I'm Sorry I'm a Wreck, It's Just That My 4 Year Old Isn't Here

It's not every day I find myself feeling and acting like this, I promise. It happens more than I'd like to admit, though - at least twice a year. I don't mean two days out of the year, but a week or two in the spring and a week or two in the fall.

I honestly never see it coming, either. You'd think after 4 years I would get a grip. But it hasn't happened yet.

So I'm sorry if I'm difficult to deal with right now. It's just that my 4 year old son isn't here. He was here, at one time, for a very short time - 21 weeks, to be exact. That's all I got with him. And as grateful as I am for that time with him, sometimes it just really gets to me that that's all I got. During that time, I took for granted the fact that he was here. I thought he'd be here longer than I would. I never dreamed I would be here without him.

I'm sorry if I cry or get frustrated at the smallest little thing. It's just that this month I would be planning my son's 4th birthday party if he were still here. It's not something I try and think about, it just happens. It's not something I'm intentionally acting out about, in fact, I don't even realize that's what's going on until I get a moment alone, and it hits me like a ton of bricks. The truth is, I'm still pretty angry that I don't get to see him blow out his candles, or take pictures of him with all of his cousins. Instead, my house is so very, very empty.

I'm sorry if I look a hot mess as I push my cart through the grocery store. I know you're a little uncomfortable as you make eye contact with me, unsure if you should see if I'm alright or just leave me alone. It's just that for some reason, every time I'm alone, these tears just come rushing from my eyes. I can't understand it anymore than you can. I'm not in any trouble, I just can't get my mind off of what could have been. The variety of cakes over there makes me wonder which would have been his favorite. The little girl in the cart beside me reminds me of how much fun this shopping trip could be if I were preparing for a birthday party. And those toys in that other aisle put a picture in my head of what my son might have looked like playing with them - a sight I will never really get to see.

I'm sorry if I say I'm fine, even though you can clearly tell that I'm not. I'm not trying to close myself off from you or make some dramatic scene where I pretend to be stronger than I am. It's just that if I were honest, there would either be this extremely awkward silence and then I would have to pretend that getting that little bit of information off my chest made me feel so much better, or you would share an intense story and some great advice and we'd both end up a blubbering mess - and to be honest, I can't handle either right now.

I'm sorry if I look like some kind of addict as I purchase my go-to vice to help me calm my nerves. I didn't think about grabbing a hair-tie or doing my make up as I left the house, so I literally woke up like this. I know I should learn to handle this pain in a different manor, but sometimes it hurts so bad that I just can't bring myself to do anything but try to numb it as quickly as possible. It's not an every day thing (round of applause), but you're right, it shouldn't be a thing at all.

I'm not really sure if my apology means anything to you. I wouldn't blame you if you just ignored it, and then began to ignore me all together. It's not right, and it's not fair to you or anyone else. It's not fair to me, either, although you may see it differently. Maybe you think you could handle it differently, and maybe you could. Maybe there are a million other women who have been through the exact same thing as me and 4 years later they can go on as if nothing ever happened. Maybe I am all alone in this - God knows I feel like I am. But I don't think so.

Most of the time, I love to talk about my son. Most days, I'd give anything for you to ask me about him. I can smile at his memory, share stories of my pregnancy as if it didn't end with the most tremendous loss of my life, but right now - well right now I'm struggling.

So whether you will forgive me or not, I'm going to forgive myself. Whether you want to talk to me ever again or not, I'm going to move forward, wipe these tears from my face and continue with my day the best that I can.

You may be slightly uncomfortable, but this pain that I'm feeling is agonizing. My stomach has been turning for days. My head hurts so bad from how hard I've cried. I have contacts in but I can't even see straight. I'm exhausted. I haven't done much, but I'm out of breath - any other day I could run a mile (with a couple of breaks in between).

I don't want you to feel sorry for me. I just want to explain myself.

I hope you understand.

Sincerely,

The girl with the picture-perfect life who appears to be miserable

A painful affair

Four years later and I'm out of words.
I can't explain the way it hurts.

I can't deny my feeling bitter,
when a baby laughs, and I'm just the sitter.

While some leave scars you see so clear,
wounds like mine just disappear.

The pain, I feel most every night,
it scoots up close and holds me tight.

When death chose us to intertwine,
this pain became my glass of wine - 

my solace when it seems surreal -
a love affair to make me feel.

My comfort is this aching heart.
It's been here with me from the start.

It tucks me in most every night,
and memories flash til morning light.

A strong reminder that you were here,
This pain is something I hold dear.

Braden's Letter: Mommy Please Don't Cry

Mommy please don't cry, I see you down below.
I know you wonder why you had to see me go.

But Mommy, I love it here, and I know you'll love it too.
The angels take good care of me, & they'll take care of you.

I know you miss me bad, I know that it's been hard,
but Mommy don't be sad that we're so far apart.

One day you'll get to see me, and you'll get to hold my hand.
When the time is right we'll meet. I hope you understand.

It's been explained to me, by an Angel at the gate.
She helped me to see, why I shouldn't be afraid.

I can't tell you why, but one day you will see,
That we are truly blessed, and you'll be set free.

There's a reason that I'm here, and not below with you.
Believe that I am happy, and want you to be too.

I don't like to see you cry, although you think I do.
I can't wait until we meet, mommy, I love you.

PHOTO VERSION TO SHARE:

Life is Nothing Without You

Today is the day. The one day of the year that I keep in my mind all year around. The one day that I have already planned to plan nothing for the rest of my life. April 15.

The day that I have tattooed on my neck. The day that I simultaneously dread and look forward to. The day that changed my life forever.

It's the day that my son would be turning 2, should life have thrown me the miracle I prayed for.

Or, the day that should mean nothing to me, should life have gone the way I had wanted.

But that's not what life is about, is it? When something good happens, when things go as planned, you don't hear people say, "Well, that's life for ya!" Because that's not life.

Life is full of disappointment, lost hope, broken promises. It comes with pain, loss and grief. Life is ugly.

And what I've learned over the years is that nothing, and I mean nothing compares to the love of Jesus Christ.

Nothing can give you hope, restore your joy, or fill the void when you've lost the thing you valued most in life quite like God can.

Nothing else can pull you in and hold you tight when you feel all alone and afraid for your life, or give you hope when you think there's no reason for you to stay, or give you strength when you feel like you can't get back up.

Everything in this world is fleeting. Here today, gone tomorrow.

But God is forever. He is Zen. He is love, forgiveness, teacher, shrink, father, and best friend. He is your good conscience, your direction.. He is everything.

In everything that has happened in my life, He is the one constant. He is home.

It's not the church, it's not the people, it's not the small town, it's not the house I grew up in, it's not eating pizza on Friday nights. Everything that I thought made me happy, is nothing.

And now I know from here on out, anything that I think makes me happy, is nothing. It's nothing compared to God.

For Braden's 1st Birthday

You were conceived on November 11, 2012. I first found out you were really here on January 1st, with the help of 5 pregnancy tests your father got me. I had my suspicions, (he did too) but the winter holidays always puts a few pounds on me, and well, I've always been moody. When you came into our lives we had no idea just how you would change things.  

On January 31th Daddy, Pookie and I saw you for the first time moving all around, "Party in the womb," as I called it. I could tell you were excited, ready to show Mommy all of your new tricks. You were very much alive, so full of life.

Every day was a new adventure, every momentous milestone celebrated from the mundane to the extraordinary. And every day passed so slow until the next time I could hear your precious heart beat and see you again.

On April 11th I finally got to see you again! You were so big! For a second I closed my eyes and you shared a secret with your daddy - we were having a little boy!

But then we discovered that something was seriously wrong, mommy couldn't hold you in much longer. You were so excited. We were all excited. My body couldn't handle the excitement. So we were taken to a bed where we could lay down and try to keep you in my tummy a little longer.

On April 12th daddy told me your secret and we officially gave you your name Braden Ray Leach, even though I had secretly known all along that's what we would call you. We missed our gender reveal party. We had to stay in bed. My body was weak. But you were strong. You were healthy. I got to hear your heartbeat every day.

Your daddy was right beside us the whole time. Your grandparents came and visited and helped take care of us, your aunts and uncles came, your cousins, friends and pastors. We had a lot of people praying for us, praying for you, praying for mommy's body to stay strong for you.

On April 15 you had reached 21 weeks. Mommy and daddy woke up really early and we got to spend time together as a family, just us 3, and Teddy the little bear your daddy got you. It was 4:00 in the morning, we wondered why we both were wide awake so early. But by 10:00 we knew. This was the day you would arrive. At 21 weeks. Your little body wasn't ready. We knew it, you knew it, everyone knew it. And then, just before we were going to meet you we found you with no heartbeat. My little monkey, my little show off, he wasn't moving anymore.

I never got to hear your little cry, or look into your beautiful eyes, or felt your tiny hand grip mine. We got to see you, but you never go to see us.

And so today, for your birthday, your daddy and I are sending up a single balloon to the heavens. Something we promise to do every year for your birthday.

I love you Braden Ray Leach with all my heart. You are my son. My first born. You are in an amazing place right now, I know you know I miss you and I wish you were here, but I know that is selfish because you are in Heaven! My son never had to face the challenges and heartache of this world - a gift that's impossible to be grateful for.

Braden Ray Leach

Due date: August 18, 2013

Birth date: April 15, 2013

Time: 1:34pm

Weight: 15oz.

Height: 11.75"

A year ago today I went for a normal check up and found out something was terribly wrong. 

Like most tragedies, this is something you can't understand until you go through it. This one is especially morbid. It puts thoughts you'd never expect in a mother's head. It's like something out of a gross made up horror story. It changes a person's soul.

I found this blog post, What I Mean When I Say My Daughter Was Stillborn that I really wanted to share with everyone. She describes perfectly how I, and many others who have been through this feel.

"I don’t think that most people understand me when I say that my daughter was stillborn." she starts the post.

"Stillbirth does not just happen. It’s not clean and surgical. Instead, it is messy and active, and it opens a wound whose pain throbs on long past you wish it would. And it changes you."

Whether you know someone who has experienced this and want more understanding of how they feel, or if you have experienced this and want to know you're not alone, you should read this post.
Warning: it's a sad one.

A Father's Grief

To my boyfriend Donnie

In memory of our son

Braden Ray Leach

April 15, 2013

This poem made me think of you. You've been so strong. I'm so sorry your first Father's Day has to feel like this.

It must be very difficult 

To be a man in grief, 

Since "men don't cry" 

and "men are strong" 

No tears can bring relief.  

They always ask if she's all right 

And what she's going through. 

But seldom take his hand and ask, 

"My friend, but how are you?" 

He hears her crying in the night 

And thinks his heart will break. 

He dries her tears and comforts her, 

But "stays strong" for her sake. 

It must be very difficult 

To start each day anew. 

And try to be so very brave- 

He lost his baby too. 

More than a memory

It's been 8 weeks today since my boyfriend took me to the hospital for a regular check up. 20 weeks pregnant - half way there! We were so excited because this was the check up we'd finally find out the sex.

We had a few wall decorations, a car seat,  rocking chair, bottles and one outfit, but after this check up we could finally really start getting ready.

At our first sonogram, 11 weeks, I had eaten an orange for breakfast, and boy did it make baby hyper! It was amazing to watch him dance around in my tummy.

So 8 weeks ago we walked in the office, after drinking a fresh cup of orange juice, hoping to see my baby partying some more. "Party in the womb!" I called it. I closed my eyes as the doctor showed Daddy the sex, I promised to wait until later at the reveal party to find out. But then the doctors voice changed.

I don't remember much, I just remember her coming in and out with another doctor, and then some nurses. I remember looking at my boyfriend so confused.. Why are they so calm? But in their voice something sounds so wrong? Is it bad? Is it okay to cry? Okay or not, I was crying. But I'll never forget the look in the doctors eyes as she handed me a tissue. It was a look that told me it was okay to cry. It was finally an answer to my question - yes, something is very wrong here.

I was put in a wheel chair and wheeled through a long tunnel as my vision went blurry. Everyone was rushing yet everything was in slow motion. I closed my eyes and next thing I remember I was in a bed with at least 5 people above me poking and strapping things to me left and right. One was my boyfriend.

"Call Mom," I told him. Part of me was scared out of my mind and part of me started to wonder if I should even call anyone. I won't be here long, everything is gonna be fine.

It was a long 4 days on bed rest. I couldn't move, barely sit up to eat, and barely focus long enough to have a conversation. I don't remember too much, just a lot of praying and planning to be in the hospital for a long time. And a lot of visits, calls and texts that were really appreciated. Anything to take my mind off of what was happening. 

But when night came and it was just me and my boyfriend Donnie, there was no escaping the reality of it all. We just held hands and looked at each other with worry. 

I was 20 weeks pregnant, and 6cm dilated. The only thing holding Braden in, the doctors said, was the membrane (the water). The only thing I could do for a chance for my son to survive was lay in a bed for 3 to 20 weeks. 

We definitely had hope.

I was surprised at how many people reached out to me and had similar experiences as mine. Not only that, they were all success stories - women who were on bed rest for 3 months and saved their baby's lives. I had so much hope.

But Monday rolled around and the cramps started, around 7a.m. I thought it was strange that my boyfriend and I were both up at 4:00 that morning, but now I know why, and I'm glad we were.

Anyway, I could tell you details from that morning, but it would probably end up with me blaming people for what happened. I remember crying as the pain got worse and the nurses crowded over my bed once again, and I looked at my boyfriend -- still by my side -- and I just shook my head saying " It's too soon. It's too soon!" His voice broke and he just said " I know baby." 

Then my water broke. I was rushed into labor and delivery where my family surrounded me with love as we waited to have a baby who we all knew would never be able to live. It was so screwed up. Nobody knew how to feel or what to say, at least I didn't.. I just wanted to sleep for 3 months and then wake up and say it was just a nightmare.

 It was awful.

And now, 8 weeks later, I can honestly say that everyday does not get better. I don't even live day to day any more, it's moment by moment. Some moments are better, but some are just as excruciating as that Monday in the delivery room.

I cry all the time. I cry because people are gonna forget that I have a son. I cry because people may not consider me to have a son. 

I cry because I want to pitch in to stories about my pregnancy or giving birth, but that will lead to too many unbearable questions. 

I cry because I never got to feed him, never got to feel him grasp my finger, hear his little yawn, teach him how to say Dada.... 

But every single day, I cry because I'm doing something and realize that I should be doing this pregnant. I should be huge. I should have a son on the way.  

So many people are on Facebook complaining about their pregnancy, but I enjoyed every minute of mine. The bad never seemed that bad because it all - even the bad - meant I was going to have a little baby to take care of. 

I even cry some times when I haven't been thinking about it, because I don't ever want to forget, or let it be small. I don't want it to be over. I don't want to move on.

I cried when the nurse called it a miscarriage. Technically that is what happened, I miscarried him. But I held him in my arms, I gave birth and held my son in my arms and so many people I think don't realize that.

It's just so hard to comprehend. 

A Poem For Surviving Moms

My mom is a survivor,

Or so I have heard it said.

But I can hear her crying

When all others are in bed.

I watch her lay awake at night

And go to hold her hand.

She doesn’t know I’m with her

To help her understand.

But like the sands upon the beach

That never wash away...

I watch over my surviving mom,

Who thinks of me each day.

She wares a smile for others...

A smile of disguise.

But through heaven’s open door

I see tears flowing from her eyes

My mom tries to cope with my death

To keep my memory alive.

But to anyone who knows her

Knows it’s her way to survive.

As I watch over my surviving mom

Through heaven’s open door...

I try to tell her

Angels protect me forevermore.

I know that doesn’t help her...

Or ease the burden she bears.

So if you get a chance, talk to her...

And show her that you care.

For no matter what she says...

No matter what she feels.

My surviving mom has a broken heart

That time won’t ever heal.

This poem was written by Kaye Des'Ormeaux