...I entered what is considered "active labor" around 4:00 that afternoon, and Quinn was born at 6:29 pm. Obviously, my labor progressed pretty quickly. So quickly, in fact, that I almost couldn't get an epidural. Luckily, I had a fabulous nurse who made sure that I did get my epidural. The physical part was easy after that; it was the mental/emotional part that was a little difficult.

I was convinced that something was wrong with Quinn when she was finally born. I didn't hear her crying, and I misread the concentrated look on my doctor's face for something much more ominous. Aside from two lungs full of amniotic fluid that Quinn swallowed on the way out, she was fine. She was better than fine--she was perfect. I don't know if it was intentional, but the nurses left Quinn on my chest for much longer than Ethan or Max had been allowed. She spent most of that time coughing up hideous looking materials (no details needed here) and crying, but what an amazing feeling to finally hold my little girl! I will admit that I felt a little frantic and wondered if someone should be doing something to help Quinn get the amniotic fluid out of her lungs, but I trusted my doctor and my nurse to step in if intervention was necessary. My doctor took the time to go over my history with my nurse, and she took the time to talk with me about it. I can't tell you what a relief it was to have everything out in the open. A frequent topic of conversation among us mothers who have lost children is how, when, or even if to bring up our dead children to new people we meet. It can be stressful to meet new people because of this, so it was a relief to have this out of the way. It's not that I dread talking about Max; anyone who knows me can tell you that's not true. It's that I dread the reaction of other people. I know it is uncomfortable for people, and most don't know what to say or do. I felt like my nurse just got it, though. She seemed to understand that Max's death impacted my pregnancy in a big way. I may not have had many physical complications, but my pregnancy was far from complication-free in the mental realm. My nurse, Emily, seemed to understand this. I am so grateful that she was on duty and assigned to me that day. Sometimes things in the universe just have a way of working out in exactly the way they should. On a related note, I was also very grateful to be in the care of one of my postpartum nurses, Sarah. During one of our conversations, we actually discovered that she and her husband are close friends with a couple that Scott knows through work. The wife had actually just left a congratulatory message for Scott on Facebook. I knew immediately that Sarah's nature was gentle and kind, and we talked quite a bit before I left the hospital. She took the time to read my chart and learned about Max that way. She approached the topic of Max with care and offered her condolences. We talked quite a bit about my anxieties and fears regarding Quinn, and she seemed to know that leaving the hospital and 24-hour-a-day care would be a little bit difficult for me. I am so glad that she was the one to walk us out of the hospital and send us on our way. It was an emotional moment for me, so it was nice to be with someone who understood why it was emotional.

When the nurses finally took Quinn from my arms after she was born to weigh and measure her and administer her Apgar test, I will admit that I felt very overwhelmed. A rush of emotions came over me--happiness, relief, excitement, but also fear, sadness, and an all-consuming sense of loss. I cried for a while, totally unable to capture with words exactly why I was crying. I think now that the reason behind the overwhelming rush of emotion has a lot to do with the dissonance of my feelings at that moment. How could I be anything but overjoyed at the birth of beautiful little girl, a baby that truly came just when we needed something to look forward to? But then, how could I not be heartbroken and scared considering all that happened after Max's joyous birth just a little over a year ago? I guess I know now what it is like to combine tears of joy with tears of despair. I don't suppose that childbirth will ever be the same after Max, and that's okay with me. It's yet another way in which he has made my life richer and more meaningful.

Since Quinn's birth, I feel a little less anxious, but cautiously so. At first, I couldn't stop looking at her in the hospital and thinking that she looked like she was dead. I know that's morbid, but I'm being honest. I checked on her quite a bit, often in ways that I think masked my true intentions--adjusting her blanket to see if she would move, touching her face to see if her skin was still warm, leaning in to kiss her to try to feel her breath against my skin. Now that I'm home with her, I can be a bit more obvious. I also don't look at her any more and think that she looks dead, but I have had a few moments when I have thought that she could be dead. Once, when I picked up her arm and it flopped down on the changing table; a few times when she appeared to not be moving or breathing. It's sad to say, but in those moments, I think to myself, "Enjoy this moment...this moment before you realize that she's really dead." I want to soak up that moment when everything is still okay because I'm so scared to go through what comes afterward. I know, I mean I really know that this is all very morbid, but it is my reality for now. I hope it will go away, and it does seem to be tapering off, but it is how I think for now. I know that Quinn could be gone at any moment, so I take her in every second. I take way too many pictures of her, I probably hold her too often, and yes, I change her outfits way too often. I don't care though. I'm allowed these things. In truth, every parent is allowed these things, but I wonder how many parents truly take advantage of these "mundane" moments with their children. More than I think, I hope.

I mailed Quinn's birth certificate application yesterday. As I filled out the paperwork and wrote the check, I couldn't help but think that we never got around to ordering Max's birth certificate. How awful to have received his death certificate before his birth certificate. "It's time," I thought to myself. So, I got out the paperwork from Max's birth and completed the application for his birth certificate. It was hard to write "N/A" in the space provided for "Present Age," and even harder to fill in the blank for "Date of Death (if applicable)." I wish that it wasn't applicable. I wish that more than anything. When I got to "Reason for Request (Be specific)," I was baffled. How do I answer that? Because it has been too painful to request it up until this point...because I was lazy and didn't do it soon enough, and then he died...because I can't stand to only have a death certificate for my baby. I'm not sure what I wrote in the end. "Personal Records" or something like that. I know it's probably not specific enough, but I hope that they'll cut me some slack. It feels good and bad to have that done. It feels good because it has been looming over my head. Yet another thing that still needs to be done, and one that could be very emotional at that. It feels bad because it's another loose end that is tied up now. Every time something is complete--packing up Max's room, storing his things away, getting the death certificate--it feels like another part of him is gone. Every completed task feels like the end of some aspect of his life. I get bogged down sometimes with the paperwork and silly administrative tasks associated with Max's death, and I want it all to just end. If I'm totally honest with myself though, I don't really want it to end. I guess I need those things sometimes as proof that Max was here and that his existence wasn't just erased when he died.

You will have to forgive me for sneaking this next part in without explanation. Honestly, I'm just too tired and distracted to try to make all of the connections, but you're smart; you can do it! I've been reading A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving, and I read a part today that just resonated with me. I think it helps to explain why I look at Quinn sometimes and think that she is dead, or why I think morbid things like, "Enjoy this time with her before she dies." Here it is: "Your memory is a monster; you forget--it doesn't. It simply files things away. It keeps things for you, or hides things from you--and summons them to your recall with a will of its own. You think you have a memory; but it has you."

Here are some pictures of beautiful Quinn Jordan McFall. 7 lbs 3 oz; 19.75 in (she is currently 7 lbs 6 oz; 20.8 in) She has brought us hope, love, laughter, amazement, and even greater purpose in life.