Pushing to end preventable stillbirth in memory of Owen Nathaniel Vick
A tiny butterfly flutters down from above
As I tend to your garden expressing my love
Near in spirit or alive in momma’s heart
No distance nor passage of time can keep us apart
Little darling, I see every sign
Sweet baby, you will always be mine
8/8/17
As we get closer to passing 32 weeks and hopefully meeting our son Jax I think my grief for Owen has gotten stronger, mainly because I feel sad that he’s not here too but also because I am worried that people will act like this baby fixes everything and that’s not right. Jax is going to add joy and make us happy in his own way but it’s impossible for anyone to erase the grief we have over Owen and I worry if they know we had another boy they’ll just think everything is fine now. Strange thoughts maybe but I just don’t want Owen to be forgotten and I don’t want that burden on Jax of making everyone happy. I’m just sure I’ll get defensive when anyone makes any comments about me having one daughter and one son or anything that suggests he’s better or stronger, etc. People say things trying to be nice and cheerful but those type of comments hurt me greatly. So on top of worrying about having him be born healthy I have that added layer of worry over what’s going to be said to us after he’s here. I’ll def make sure to announce and post about him while mentioning that he’s not going to replace our other son and that we are still grieving Owen so that hopefully people will realize that they have to be careful with saying anything hurtful but I can imagine someone will not know how I feel and say the wrong thing without meaning to upset me.
Like a family member on the phone yesterday said something about how this boy is going to be big (her usual choice of word that bothers me) and healthy, so I decided to tell her that while I hope that’s true and we will be happy to have him that I hope she realizes we are still going to be sad about Owen and I don’t want anyone thinking that Jax is going to replace him. She said oh no, we still miss Owen and think of him. I’m glad I said that to her because she has the habit of focusing on this baby and to me it has felt like she thinks this is going to make us a perfect little family with a boy and girl. But hopefully now she’ll be more sensitive.
Anyway, that’s my thing for this week as I get to the point where we were when we lost Owen. Just feeling melancholy and missing him, plus a little scared, but also thankful we are getting further along.
Here she is again; That viscous, heartless bitch, grief. She has no care for what day it is. She storms in, flinging the door wide open whenever she damn well pleases and ruins everything; Holidays, anniversaries, special occasions are all fair game. Four years after loss, her arrival has gotten a bit more predictable. We don’t feel the weight of her constant, daily presence like we did the first couple years. She’s more like the annoying uncle everyone puts up with at Thanksgiving and tries not to engage in conversation to avoid his off-color jokes. But that doesn’t mean she can’t show up without a moment’s notice and turn your whole world upside down again. People say grief comes in waves. In my experience she’s more of a tsunami attack. You can’t just wade in the shallow side of grief, she’ll drag you into the deep end and dunk you under as you gasp for air, crying out in vein for someone to save you. All it takes is a small trigger or a bad day for her to see her way in. Kick you while you’re down, that’s her style. A real bitch I tell you. But you know the weirdest part of this toxic relationship? Sometimes I see her coming and I invite her in. I welcome her like a long lost friend. Ah (sigh of relief), there she is, just when I was afraid I had “moved on”. That the pain of loss had decided to let go of my heart and somehow that means I miss him less. After a long spell of her silence, of being able to go through my daily routine without a tear, I feel somehow thankful when she returns and she reminds me of how much I lost, how badly I still long for my baby boy. She’s the only one who knows how truly broken I still am. She heard my guttural screams when I was told the news, “I’m sorry, we couldn’t save him. Your son died”, or some similar matter of fact statement that I couldn’t believe I was hearing as I was coming out of the black fog of anesthesia. My husband held my hand, tears flowing. Cries followed that sounded so foreign, but somehow were coming from deep within me; uncontrollable and piercing wails like a wounded animal. Only she knows how we sat together in the darkness every hour of every day after for months on end. I couldn’t imagine life without our son. The only moments I could see the light were when my sunshine came to my bedside to sit with me. My four year old girl, sitting sweetly in my rocking chair smiling at me and instinctively coming to my bedside to hold my face within her tiny hands making mommy smile back at her when I was at my worst. She kept me from being swallowed whole by grief in those early days. My husband too, with his rock solid strength, pushing forward, going back to work to keep us afloat and putting on a brave face though he was also fighting off grief and severe PTSD. God was there too, silent but steady, understanding all to well the pain of losing a child. He never left my side and kept promising me beauty for ashes, asking me to trust Him. Then inexplicably, somehow life continues moving on. We learn to cope, figure out ways to honor our lost loved one and by some miracle we can experience joy and hope again too. Grief takes a break, maybe she finds some other poor unsuspecting soul to ambush. Yet she won’t let you forget her, she comes back unannounced and as much as I dread that day, I can’t help but smile because I know she’s going to bring me right back to that place. That moment I held him in my arms for the first time, smelled his fresh baby skin, took in his perfection, every inch from his soft blonde hair, handsome cleft chin, long, thin body, down to his slightly crooked toes (just like daddy’s). He’s gone now, but he was here. He died in delivery, but he lived in me, and that’s where he continues to live today. Always in my heart, my son, Owen Nathaniel Vick. Grief lasts forever just like our love, they coexist hand-in-hand, and I’ve learned to accept the crashing waves that allow me to feel the depth of that endless love.
Lately my expression of grief has been lingering in the anger phase more than usual. Probably because all my emotions of frustration and anger regarding the loss resurface every time we celebrate our son’s “birth” day (October 3rd). I inadvertently return to that earlier stage of trying to make sense of why we lost him and who was at fault. It’s an extremely lonely and depressing place to be, but I can’t escape it, it keeps me up at night and tortures my mind endlessly. Couple that with the perceived indifference or apathy that I feel others have toward our loss, especially now three years later, it’s a dark and alienating feeling I wouldn’t wish on anyone.
Clearly no one would dare say anything suggesting we move on or that they don’t see why I’m still grieving, but it’s what they don’t say. The difficult moments when I or my husband decide to tell someone we lost a son don’t happen as often as before. But when we do, especially when he shares our loss story (because he doesn’t express his grief as much as I do so when he opens up about our son I know it took a lot), I would expect that the person listening could offer their condolences. It doesn’t have to be a lengthy conversation, but a simple “I’m sorry for your loss” would be much less cruel than silence and a change of topic. Why is it that people skirt passed uncomfortable conversations about grief? I guess maybe they think if they talk about the loss then we’ll be reminded and somehow hurt more? I know it’s hard to go there and feel empathy for someone when they’ve experienced the unspeakable and some people are surprised by the shocking, sudden knowledge that we lost a baby so they just don’t know what to say. But coming from a loss mom, if you don’t know how to react just say whatever you can come up with: “I’m sorry”, “That must be so hard”, “I am here for you”, “Can you tell me about him?”, anything, just don’t stay quiet please. It breaks our hearts our child is no longer here and your avoidance of talking about him doesn’t help. If anything it dishonors his memory and makes us feel even more alone.
And since social media is where many interactions take place these days, if you see a post about a person’s loss, please don’t “Like” it or nod and keep on scrolling. And if you planned on just tapping the sad faced emoji (????), reconsider and kindly take a moment to write out a sentence. Again it can be brief, but it means so much if you acknowledge our pain with a few words. I hope my advice doesn’t come off preachy, but I’ve experienced this enough times in three years and I know people mean well, so I’ve decided to share my feelings to tell others who want to be there for us and anyone else who lost a child that it’s okay to talk about our babies. We crave hearing their name and knowing you still care.
If you’re a loss parent reading this and you feel alone, you aren’t. I’m sorry we are here in this unfortunate club together, but I am glad that we can offer each other support knowing exactly what one another is going through. I will always be honored to hear about your child and grieve them with you. Please tell me about them. Comment with your baby’s name and story below, share my post, and let’s keep talking and honoring their little lives. I miss my son, Owen, just as much yesterday, today and always. It is still so hard, but on the good days something or someone reminds me of him and I can smile because he is mine and I am his forever. ????
Red, bright red
Goodbye rings in my head
Red, white & blue
Happy 4th to you
Pain, real & deep
A life I couldn’t keep
Freedom from fear
Hope & love live here
For our sweet Avery. You had only 6 short weeks of life in my womb yet we love you as much as the stars love the night sky. This pregnancy after losing Owen (& Jordan before him) was so bright & full of hope; I am thankful for every second that I got to carry you. Goodbye is just so long for now; I know we’ll be reunited in Heaven one day.
Missing You & Loving You Always, Your Mommy
“If there ever comes a day when we can’t be together, keep me in your heart, I’ll stay there forever” – Winnie the Pooh
It’s midnight, July 4th. Somehow I knew today could be the day I started cramping. My babies like to choose special days for their big moments.
Naomi, after 18 months without one prior attempt to walk chose to start on New Years Eve. Unfortunately I was working and missed her first steps, but we all thought she surely chose the day to make it extra special. Whenever we countdown to the start of another year, I still reminisce about that day and what a blessing it is to see how much she has grown since then. Raising you, our sweet girl, is our greatest privelage and watching you reach new milestones keeps us amazed at how perfectly God made you. You give us so much happiness and we are so proud to be your parents.
We sadly miscarried our next baby, Jordan, the week of my best friend Toni’s birthday. Though the pregnancy didn’t last long, we had so much joy in those few weeks with Jordan, so it seems fitting that our beloved baby’s Angelversary week is shared with my most effervescent and impassioned friend. Knowing Toni, her birthday week will always be an exciting and fun-filled time. I’ll always picture Jordan dancing in the clouds amongst the twinkling lights of the night sky when Tia Toni is out partying on her birthday. Jordan, you were our very much wanted second child and we wish you could’ve stayed with us. But keep dancing my baby, we will join you one day.
Then, attempting to save him, at almost 32 weeks gestation we had to deliver our son Owen via a crash/emergency C-section on one of his Grandpa’s birthdays. We would never forget the day he was born and went to Heaven, but sharing Grandpa Vick’s birthday makes this day even more special. My birthday is the day after my dad’s and we always loved celebrating it together, so it makes me happy to know that when we celebrate Grandpa Vick, we are also celebrating our sweet angel Owen. We miss you dearly baby boy and when Grandpa blows out his candles, we’ll remember the light you brought to our lives; Much too brief but still so incredibly bright and beautiful.
And now we’ve been waiting for two agonizing weeks since we found out our baby Avery had stopped growing at our first ultrasound. We were shocked and heartbroken to be told that we were having a missed miscarriage, but I was determined to avoid a D&C or medication to end the pregnancy. I hadn’t had any cramping or bleeding though, so I was getting anxious it might never happen naturally. But of course Avery waited for the 4th of July to start letting go of mommy. Sitting on the toilet waiting to pass clots with extreme cramps and a heat pad on my abdomen isn’t really my idea of July 4th fun. But then again, this wouldn’t be my baby if it was an ordinary day.
You think it’s because my babies know I have the worst memory ever? No, I would never forget your special days my precious children. But it makes me smile to think that they know their momma and are just trying to help me remember. Each of their days carries so much emotion and I know that though others are celebrating and thinking about the typical meaning behind these days, I’m focused on my babies and what it means to us.
The Fourth of July is a day I’ll always love and cherish; Not just because it commemorates our freedom, but now also because it marks the day Avery finally decided it was ok to physically leave his Earthly home and continue to rest in peace in Heaven. I cherish the memories we made with you: Surprising Daddy with a “bun in the oven” and seeing his thrilled reaction, taking bump pictures in a new dress I bought for that purpose, watching Naomi and Daddy joyfully give you sweet kisses and talk to you through my belly though you were probably still too small to hear them, and even writing about you in a cute pregnancy journal, trying not to let my anxiety overshadow my excitement. We’ll see you one day our little firecracker and will remember you always, especially at the explosion of every firework. Just like them, your stay was short but oh so brilliant and marvelous.
Until we see you in Heaven, Avery, keep shining bright with your siblings, Owen and Jordan. We love you all as much as we love your sister Naomi who brightens up our darkest days and brings light to every moment of our lives.