waiting for a rainbow

In the vernacular of the pregnancy and baby loss community, a baby born after a loss is called a rainbow baby. The idea is that this child is the rainbow after the storm that was previously endured, the culmination of a hard-fought battle against despair and grief. Some women go on to have two, three, or even more rainbow babies; others struggle to have one. For those still trying, they are living, breathing gifts of hope, a promise that not everything is lost.

Even so, it's a long, difficult road for those hoping for or carrying a rainbow baby. I'm terrifed at the prospect of getting pregnant again, even though it's something that I want very much now. From the first day we went into the hospital, Geordie and I knew that we wanted to try again. Lauren was an unplanned pregnancy, but she brought so much love into our lives, so much hope. As frightened as we were of becoming parents, we also knew that we wanted her. We wanted the family that she made us into. We wanted to love her and each other, and we wanted to raise her together. Nothing felt more natural. And as soon as we knew she was gone, we knew we wanted that for ourselves and for Lauren's memory.

It's not that a rainbow baby is a replacement. Lauren - or any other lost child - cannot simply be replaced. There will never be another baby like Lauren. What there will be is Lauren's younger brother or sister, someone just as unique as Lauren was and just as special. Another baby won't be Lauren, and that's as it should be. People don't have more than child because the first one is faulty, after all. No child is a replacement for another.

I hope it will happen for us. Someday. Not yet. We're not ready for it yet, in so many ways. Some people try again as soon as they get the all-clear from their doctors; we won't be doing that. Our first few months back in the States are not certain ones - we don't know where we'll end up or what we'll be doing or what our living situation will be like. We want to be settled before trying again; we want to avoid the stress of uncertainty and moving that we went through this year. Being pregnant again will be stressful enough; we want to make it as easy on us as possible.

Also, emotionally, we aren't ready, and it will probably be a while. I've read a lot of stories of women who try again two or three months afterwards and have their babies around the due date of their lost child. I don't think that's something I could do. It's not just the closeness to Lauren's due date, even though there are so many reasons why that would make me uncomfortable (I can't bear the thought of sharing Lauren's day with a rainbow baby, who should have a day of his/her own). I don't know that I could be pregnant again as I was pregnant this year, experiencing all the same things as I experienced them with Lauren. My rainbow baby will be a new baby, and I want new experiences. I don't want to relive everything. And three months is not enough time for me. I don't have the strength to try again so soon. I want to, more than anything, but I know it won't be right for me.

And, one more thing - probably the most important thing. I'm scared. Not of being pregnant again; I've found that I can survive that. Likewise, I'm not afraid of labor and delivery, as I know I can also survive that. I'm afraid of what all baby-loss mothers are afraid of: losing another child. The odds of that happening are small. But it can still happen. I won't be fooled by the innocent naivete of the pregnant woman who has never felt a loss. I see life now through the eyes of experience, and I wonder that it might not be possible for me to simply enjoy being pregnant now. I want to enjoy it next time, appreciate it for everything it is. But how can I? From the moment I feel my baby moving, how will I be able to think of anything else? How many minutes - hours - will I spend lying on my side, waiting to feel that life is still nestled within me? I don't want to be scared my entire pregnancy, but I doubt I can trust myself not to be.

It's really for this reason that I will need time before trying for our rainbow. I need to know that I can trust myself and my body to have a healthy pregnancy; I need to have confidence that I can give birth to a live, breathing baby. But I do know this - I'm waiting for the day when I can hold my rainbow baby and look into his or her eyes and know that things are alright. A rainbow baby won't bring Lauren back to me, but it will still bring something wonderful into my life, and I want that. I want to bring another child into our little family, a child I never thought I would want to have, a child I never would have thought to expect. I want more than anything to meet Lauren's younger brother or sister.

him and me and her

I lived alone for several years, and I lived far from my family for a number of those years. While in Florida, I had my cat Sarge to keep me company, but most of my time in Japan was as a solitaire. After my last roommate and I parted ways, I decided that the only way I would ever live with anybody again was to be married to them.

Marriage was never something I completely ruled out of my life. I didn't want to not get married. I didn't want marry just any man; I wanted to marry the right man. I also would have been okay with cohabitation, but I had the feeling that marriage would make things easier from a legal standpoint, not to mention just for the sake of convenience. But that was really a distraction from the main point, which was that I wanted to be in love with someone before I considered living with them.

Geordie moved in with me at the beginning of February, 2011. Though, really, "moved in" is just a convenient way to put it. It was possible that it was going to be a temporary thing, a place for him to live while he looked for a permanent job and while I looked for a new one. He was temporarily assigned a position in Hitachi, which was far enough away from Moriya for him to be unable to make a daily commute. So, really, he lived with me on the weekends. The rest of the week, I was still alone. We'd seen more of each other when we weren't living together.

Two weeks after he moved in, we found out I was pregnant. We saw no way for him to be able to leave the job he had, so for a month, he was home only on the weekends. I was pregnant alone, and it was tough going. It felt to me that I was becoming more adjusted to the pregnancy than he was, and to be fair, that was probably true. I lived with the pregnancy constantly; for him, it was a weekend thing. He didn't go through the many bodily changes that reminded me of what was happening or the mood swings that shook me into sudden bouts of crying. Or the tiredness - that sheer exhaustion that knocked me out cold. These were oddities to him, things I had to explain again every weekend. That ended with the Tohoku earthquake, the story of which is far too long to tell here and shall be written about at length in November.

Things changed after the earthquake. Geordie came back from Hitachi, and his company sent him to work in Tokyo, which was an unpleasant commute but one that allowed him to come home every day. From then on, I had him every day and every night. We became a daily occurence for each other, and it was during this time, I think, that the pregnancy became a very real thing for him. It was at that point that we became not a unit of two but a unit of three.

It happened faster than I had expected. One month, I was living alone happily enough; the next, I was living with a family - my family. I had thought that would take longer to adjust to, but by the time we moved to Susono, it was done. I was a wife and a mother, carrying a child that would make our little family complete. I was carrying our child, and nothing could have been more right. Everything was as it should be, and I would not have gone back to living alone for anything. I still wouldn't.

Geordie and Lauren and me. We're a family. We always will be. Lauren is a part of us, still loved and cared for. It doesn't matter that she's not physically here with us; she's here in other ways, and we'll carry her with us for the rest of our lives.

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.

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.

Week 35: 6.5 lbs = big baby?

Starting this week, I'll be going to the hospital for regular check-ups every week. Judging from this week's visit, September is going to be one hell of a month.

So, every week, I have an ultrasound. That's standard policy for Japanese obstetrics. It's been nice, actually, to see Lucky's progressive growth each time, and she's usually pretty active during the scans, like she knows she's being watched. Ever since we left the Shoji Clinic, though, I've enjoyed ultrasounds a little less, because every single one has included the comment, "That's a big baby. No, really. A BIG baby."

At 28 weeks, Lucky's estimated weight was 3 pounds. At 31 weeks, it was about 4.5 pounds. Two weeks later, it was around 5.7 pounds. And now, at 35 weeks, it's 6.5 pounds. According to American averages, Lucky's in about the 70th percentile. According to Japanese standards, she's practically Godzilla. That's supposing that the ultrasounds are all correct in these estimates - because that's all they are. The doctor takes some measurements on the ultrasound, and the machine spits out an estimate based on that. Ultrasounds have been known to be up to a pound off, in either direction. Which, hey, means there could be a chance that Lucky really is Godzilla-sized!

The doctor at this week's visit immediately asked about glucose testing. Now, I understand the concern about Gestational Diabetes. I do, really. I just don't think it's the issue here. There's been no sugar in my urine. My two prior glucose tests came back with healthy levels. Lucky's growth has been a fairly steady (and normal) half a pound per week. I'm no doctor, but that doesn't seem particularly disastrous to me. Everything about Lucky looks fine - placenta is healthy, amniotic fluid is at a good level, heartbeat is strong, and my cervix shows no signs of premature labor.

So what's the issue? Standarization is the issue. Japanese babies generally don't weigh more than 7 pounds at birth - 6 lbs 10 oz is the national average compared to America's average of about 8 pounds at birth. (note: if Lucky continues with the pound per fortnight growth, she'll weigh only slightly more than the American average) It could be argued that this is a natural occurence amongst the Japanese; it could also be argued that it's a result of Japanese doctors telling their pregnant patients to not gain any weight during pregnancy. A simple search online will produce a number of research papers and articles regarding a rising rate of low birthweight infants in Japan, starting in the 1980's. The conclusion for most of these papers/articles is that the cause is the mother's weight before and during pregnancy.

I'm not going to lay judgment on that. I'm nobody's doctor, and I'm not going to tell anyone how to handle their pregnancy. But I don't like being judged to a standard that has nothing to do with me and doesn't fit me anyway. And I don't appreciate the suggestion that Lucky is "big" because my body is doing something wrong when - up to this point - there has been no such indication. GD is usually diagnosed halfway through pregnancy; my glucose test at 26 weeks came back negative. I'd be much happier if the doctors just admitted that the thought of delivering a larger baby than they're used to makes them nervous. Fine, I accept that. Don't go blaming my body for it.

As for my weight, I've been happy with it, for the most part. I've gained about 14 pounds with this pregnancy, which is about as much as I'd like to gain. I was told by the Shoji Clinic to try not to gain any weight, but they never berated me for my weight gain. I've actually only gained about 4 pounds since week 20, so I doubt very much that it's contributed to Lucky's size. I think both she and I are developing at a good, natural rate.

But, as I said, I'm no doctor, and maybe I'm wrong about the GD. Better to be safe than sorry, yes? I'll have another glucose test next week to make sure, and we'll determine where to go from there. I am, however, becoming less convinced that the doctors are going to let me go to term. I wouldn't be too surprised if Lucky makes her appearance in September rather than October. We'll just have to wait and see.


And because I mentioned actual research done into this topic, here are a few links. There's much more out there, but these were the ones I found the most interesting.

• parenting blog about an article about pregnant Japanese women and dieting
• the article that blog refers to
• a research paper on low birthweight among Japanese infants
• an excellent blog about a mixed-race couple and their birthing experience in Japan

34 Weeks: Is it over yet?

The main reason I haven't been blogging about my pregnancy is that I'm not really enjoying it. I don't like being pregnant. I thought that maybe I'd grow into - get used to it, perhaps - but, no. Pregnancy just keeps getting worse. Much as I've tried to adapt to it, I can't. My body doesn't belong to me anymore, and that drives me a little bit crazy.

And that's unfortunate, because I do want to talk about my pregnancy. It might have been helpful - cathartic, in a way. But my body isn't the only thing that's been totally absorbed by pregnancy - so has my mind. It's incredibly difficult to focus on anything not pregnancy-related. There is not any house of the day that my mind isn't 100% engaged with the fact that I am pregnant. It's impossible to forget, which makes it damn difficult to think about other things. Like writing. Or even organizing thoughts. Everything's jumbled.

So, while I want to write about my experiences - especially in regards to what it's like to be a foreign woman giving birth in Japan - I can't do it right now. It will have to wait. The most I can do right now is experience it, jot down notes, and worry about organizing it all later. Right now, I just need to focus on being pregnant, because that's all my pregnancy-oriented brain will allow me to do right now.

I'm looking forward to not being pregnant, but not because I'll get my body and mind back. It WILL be nice to have my body back, but I know that doesn't mean I'll get my old life back. having to go through all these changes is probably a good thing, because things won't go back to the way they were. I consider this to be a transition phase, something to prepare for the next big steps I'll have to take in order to become a decent mother.

I'm terrified about becoming a mother. That's natural, I know, and it's almost a cliche, but it's true. Becoming a parent is terrifying, especially if you've spent all of your adult life wondering why anyone would think you competent enough to put you in charge of children. Fortunately, there's also something exciting about it. I'm not sure what. Finding reasons to be terrified is easy - finding reasons to be excited is not so easy. But, inexplicably, I find that I am, thus giving me another reason to want this pregnancy to be over and done.

I have all kinds of things I want to share with Lucky as she grows. Traditions from our families in America, newer traditions that we develop along the way, favorite music, favorite foods, Japanese customs and the beauty of Japan itself. We've already decided we want to do the baby-signing thing, and there are probably half a dozen other things we want to teach/do with her as she gets older. As much as the pregnancy has been a pain in my ass (literally, at times), one of the things that makes it so intolerable - for me, anyway - is the waiting.

So, while I hate being pregnant, at least I know that I'll have something to look forward to at the end of it. It'll be the beginning of a whole new set of challenges, but that doesn't bother me so much. Motherhood may be an adventure of awesome proportions, but I figure it won't be any worse than being pregnant.

Not all the time, anyway.

Rewind: A Child Called Lucky

So . . . in the year or so since I last posted a blog, lots of things have changed. I mean, LOTS of things. And all of these changes can be expressed in one word: Lucky. What is Lucky? Easy enough to answer. This is Lucky:

That, friends, is a baby. To be perfectly accurate, it's my baby.

Yeah, I know. I can hardly believe it either. But there Lucky is and there Lucky will stay. Until October, at which point Lucky will be born and the changes will become even more drastic.

You may be wondering . . . "Lucky?" You'd have to ask G about that. G used this name to refer to our growing bundle of cells early on, and it's stuck. More on that later. While Facebook knows this little one as "the Keefeling," G and I refer to him/her as Lucky, so that's what I'm using here. Don't worry, not all of the forthcoming posts are going to revolve around Lucky, but because this is my life right now, you can expect to hear a lot about what we're expecting. Consider it an added bonus that there's a little insight into Japan's take on the miracle of childbirth.

I let myself get into some bad habits in 2010. One was a lull in studying Japanese. Another was not blogging regularly. Or at all. Now that I've got time and energy (hello, second trimester!), I'm trying to remedy that. Not just because it's good for me and people seem to want to hear what I have to say - still trying to figure that one out. But also because I have Lucky to write about . . . and for. A lot of this is for Lucky, for a time when Lucky might actually care about what was going on while I carried him/her around. And because Lucky is going to be the one and only, I feel I should write all this stuff down. It's a once-in-a-lifetime experience for me, and I'd like to be able to save it.


Note: This post is pre-dated. I wrote it several months after the date it says here. I did that because that's when I found out about Lucky, and that's when this whole "big changes" thing really started. I've got some unposted writings that I want to share, but because I'm anal about this kind of thing, I'd like to do it in chronological order. So keep in mind that not all new posts will appear at the top of the blog. Part of the reason I've delayed these writings so long is that I've only recently really been able to come to terms with the fact that I am going to be a mother in a very short amount of time. That took a lot of getting used to. I still don't think I'm used to it. I'm hoping this helps some.