thank you

I just want to take a few moments here before Nanowrimo starts - and I devote even more of my time to writing! - to say "thank you" to all of you who have been reading my blog this month. I know it probably hasn't been easy going along with me on this journey, but it has been comforting to have companions. I appreciate that you have stuck with me and continue to offer support, even if it's just by coming here and keeping track of what's happening with me. It makes me feel a little less alone.

Also, thank you for the comments. I've received some very wonderful and touching comments and emails from you all, and they really do make my day. They help me remember that there is a whole group of people out there who care about and remember Lauren, that Geordie and I are not alone in mourning her absence. That means so much to me.

Thank you, for everything.

what I see when I close my eyes

I’ve been reading a lot of pregnancy and baby loss blogs lately, and it’s both heartbreaking and inspiring to read the stories of families who have lost their precious little ones. Hardest of all, though, is seeing the images of their children. Over and over again, at nearly every blog I visit, there are the pictures of infants loved and lost, dressed in clothes that were supposed to be their going-home outfits and cuddled by their mourning families.

I used to think this was on the morbid side of things, but that was before I knew better. That was before I had a reason to think about why those pictures would be so important to a family and why one might come to regret not having them done.

Because my wish right now – besides actually having my daughter with me, which will always be my greatest wish that will never come true - is to have a picture of her. Immediately after the delivery, I did not have the presence of mind to think about asking for pictures. I’m not even sure if that’s something Japanese hospitals do or even allow. It wasn’t until later that night, when I closed my eyes to go to sleep and all I could see was Lauren, that I realized that was the only way I was ever going to see her. I would not be able to see her again, not as she was when she was born, not as she was when she was new and whole and belonging to us, to Geordie and me.

Worse still, I will never have anything tangible to hold and cherish, nothing to remind me of her face. I will never have anything to show to her grandparents; they will never know how beautiful and peaceful she looked. They will never see the slight curl of dark and still damp hair over her little ear, the soft patch of eyebrows over her closed eyes, or the gentle roundness of her cheeks. I will have nothing to show people when I tell them about Lauren; I will have only my memory, and that’s not something I can just hand over to people to help them see that she was real and beautiful.

Greatest of all is the fear that I will forget what she looked like, the curve of her chin and her little button nose. It was so brief, that moment with her – how can I make those few minutes stretch into a lifetime? As much as it hurts to see her sweet, sleeping face in my mind, it would be worse still to forget her. Right now, I can close my eyes and see her, but how long will that last? How long will it be before the image starts to fade and all I can do is guess at what I once saw every time I closed my eyes? I don’t want an idealized image of Lauren – I want her. I want to remember the small patches of red on her forehead and chin where she had lost skin during the delivery. I want to remember her tiny ears flattened down, her nearly lipless mouth opened in a perpetual yawn. She was beautiful to me as she was; she would have been beautiful to me no matter what she looked like.

But physical representation of Lauren has been lost to me now, and all I can do is cling to the memory I have of her. I cannot go back and tell myself that pictures are necessary, a comfort rather than a cruel reminder; I wasn’t ready to know that then. I wasn’t ready to think about it then. And now it's too late.

Too late to help her, too late to save her, too late to take pictures of her, too late to hold her, too late to kiss her goodbye. It will always be too late.

bye-bye, Juntendo

When most people think about hospitals, what usually comes to mind is not pleasant: injury, illness, death. Going to the hospital is a bad thing; it means something is wrong with you. It also means money is going to probably come out of your pocket, which would be another reason people don't like hospitals so much.

Aside from my personal experience, my observation of hospital activity has been punctuated by the creation of new life. I spent more than half of the last year in birth clinics or ob/gyn wards, surrounded by women nurturing babies, their growing bellies testament to the life brewing inside them. Or else there were women coming in for their post-partum check-ups, carrying their newborns with them, cradled close to their hearts, and looking tired but happy. From February to September, I watched them and felt a kinship with them. We were mothers in the making, carrying new life within us. We had nothing to be afraid of.

But I know better now. I knew then too; I was just too afraid to let those terrible whispers take hold of me and force me to face the stark truth of existence, that life is often tenuous, and it can go as quickly as it comes. Those tendrils of fear come creeping in all through pregnancy, and we push them away in our certainty that everything will be alright. And for the most part, that's true. The majority of pregnancies go without a hitch, and life comes screaming to meet the world.

And for the rest of us, we have lost that innocence. We know that life can be silenced in a moment, even before it's had a chance to draw its first breath.

Geordie and I went in for my post-partum check-up today. We knew it would not be easy; it's been hard enough seeing families just while we're out and about. Now, we would have to sit in the ob/gyn waiting area, just as we had four weeks earlier when our daughter still had a heartbeat. Only, this time, we would be alone, just the two of us, surrounded by lives still growing and lives newly born.

I would not wish the loss of a child upon any woman, but it's so hard to watch a mother with her baby and think, Why me and not her? Why my baby and not that one? Why couldn't I keep my daughter alive? What's wrong with me? It's not malevolence that makes me think such things, it's just the sheer unfairness of it all. For 38 weeks, our daughter was healthy. I had a relatively easy pregnancy with no complications. How can all these women have strong, healthy babies while mine is lost to me forever? How could something like this happen?

The sad thing is that there are no answers to that question. We spoke to the doctor about what test results they had, and it's all the same. Lauren was healthy, her cord and placenta were healthy, I was healthy. There is no explanation. Unfortunately, that's the way life goes sometimes. I will always wonder if there was something I could have done to save, just as I will wonder if there wasn't, if it was out of my hands from the beginning. Life is funny that way.

As for the check-up itself, that went well. My body has made a full recovery from pregnancy and delivery. While this is good news, I can't help but feel a little betrayed by my body. My heart is broken, and my mind is hardly at peace - how is it that my body can feel so normal? I feel so thoroughly shattered that it's hard to believe my body is still in one piece. How could it go back to normal so quickly? I'm glad I'm healthy and everything is alright, but immediately after leaving the hospital, I felt that it was like I had never been pregnant at all. That all traces of Lauren had been erased from me and I had nothing to show that I had carried her.

But upon further reflection, I know that's not true. It may not be obvious from looking at me, but the wear shows on me in places that cannot be seen. In my heart, for example, where there will always be a place for Lauren. In my thoughts, daily. And should I need a more physical example, the memory of pregnancy in imprinted upon my bones. For as long as my pelvic bone exists, it will carry the marks of pregnancy upon it and be physical proof that I am a mother. For some reason, I find comfort in this, proof that my body will not forget what has come to be one of the most defining moments of my life.

In the end, it's a relief to be finished with Juntendo University Hospital. It was not my initial choice for Lauren's birth, but I don't regret going there. The staff treated us well, and they did all that they could for us. It's not a place I ever want to return to, but I will keep it in my memory for a long time to come, as long as I have a memory to hold on to. It is, after all, the place my daughter was born. They couldn't save her, and they can't piece me back together again, but it's where I saw Lauren for the first and only time, and that is an image I will carry in my heart for the rest of my days.

a place for lost children

The first overnight trip I made in Japan was to Kamakura. I met up with two of the teachers who had done GEOS training with me in Vancouver, and we spent a night in Kamakura and a night in Tokyo. Kamakura had been my idea. I was three months in Japan, and I hadn't yet had a chance to do any sight-seeing, though I had wanted to do some for a while. I discovered Kamakura through some online research and decided it wouldn't be too far for the three of us to get to, spread out across the main island as we were.


the view of the bay from Hasedera



I wrote about that first trip in a blog post or two about three years ago. At the time, I did not know the significance of the Jizou-do, which is a small area set one level up from the main garden. Hasedera was built upon a hillside, with stone steps leading from one level to another. The level above the Jizou-do could probably be considered the main level, as it has two temple buildings (one to house a gilt statue of buddha, the other for a large eleven-headed statue of Kannon, the goddess of mercy and compassion). There's also a lovely view of the bay from that level. A pathway continues up the hill, twisting around and providing some wonderful overlooks of the area. It's an old temple, founded in 736. I generally prefer shrines over temples, but I've always loved Hasedera. It can be a very relaxing place at times.

On October 10th, the day Lauren was due, we made a trip to Kamakura specifically to go to Hasedera. During my second trip to the temple, I had learned that the Jizou-do was a special place for remembering "mizuko" - literally, "water children." The word typically refers to babies lost to miscarriage, but it can also be expanded to include stillbirths and abortions. When I was still in the hospital, Geordie and I had talked about the possibility of visiting a few places before leaving Japan. A while ago, I had promised to take him to Kamakura, and he mentioned that he'd still like to go. I remembered then the Jizou-do, the small area that before had meant so little to me but now meant everything. We agreed to go and pay our respects there and perhaps find some comfort.

Jizou is a Buddhist patron of children, a bodhisattava, a term which often translates to English as "an enlightened being." It's usually applied to persons who become enlightened and, motivated by compassion, continue to seek enlightenment for everyone. Bodhisattvas are therefore considered to be among the most merciful and loving of beings, as they have chosen not to enter a state of nirvana but to remain as they are to help others. Jizou's special realm is children, particularly those unborn or who died very young. He is a protector and a guide, and he is one of the most famous Buddhist figures in Japan. His statue can be seen along roadsides and innumerable small shrines; he is also considered a patron of travelers.



Hasedera in Aprl



Hasedera is most beautiful in the spring, when the flowers of the garden are in bloom. In early spring, azaleas brighten the area with their vibrant colors, and April brings the pillowy softness of the sakura with it. But Hasedera is most famous for its hydrangeas, which I have sadly not been able to see. Winter can be a haunting experience at Hasedera, the trees bare but still beautiful, an atmosphere of patience and serenity coming over the place as it waits for the return of spring. It's a temple that is very much grounded in the natural aspects of Kamakura, and it's for that reason that I've always been fond of it.



Jizou statue surrounded by
the memorial statues



The Jizou-do can be one of the most peaceful areas of the temple. The small structure housing the statue of the Happy Jizou is surrounded by hundreds of smaller Jizou statues, each one of them representing a baby lost too early. Several statues of Jizou are placed about the area as though to show the completeness of his role as warden over these souls. Geordie and I had come to this place to leave a piece of Lauren and her memory to be watched over by Jizou.



We went up to the main hall - where stands the benevolent Kannon carved from a single piece of camphor wood - and arranged to have a Jizou statue blessed and placed for Lauren. We could not place the statue ourselves, nor would we be able to search for it amongst the many others at the Jizou-do. This suited us. Lauren's statue will remain at the Jizou-do for two years, at which point it will be given in offering to Jizou and Kannon. Also, the sutras will continue to be said in memory of her, which is something that does give me some peace of mind. Lauren's little statue was also a comfort, though a far more difficult one to deal with. I burst into tears as soon as I touched the statue; it was another goodbye, another parting with my baby. But it was something I needed. I had not been able to touch Lauren, but the statue was a stand-in for her, and as I brushed my fingers along it, I was reaching for her too. As much as it hurt, it felt good to feel something solid and to imagine it was her. I needed that contact - that connection - more than I'd realized.



Geordie placing the flowers before Jizou

Afterwards, we went and prayed before Kannon and saw some of the rest of the temple grounds. Then we went back to the Jizou-do and paid our respects. We lit incense and cleansed ourselves, and we bought flowers to place before the large outdoor statue of Jizou. I had seen pictures of the smaller Jizou statues dressed in infant's clothing, but we found only one and did not feel comfortable adorning one with Lauren's things. Geordie took Rabbit-sensei's bow and put it over a statue's head, and that was sweet. We had brought with us a bib we had bought for Lauren, a cap Geordie's mother had sent for her, and a pacifier; we left these with the statue of the Happy Jizou amid the other offerings that had been left.
 

Geordie putting Rabbit's bow
on a memorial statue

Then we went on our way, leaving behind a bit of our grief along with Lauren's memory. There is nothing we can do that will completely relieve of us our grief, but each step we take, each action we take, eases it little by little. I know that I will never forget Lauren, just as I know I will always feel the loss of her in my heart and in my life. Perhaps in the future, the sharp sting of her absence will dull into something softer and gentler, and comfort will be easier to find. For now, we must only do what we can.

losing a piece of Lauren

Between the two of us, Geordie and I have a lot of stuff. We're not entirely sure how this happened. I'm not just talking about the furniture (which is mine, for the most part, if individual ownership is something that needs to be accounted for) - there are the books and the clothes and all the little odds and ends that have accumulated over time without us noticing. We've been doing a lot of purging, trying to decide what should go with us and what should just be left for good.

The hardest part has been deciding what to do with Lauren's things. After everything that went into planning for her, it's hard to just get rid of what we've come to think of as hers. But it's nearly impossible to keep everything, not just because of the logistics of getting it back to the States but because it hurts so much to see her things and know that she will never have the chance to use them. Every time I looked into her room and saw that empty crib, I felt myself falling into pieces again. And were we to use them sometime in the future, those would be the thoughts in my mind: These belonged to Lauren. She was supposed to use them. It wouldn't be right to use her things with another child; nor would it be fair to that child, who deserves to have things of his/her own, not leftovers from Lauren.

We're keeping Lauren's clothes and bedding to make into a memorial quilt. It's unfathomable to consider saving the clothing for a future child, but at the same time, I couldn't bear to give them away or - heaven forbid - to throw them away. Losing those items would be like losing a piece of Lauren herself; picking them out was the same as accepting her into our lives and acknowledging our transformation into parents. With each piece we chose, we were shaping her in our minds, feeling her out, and coming to understand how she would change us and every day after she arrived. Making a memorial quilt just feels right, as nothing else would have.

More difficult was figuring out what to do with the furniture and the various items used to complete the nursery - the baby gym, the diaper pail, the accessories for the dresser. These things were all brand-new, but even so, we wondered how easy it would be to donate them somewhere or even just simply give them away. In the States, it's fairly easy to donate items to charity or a thrift store; in Japan, you might have an easy time of it in a large city, but recycle shops are hard to find in small, country towns. Also, because we don't have a car, we're not able to offer to drop stuff off, making it just that much harder to find someone to take things. A friend of Geordie's suggested he contact the Susono city hall and find out if they were willing to take large-item donations. Fortunately, they were, but only the new things, so we're still left with the IKEA furniture I bought back when I moved to Moriya. But that's a few less items to worry about.

Watching them take away Lauren's things was harder than I expected. I still thought of them as her things, and I'll probably continue to do so for a long time to come. These are things Geordie and I bought for her together, a bonding experience not just between ourselves but with Lauren. In picking out these items, we made a place for her, mentally as well as physically. While it's a comfort to know that a family will have use for them, I still want them for Lauren. Letting go of them was like letting go of her again, a terrible reminder that she's gone. Seeing the room empty of her things breaks my heart; she came and went and left nothing behind her in the room that should have been hers. All that's left is an emptiness. As much as it hurt to see her belongings go unused, it hurts just as much to lose what was hers, to let them pass through our lives and into someone else's as though Lauren had never existed at all. While they were in her room, it proved she had been real and not just a dream that we've lost to the ether.

What matters is that we will have Lauren. We moved her out of the room too. Before, her urn had been sitting on the wide IKEA bookcase in the room, under the baby gym and between two stuffed animals we'd had for her. Geordie often put Rabbit with her to keep her company. Now it's too lonely in there, too bereft of Lauren's memory. Now she sits on a bookcase in our bedroom, still accompanied by Rabbit. It's a little lonelier without her things surrounding her, but she's not alone, which is good. It won't be long before we're back in the States and we can make a temporary place for her at my parents' house. And next year, after we've settled ourselves a bit, perhaps we can make a more permanent place for her, a place of her own and with her own things. Although it's enough to have Lauren with us, I feel better knowing she's got her things with her and a place just for her. It's the way things would have been if she had lived, and it's the way I want things for her now.

nine years of Nanowrimo

I remember well the first year I participated in National Novel Writing Month. I even remember the fellow English major who introduced me to it. I signed up on October 24th, 2003; that gave me one week to prepare for the start of Nanowrimo. The goal for that November (and every November following) was to write 50,000 words on one story. Theoretically, all you have to do is write 1667 words per day. It sounds easy enough when you think about it, but putting it into practice is where the challenge comes in.

That first Nano, I wrote about 15,000 words. Nowhere near the goal amount, but it was an accomplishment for me. I'd never written that many words on one original story (I'd written that many for a Star Wars fanfic, but I didn't count that then, and if you ask me about it now, I'll deny its entire existence). It was a terrible story but I've always liked the idea of it - a sci-fi piece about a matriarchal/matrilineal society that was slowly falling apart. The next year, I worked on an urban fantasy and made it to 26,000 words. Since then I've written a historical novel, a couple straight-up fantasy stories, a light comedic fantasy, and a historical steampunk mystery. And there are two years that I really don't remember what I wrote at all. Success did not come quickly; it was 2007 when I finally reached that 50,000 word goal before the end of November. I had a three-year winning streak that ended last year because I ended up hating everything about the story I was writing. It happens.

This year, I am a Nano Rebel. The whole point of Nanowrimo is to write a novel - it's right there in the name. This year, though, I'm taking the creative nonfiction route and writing a memoir of my experience of carrying, losing, and mourning Lauren. It would be impossible for me to write about anything else right now. Lauren is my focus; she eventually nudges out all other thoughts in my head, just as she did all during the pregnancy. Since February, nothing else has been foremost on my mind. I can't simply forget her or let her pass away into nothingness. Neither can I sit and dwell on what we've lost, reliving memories and going over "should haves" and mourning "should bes." I must be productive, and since I have always been better with written words, I shall write.

I meant to be writing all this year. It was a simple task that I gave to myself, and I failed miserably at it. On one hand, I wish I devoted more time and attention to the pregnancy, appreciated it for all the special moments it gave me. On the other, I'm glad I didn't, because perhaps the pain would be even greater for having appreciated every moment. And had I written everything down, one manner of catharsis might have been lost to me. So, now I'll write down everything that should have been written down before, and it will be all the more cherished for what it is now: a memorial to Lauren, her story and our story entertwined, just as she herself enveloped us and took over every aspect of our lives.

And perhaps, as I write, others will be comforted, whether they knew Lauren or not. I know I shall find some comfort, just as I know that the experience will be a painful one. I've already shed tears while writing on this blog; I can only imagine the flood that will come as I write Lauren's birth story and the memories of my pregnancy. But it's something I must do.

So, this year, Nanowrimo is more than just a writing exercise, more than just a kick-start to get me going. In years past, I participated in Nanowrimo because I wanted to - this year, I must. It's not just myself I'm writing for, it's for Lauren and Geordie and family and friends who wanted to share in the story of our lives. I cannot share my daughter in a physical sense, but I can do it in spirit.

This year, Nanowrimo is for Lauren.

3rd Japanniversary

Oddly enough, last week - besides being the week I expected to have my daughter home with me and in my arms - also marks the end of my third year in Japan.

I am not the same person I was when I came to Japan three years ago. Even if things had gone as planned this year, I would still be a much different person. I embraced my role as a teacher and truly enjoyed my job for the first time. I furthered my horizons as a wide-eyed observer, taking in everything Japan had to offer and seeking more, always more. I had no expectations; I wanted only to experience and to enjoy. And I did, more so than I could ever have imagined.

I did not expect to fall in love. I did not expect to fall pregnant or get married. I did not expect to become a mother. These were not things that could be planned, and they were certainly not things I would have made plans for anyway. But if I were to go back and start anew, I would not give them up. I would not change them, even knowing how these three years in Japan would end. I would give anything to have Lauren alive and with me, but I would not want to give her up at all. Better to have her memory and the profound impact she has had on my life than to not have her at all. It is she who has changed me most, who made me a mother and, at the same time, deepened my love for Geordie as we walked the path toward parenthood together.

Though Geordie and I both continue to love Japan, neither of us feel that we can stay on after what has happened. We can't stay in Susono, and Geordie can't remain at his job here. It has been hard enough just being in this apartment and sensing how unchanged it is, how normal. We can't continue where we left off, waiting for Lauren to make her arrival and dreaming our hopes for the future. We need to be grounded and start again, rebuilding our lives and recovering from Lauren's sudden absence.

It's not the way I want to leave Japan. I had never given much thought to how I would leave Japan, but this isn't the way I want it to go. With Lauren, I thought we would be going when she was a couple years old, returning to the States to be closer to family, so that friends and relatives could be active in her life. I thought we would be going as a family, not with empty arms.

I still love Japan - I will always love Japan. One day, I think Geordie and I will end up back here; it is our hope that will happen. But for now, Japan is not for us. For myself, it is a time to look inward, to process all that has happened to me in the past three years and to ready myself for what is to come in the future. Japan gave me so many wonderful things, not the least of which being my husband and daughter. It also gave me confidence in myself and my abilities, it brought me job fulfillment and satisfaction, it showed me wonders and beauty that I could only have imagined, it introduced me to people who affected me deeply. It taught me much about myself and prepared me to welcome Geordie and Lauren into my life. Three years ago, Japan was exactly what I needed, and I will remember it as a place of magic and love. It is my treasure, and for a while, it was my home.

I hope that it might someday be my home again.

a day for remembering

Today is International Pregnancy and Infant Loss day. One in four pregnancies will end in loss by way of miscarriage, stillbirth, or infant death. Today is the day to remember those lost before they had a chance to live. Though their lives were brief, they stamped themselves into the hearts and minds of those who loved them and dreamed of them and anticipated them. Attached to them were hopes and dreams and infinite potential. They are loved still and missed always.

I remember Lauren. I remember her when she was still just called Lucky, when we knew of her but did not yet know her. I remember that journey through awareness, of coming to know who Lauren was and who she could be.

I remember how sure I was that I was pregnant and how terrified I was when I knew that it was true.

I remember the first ultrasound and loving her instantly.

I remember naming her and how easy it was, how the name "Lauren Joy" just fit so perfectly.

I remember feeling the first flutters of her movement, confirmation that she was there with me.

I remember the relief that washed over me whenever I felt her and knew that she was still there. Every time we saw her on the ultrasound, I felt that same relief, that calming of fears.

I remember how perfect she was at 20 weeks: the form of her spine, the beating of her heart, the bones of her limbs, the strength of her body. Healthy, Dr. Shoji told us. Perfectly healthy.

I remember the decisions we made about parenting, all the reading and research I did, all the excitement and anxiety about becoming a parent.

I remember the aches and pains, the heat and the strain, the hormones and the anxiety, and I wish I had enjoyed what pregnancy was and meant.

I remember the smiles and congratulations from the people in Moriya, from friends and students and co-workers. I remember how excited family and long-time friends were to welcome her to the world, how they loved her before they even knew her.

I remember how terrified I was about labor and delivery, and how I cried with the fear, and how Geordie held me and comforted me and told me that it would be wonderful in the end, that I would have a beautiful baby girl to love when it was over.

I remember making birthing plans and knowing what I wanted and didn't want. I wanted Geordie there, and that was all that really mattered.

I remember the kicks and the rolls and the hiccups and how filled with life they made me feel.

I remember Geordie singing to her and the way she reacted to his voice. I loved to hear him sing to her. I loved the way he talked to her. I loved to hear him say her name.

I remember how he could always quiet her down if he placed his hand on my stomach at night while she was active.

I remember the waiting rooms of hospitals and clinics: how reassuring and familiar the Shoji clinic became, how cold and unwelcoming the other places seemed in comparison, how different the doctors could be in the apprach to patients. I remember understanding why some women chose home births.

I remember Geordie's excitement and happiness when we finally learned Lucky's gender. He smiled all the rest of the day, that big and goofy smile of unrelenting anticipation.

I remember how much Geordie took care of her and me, physically and emotionally.

I remember the plans made for the holidays, the joy that bubbled up in me when I thought of sharing Lucky with family and friends. I looked forward to showing her off, to seeing first time grandparents and great-grandparents and great-aunts. I couldn't wait to put her in Ryan's arms and assure him that he really was an uncle, that he wasn't imagining it. I wanted to watch them all and see how happy Lucky made them.

I remember wanting to share Japan with her. We walked under cherry blossoms in April, and I thought, "she'll be six months old this time next year." We went to summer festivals in August, and I thought, "she'll be nine months and adorable in a little yukata." We went to shrines and temples, and I thought, "she'll grow up with all this and learn to appreciate the wonders of life and the spirit." We watched the changing of the seasons, and I thought, "I'll have an autumn baby, a wonderful gift from my favorite time of the year."

I remember the hopes and dreams we had for her, the things we wanted to share with her and teach her. I daydreamed often, imagining what she would be like as a toddler, dark-haired and light-eyed, stubborn and curious - a mix of myself and Geordie. In my thoughts, we held her and sang to her and read to her, and as she got older, we would do those things with her. We nurtured her and adored her in my thoughts, and I sent them to her to let her know how much we wanted her.

I remember cooking and baking, thoughts of old family recipes I wanted to save for her to make someday. There was so much of our families I wanted to share with her - our histories, our traditions, our togetherness.

I remember shopping for her with Geordie, picking and choosing what was right, lamenting the excess of garishly pink clothing, wondering just what size we needed and how much we would need.

I remember seeing other women with infants and thinking, "that will be me soon. She'll be here soon, and everything will be lovely." I knew it would be hard, that adjustments would have to be made, but I accepted that. It would be Geordie and Lucky and me, and everything would be alright.

I remember worrying about her room and its lack of temperature control - would she be too cold? too hot? I wanted everything perfect for her.

I remember the days and weeks and months before September 22nd, when I felt her strongly and my thoughts wended towards the future's joyful moments and the challenges I knew I would have to face. The fears and worries were merely superficial, the typical anxieties of new parents who were content in the knowledge that everything would turn out right.

I remember wanting her and loving her, feelings that have not changed.

I remember her after her delivery: perfect and beautiful and silent as though asleep. There was no doubt that she was ours and no doubt that we would feel the void of her loss in her hearts for a long time to come.

I remember Lauren Joy, and I also remember the stories shared with me, of pregnancies lost and infants mourned. Today, I think of the stories told and untold, of the empty spaces in so many lives that will never be filled. I think of the pain of the loss of hopes and dreams, sometimes sharp and sometimes dull but always there. And I wish that no one else would have to feel this pain.

Today, I remember Lauren and her brief life and the lasting impact she has made on myself and Geordie and so many other people. I will remember her always. Every morning, I wake up and remember her, and I remember that she is not here where she should be.

making it real

It's one thing to know that she's gone; it's another to see it written down in black and white and shared with a community.

An obituary was not on my mind in the days following Lauren's delivery, but about a week ago, my mother-in-law wrote to Geordie and asked if we would be okay with her putting an obituary in the local paper. Neither Geordie nor I had any problem with that, so she very kindly wrote one up. And it was perfect.

Lauren's obituary in the Gloucester Times

Then my mother asked if we should do one for their local paper. I said that would be nice. So, we took Laurie's lovely write-up and sent it in.

Lauren's obituary in the Citrus County Chronicle

I cried a little about this - we should be writing birth announcements for Lauren, not obituaries. We should be celebrating her life, not mourning it. But at the same time, it's a comfort to know that she won't pass unforgotten, that people will know her name and know that she was loved. Is still loved and will continue to be loved. I hold her always in my heart, but I long now - as I longed all during pregnancy - to share her with others, to show them how wonderful she was and how wonderful she would be. I want her to be known and to be remembered, and this is one small way to do that.

Many, many thanks to Laurie and Ramona for making these happen. They are both much appreciated.

Week 40: Broken

Lauren was due this week. Instead of holding her and loving her, I am mourning her. I am the mother of a baby born sleeping.

My last pre-natal appointment was Thursday, September 22nd. Lucky was still alive then. The doctor told us that her heartbeat was strong and it was functioning well; his only concern was about the size. He didn't think it was going to be a major problem, it was just a slight concern. He took several measurements of the heart and told us that he would have a cardio specialist look at it. We would be able to meet with him at our next appointment the following Friday. Lucky was active during the appointment - not as active as she had been in the past, but I still felt her moving, and we could see her on the screen. We left the hospital and went back to Mishima station, where we ate dinner at a little hole-in-the-wall place. I felt her move after I'd finished eating, and I was happy. I was so very happy to have her.

When I got into bed that night, I didn't feel her kick or push against me. Usually, she did that, becoming active just when I was ready to sleep, but not always. I was tired and fell asleep quickly and didn't think much of it.

The next day - Friday, the first day of autumn - is a hard day to think about, because I wonder if it was the last day that Lucky was alive. Could we have saved her if we'd gone back to the hospital that day? We usually went to the pre-natal appointments on Friday, but the hospital was closed (except for emergencies) because it was a national holiday. And I was still tired from the trip to the hospital and back on Thursday; all I wanted to do was rest. I told myself that was all I needed.

But Friday was a quiet day, and the worrying crept up on me. It had happened before, all during the pregnancy, ever since I first felt her moving in the 18th week. Whenever there was a quiet day, panic would settle over me, and I'd be certain we'd lost her. It usually came before an appointment, when we knew we'd see her, and I'd be terrified of what me might see. Then we'd go, and everything would be fine, and I'd relax again. It had never happened immediately after an appointment though. Only before.

"She was fine yesterday," Geordie told me. "The doctor said she'd lowered; there's just no room for her to move now."

"I know," I replied and kept worrying anyway. We laid on the bed, and he held me, and after a while, I felt Lucky hiccuping, and I was so relieved. It didn't last long, but it was a sign of life, and I welcomed it. When we went to bed, Lucky was quiet again, but I remembered those hiccups and treasured them because I thought it meant she was okay. I think now that it was the last time I really felt her.

By morning, the hiccups had been forgotten. I slept late and could not focus on anything. Geordie emailed me - he always emailed me in the late morning or early afternoon - to check up on me, and I replied honestly that I wasn't okay. I was worried and stressed and confused. I didn't tell him what I had suddenly felt sure of - that something was very wrong with Lucky. I tried to make peanut butter cookies to distract myself, but after I'd made the batter, I didn't feel like baking anything. I laid down on the bed and waited for Lucky to let me know she was okay. Nothing. I cried myself to sleep and only woke up when Geordie came home.

Sunday was worse. I was sure that I hadn't felt anything from Lucky all weekend, and I was just as sure that it was too late to help her. When Geordie emailed from work, I responded that he should call the hospital Monday morning. I could not wait until Friday to know what was happening inside me; I had a deep, sinking fear that I already knew what was happening. He said he would, if that was what I wanted, and told me not to worry. He was worried too. I saw that plainly when he came home from work and laid down next to me in the bed. I had spent most of the day in bed, crying and sleeping and reading. I couldn't concentrate on anything else. I wanted to be relaxed so I could feel Lucky if she moved. Geordie held me and whispered reassuring things to me that I wanted to believe but couldn't. And I couldn't tell him how bad I thought things were because I didn't want to believe that either. Besides, I couldn't say those things to him - I couldn't stand to see him break the way I was breaking. He was trying to hold together for me, and I loved him for that. But I knew. I knew.

He woke a bit earlier than usual, and before he called the hospital, he woke me up to ask me if I had changed my mind. I hadn't. He went into the living and closed the doors to the bedroom and made the phone call there. I did not go back to sleep; I knew we would be going in to the hospital that day no matter what the ob/gyn staff said. I couldn't stay home any longer, I couldn't ignore what my body was telling me any longer. As he finished the call, I got up and opened one of the sliding doors to the living area. Geordie was sitting on the floor, and he looked up and said, "I couldn't speak to a doctor because it's too early, but the nurse said that if you're concerned, we can go in. Do you want to go now or wait and see?"

"Now," I said. "I want to go now."

He called his manager while I ate breakfast and got dressed. All the while as we were making the 90-minute trip to the hospital, on the three different trains and the bus, I thought, It will be alright. We're doing something about this, and that means it'll be alright. Lucky is fine. We don't have to worry any more.

And then we were there at the hospital, and the ob/gyn staff did not make us wait. They weighed me and took my blood pressure and kept us in the examining area. A nurse pulled aside a curtain and had me lay down, and she drew the curtain back around me as she started up the doppler. Silence was all that she found, and in that moment, everything changed. Everything shattered.

Two days later, Lauren was born, though she never drew breath. Her story of delivery - and the two terrible days I spent trying to let go of her - will have to wait. That is something I'm still not quite ready to write down yet. I have thought often of those two days, but I have not yet turned them over and examined them and tried to understand them. They are blurs and images, tears and pain, still sharp in their freshness.

Two weeks later, I am still picking up the pieces and trying to put myself back together. Just one piece at a time.