Guest Post by Emilee Frisbie

If someone would have told me a year ago where I would be now, I never would believe them. I would tell them that stories that sad are made up, purely fiction. I would tell them, things like that don’t happen to me. They don’t happen to my family. I wish more than anything, those things were true.

Last year started off with a bang, my husband lost his job of 6 years to a merger and then 2 weeks later we found out we were pregnant with our second child. In my normal fashion, I looked at the bright side and focused on our new baby to be. I told myself that life is full of bumps and there is nothing we can’t handle. Then, in June I lost my job to downsizing 10 weeks before my due date. Although a bit worried, I knew things would work out because they always have. We are good people; we work hard and loved even harder. It will all work out in the end, right?

Scarlett was born a healthy baby girl and she brightened the world every single day she was on earth. She was love and joy in the purest form. She passed away from SIDS at 14 weeks and 5 days old. It is a moment in time that will forever change us and the dynamic of our family. Those first few days and weeks are a blur. If I allow my mind to go back to them, I am immediately overcome with sorrow. My stomach knots and my throat tightens when anyone mentions that day in December. Up until that moment, everything else that happened to us seems so trivial. Our life had been so innocent.

In our few months of grief we have learned so many lessons. We have learned who we are when times are hard. We have learned that our marriage is even stronger than we ever realized. We learned that being a parent is gift and not a guarantee. And the biggest thing we have learned through all of this is that asking for help is not a sign of weakness, it’s a sign of strength. People from all over wanted to help us and needed to, for their own sake, be part of the healing. Our first reaction was to be prideful and strong and take it all on ourselves. We quickly realized that we would never make it without the love and support of those around us. They flooded our house with food, supplies, tissues and love. They listened as we babbled nonsensically trying to wrap our minds and hearts around what we just witnessed. They sat with us all hours of the day as time ran together and we sat in the same position we had been in for days. They played with our 2 year old daughter when we were unable to find the strength to smile and pretend everything was okay. They helped make phone calls, funeral arrangements and decisions that we, no matter how hard we tried, could have done.

As we continue this unexpected journey of hurt and discovery, we are certain of one thing. We are grateful for the people in our lives that held us up those most painful days and weeks. There are no words or grand gestures that can repay them for what they have done for our family. As our broken hearts attempt to heal, there is a great comfort knowing that there are so many wonderful people in the world. People are innately kind and want to help. Allow them to. Helping you helps them. It helps them process and come to terms with the tragedy.
For the rest of our lives we will be paying that generosity forward. We will help others when they need it without thinking twice. As we all move forward with life remind yourself that asking and accepting help is one of the most courageous things you can do. So on the days you are feeling weak, be brave and allow someone to help you.

The post The Bravery in Asking for Help appeared first on Still Standing Magazine.

I used to utter the phrase “You are so strong” to others when I had no idea what else to say.  Little did I know how painful that was to actually hear until it was said to me after my losses.

Alice was our first loss, and an early one in the beginning of an unknown pregnancy.  She was gone before we knew she was even a possibility.   I had never had a miscarriage and, I was in shock.  I was numb and honestly, looking back the emotions didn’t come for a few days.  And when they finally did, I totally broke down at what ‘should have been’.  And, like most women, I was told that it was a non-event, hardly worth grieving for too long.  So, I mourned in silence ~ feeling weak and disconnected from the world.  And I was told, “you are so strong” by people who use it to imply that I would surely survive this heartbreak.

Then I became pregnant with Amelia.  We made it to 24 weeks and things were fine ~ until it all came crashing down.  We found out that Amelia was sick.  We were told that she should never have made it as far as she had ~ but surely it was because “She is so strong”.   I could not reconcile the words that were dumped on us again, because the opposite was in fact true.  Her body was deteriorating and would not survive outside my womb.

I was pregnant with a child that would die.  I would never see her alive, but had to do my best to connect with her as she was safe within my body.   And once again, I was told countless times “You’re are strong.”  And so, I went on to plan a birth as well as a funeral.  I advocated for my daughter in every way I could and gave birth to her lifeless little body when it was time.

And now, three years later . . . I still miss and grieve them.  The loss is not lessened, but the burden is somehow easier to bear.  Like any muscle that gets used over time, it gets stronger. . . so, in a sense, my strength comes from constantly grieving my children who are not here.

So, the next time I am told ‘you’re so strong’, I can happily reply ‘Yes, I am.”

The post You’re So Strong appeared first on Still Standing Magazine.

It’s inside the spaces– the pauses– the infinite stillness–

that I most palpably feel the emptiness you’ve left behind.

It’s the silence of your missing voice that screams the loudest.

It’s every holiday that’s impossible to truly celebrate.

It’s the painfully absent goodnight routine.

It’s the missing you in every picture of our forever-one-too-small family.

It’s the one less set of hands tugging on my shirt.

It’s the one missing set of lips not kissing mine.

It’s the one stolen set of feet I should be chasing after.

It’s all the screaming empty spaces of you– you– you–

all around me.

Photo by Angela Miller
Art by Mitch Carmody

The post Empty Spaces of You appeared first on Still Standing Magazine.

Mother’s Day.

A reminder of what I do have and a reminder of what is missing. I have two amazing sons and a daughter. My little girl died in my arms, because she was born with a fatal birth defect, the day before Mother’s Day and since them I have really hated the day, with a passion.

I find it so hard to be joyful on the day that brings back so many memories. Beautiful ones and such sad ones. She shouldn’t have lived after birth, but she did. She shouldn’t have moved or open her sweet mouth, but she did. That was an amazing gift for my husband and I. We had the chance to marvel at her. But then as swiftly as we met her we had to say our goodbyes. To tell her in the few hours that we had with her how much she was loved and cared for.

The first anniversary of her death was on Mother’s Day.

That was the day I needed to run away from here, from my home and the memories of what should have been. My husband, my kids, my family, we all ran away. We went out of town for the day. I have pictures of that day. Of what we did and the mostly fake smiles. I have pictures of some of the wonderful things we did that day but only recall a small amount. I was there physically, but I was not really there.

Mother’s Day.

To tell you the truth I haven’t wanted to or cared to celebrate the day. How do you do it? Celebrate? Knowing that with all of the gifts that your children make for you there will always be one missing. One trinket missing. One card missing. It’s like looking at the family picture wondering how different it would be had she been here.

Mother’s Day.

I told my husband I can’t handle the day. For me it doesn’t exist. I will still do things for my mom and mother-in-law but I wanted nothing to do with it. Move it to some obscure day in July. I really didn’t care.

Mother’s Day.

This year my boys are making some beautiful things with their dad and friends at school. For them, it is important. Even though we, as a family miss her, they want to celebrate like their friends do. So for them, I have made a choice to TRY and be in the moment. TRY to live in the moment. I want to try to be a normal mom and enjoy the day. Have the funny shaped pancakes, the tea that got sweetened with salt instead of sugar, listen to my family trying to make a fuss over me while I get a few extra moments in bed, but I am unsure. Sometimes they say the anxiety is worse than the actual day. Like the first time you hold a baby and the first Christmas afterwards.

Mother’s day I have avoided for 4 years. I think that it may be time to try.

For my boys.

I am listening to the radio and a song came on that says you have to get up and try, try, try. I guess that’ll be my mantra on this Mother’s Day. To all of you, mothers, out there who will be celebrating Mother’s Day, my hugs and love to you.

Try and enjoy this day.

I will TRY.

The post Try appeared first on Still Standing Magazine.

Guest Post by Kristyn

I found out I was pregnant 6 months after our wedding. As I watched that second little pink line on the pregnancy test get darker and darker, I instantly fell in love with the tiny being inside me. I remember my husband Mark just staring at me as I told him we were having a baby. I jumped up and down, and he sat quietly smiling. That sums us up: I’m a dreamer and overly emotional. He’s practical and in control of his emotions.

We were living our dreams. My belly grew, we picked our son’s name, we planned our life. And then the world came tumbling down when we learned our son had alobar holoprosencephaly, a fatal condition. The day I delivered our tiny baby boy Joseph, I was in awe of his tiny feet and tiny ears and perfect little lips. He was mine. I was his mother.

Mark stayed strong. He took care of me. He held my hand when we picked Joseph’s casket. He didn’t flinch when I asked the mortuary if I could hold my son again. He didn’t judge me when I didn’t leave the house for two months because I was afraid to see babies and pregnant women. He went to the children’s birthday parties I couldn’t attend. He went to work. He moved forward. And all I could do was sit in my baby boy’s nursery and sob until I was numb.

One day I was so angry at Mark. Why did he not want to go to our support group anymore? Why did he not cry? Why did he not talk about Joseph more often? Then the words came like daggers to my heart. “This isn’t like when my dad died. This doesn’t affect me like that did.” And that’s the moment it happened. I hated my husband.

Life went on. We had a daughter Leah. She was my rainbow baby. Her birth brought happiness to my dark world. Twenty-two months later, our son Evan was born. His sweet and gentle spirit made everything better.

Right before Evan’s first birthday I started to suffer from severe anxiety. Mark would sit up at night with me as I had panic attack after panic attack. He would rub my head for hours and hours until I fell asleep. He loved me when I couldn’t love myself. And yet, I hated my husband.

The anxiety got so severe I started seeing a therapist. Three sessions in, we talked about my grief versus how Mark grieved. The therapist saw it. I didn’t have to say it. “You hate him for what he said, don’t you?” she asked. I nodded. She encouraged me to talk to him about it. I resisted. There was nothing he could say that would ever make up for what he had done.

A few months later, we attended the funeral of a friend’s triplet babies who had been born prematurely. I watched my husband break down. I held him as he sobbed in my arms. I looked at him and my heart broke. I knew it was time.

At home, I sat on the bath tub while he was brushing his teeth getting ready for bed. I looked at this man who is loved by everyone, who is kind to everyone, who is the best dad any child could ever have. He was my world and I carried this hate. I had to ask him.

He said he didn’t realize the magnitude of his love for Joseph until we had living children. I became a mom when I got pregnant, but he didn’t feel like a dad until he got to parent our children. He didn’t know how to bond with a baby he only got to see for 15 minutes. He couldn’t let himself cry or be weak because he had to stay strong for me. He said that at the funeral earlier that day, he finally got to grieve for Joseph. He knew I was finally strong enough to hold him up. It was his release. He said nothing in his life could ever hurt as badly as losing Joseph. It just took him time to understand it all.

Everything changed after that. I realized I never hated my husband. I hated that I wasn’t strong enough for him to be weak. I hated that I didn’t take the time to understand his journey. I hated that I gave up on him.

I’m so grateful he never gave up on me.

:::

Kristyn von Rotz is the cofounder of OC Walk to Remember, a nonprofit organization that supports families in Orange County, California, that have lost a baby in pregnancy or infancy (ocwalktoremember.org). She has three living children, and is the mother to Joseph, and an angel baby lost to miscarriage. She can be reached at kvonrotz@ocwalktoremember.org

The post From Hate to Healing appeared first on Still Standing Magazine.

Exactly one year and six months ago, my husband and I said hello and then goodbye to our daughter, Eve.  When the doctor told us that she’d died inside of me, I didn’t see how I was going to survive her birth, much less the days and weeks and months of life-without-her that lay ahead.

In fact, I hoped that I wouldn’t survive.

In the day’s wait that lay between me and the induction that would bring Eve’s body into this world, whenever my benumbed mind managed to grasp at any shred of hope, it was that I would not survive to face her birth, her dead body, and whatever sort of life we could manage to patchwork together in the wake of such devastation.

I wanted to die.  And continued to want to die for some time thereafter.

But I didn’t.  Instead, I lived.

And at first, that living felt a whole lot more like survival than anything else.

The hardest thing to endure was not Eve’s birth, and not holding her for the first and only time.  It was not watching my husband and loved ones tenderly cradle this sad, lifeless little person that had been my daughter.  It was not crawling back into the hospital bed, leaking tears and birthing blood, as the nurse wheeled my daughter’s body away.

It was leaving the hospital and everything that came after.

The silent house waiting for us when my husband and I arrived home from the hospital.  The empty crib that we had just set up.  Night upon night where sleep eluded me and there was nothing standing between me and the wailing agony and the fear.

Since that time, the sharp edge of grief has dulled into something softer, if still unpredictable and painful.  Our home and hearts no longer feel abjectly empty, although there is nothing in this world that will ever fill the space that our daughter left behind.

I have survived.  I am surviving.  And somewhere along the way, I started truly living once again.

And yet . . . there is one piece of those early days of life after loss that remains.

Fear.

Like Carly Marie, a looming, pervasive sense of fear entered my life when Eve left it.  Because when someone precious and innocent and so very, very important is taken from your life traumatically, without warning, suddenly it feels like all bets are off.  Nothing is sacred, nothing is safe.

That’s the thing — my sense of safety, whether it was accurate or not, was shattered when my daughter died.

At first, I was terrified that my husband would die, too.  I went everywhere he went for months after Eve’s death, no matter how quick of a trip it was going to be or how little it interested me.  Fear gnawed at me when he drove away to work in the morning.

And then, three months after we said goodbye to Eve, we discovered that I was pregnant with our rainbow.  For that first day of pregnancy, I was elated; nothing could get to me.  But it was not to last — fear entered in, and has stayed.  Our rainbow son’s pregnancy was an exercise in coping with anxiety.

Now he is eight months old and my battle against anxiety rages hotter than ever.  I know too well how easily he could be snatched away, how fragile this thing called life is

.  Sometimes, I cry because I miss my daughter, and because I know what it would be like to miss my son, too.

That fear has begun to affect me physically.  I carry a near constant ache in my chest, and I am often breathless and dizzy.  The diagnosis is anxiety.

Some days — and lately, a whole lot of them — feel like survival again.  The fears cluster close and my breath catches and catches and it is an act of war to beat the anxiety back.

And it’s hard.  It’s hard to live when you have fears for [some] good reason.  When you know death too well.

But that’s not the end of the story.  Although I am still in the midst of the battle, I know a life riddled with anxiety not where it ends because Eve’s death has taught me than I’m stronger than that.  If I can survive her death and birth and the crushing grief, than I can survive this.  I will not let the fear cripple me.

So although the grief is still heavy at times, and although the fears press too close most days, I am still here.  I am still standing.

The post When Grief’s Legacy is Fear appeared first on Still Standing Magazine.

I must have been almost ten weeks along, and the only person that knew about this little life growing inside me was my husband. Our first child. Three years ago.

We decided that Christmas Day would be the perfect time to announce to our families that we were going to be parents. We handpicked some special things from Things Remembered and an online jewelry shop, and engraved “Grandma” and “Grandpa” on them. We wrapped them.

With our hearts about to burst, we finished up Christmas dinner and found the bag with all the gifts safely tucked away.

As we handed them off, the first reaction I can remember was from my dad. Stunned, he looked at my mom. “Grandpa?!” I don’t think she heard him.

My mother-in-law caught on almost immediately, but when my mom realized that her bracelet was not just any charm bracelet but a bracelet with a “Grandma” engraved charm, she had herself an old-fashioned fit.

Happy tears filled that room. One of the last Christmases where we spent it altogether – his family and my family.

I would have about ten more weeks of a blissful pregnancy before our world would come crashing down. But Christmas Day 2009, it was a day that we celebrated Jenna for the first time with others. I like to think it of that way anyway. Since then, it has been difficult, if not awkward to invite family to truly celebrate her life. It is definitely bittersweet to look back on that day, mostly because when I look back, the thing that haunts me the most is the innocence that surrounded me. Ignorance to the world of possibilities. And oblivious to this world of loss.

In the end, all we have are memories. Precious memories. Bitter memories. Memories have a unique way of making time travel possible, for just a few moments. Where you can see, smell, hear and almost touch that beautiful yesterday. The yesterday where all was well. The yesterday that is today’s gift, and which makes today and every day after it so much sweeter.

The post Today’s Gift appeared first on Still Standing Magazine.

Guest Post by Megan Skaggs

My first Mother’s Day was an incredible mix of emotions. I didn’t really know whether to be happy or sad; or crying or not. I remember feeling quite numb. Our surviving twin son, Will, was about 10 months old. His identical twin brother, MJ, had been dead for about 9 months, and we were just starting to be able to see clearly, after being in a fog for so long. I didn’t want, nor did we have the money, to do something ‘big’. We were honestly thousands of dollars in debt due to MJ’s medical bills and were trying to figure out how we would manage it all. We decided to have a picnic and spend the day at our local zoo, which was ‘free’ since we had previously bought a year membership. It was a cold day and I very clearly remember sitting at the picnic table eating lunch not knowing if I should be crying, or if it was okay to smile. Will was so full of life and happy to be outside after a long winter. I remember trying to imagine what it would have been like with two 10 month old boys to spend the day with.

What a feeling it was, to hold one baby in my arms, and long to hold my other in something other than my heart. My own mother was really the only other person than my husband who acknowledged how hard of a day it must have been for me. Everyone else saw one perfect little boy and assumed he was all I needed. They were incredibly wrong. A piece of me died with MJ, and no matter how many months, years, or children I have, that piece of my heart can never be returned.

We walked around the zoo in our single stroller, while our double stroller gathered dust back home. At the children’s area we stopped and fed the goats and I remember feeling so overwhelmed with my emotions. Will was amazed he could touch the goats and I was amazed I could even breathe without MJ. My husband put his arm around me and in my heart I sobbed. I remember the sun shining through and feeling as if MJ was with us in that moment; that somehow both of my sons were able to smile back at me that day. Those moments are what get me through. Every so often the sun will shine just right and the warmth hits my face and I can feel MJ with us. That afternoon at the zoo was one of the first times I had truly felt that.

Several months later my husband and I decided to buy a brick that would be placed at the children’s area of our local zoo. Due to another cold winter, it took almost until the next Mother’s Day to place his brick. Will was about 22 months and I was looking forward to seeing his brick. That Mother’s Day I was just newly pregnant with our ‘Rainbow Baby’, fresh off a miscarriage. I had no idea if this new baby would come home with us or live forever in Heaven. We saw MJ’s brick and that feeling came back to me once again. The sun was shining and the warmth hit my face and I felt our son with us. I put Will down and had thoughts of taking this amazing photo of Will and MJ’s brick. And just as any 22 month would do, Will had other plans of petting goats and chasing geese. I won’t lie when I say that I shed a tear and hated that brick for a moment. We were a sight to see- chasing around Will trying to get him to sit still long enough to take a picture next to a brick. We finally gave up and just took the picture of MJ’s brick alone. And like so often in our lives, the plans we made didn’t happen. We had to be okay with just a picture of his brick. We chose to cremate MJ, so that brick means a lot more to me than anyone would think. I like to imagine him playing around that zoo, when no one is there, petting the goats and chasing the geese- just as his twin brother did that first time we saw it.

Just last month we went back to the zoo and this time we got our perfect picture of that brick- with Will and Maci Jayne (our Rainbow Baby who did come home with us). This Mother’s Day I’d like to go back to the zoo and I hope I get that feeling once again. That somehow, someway, when the sun shines down just right on my face and brings that warmth; all of my children are with me.

The post Thoughts on Mother’s Day appeared first on Still Standing Magazine.

Today I share with you a reflection into my very own personal journey of life after loss.  I share with you from the very raw to the most extreme emotions I have felt over the last eight years.  Many of you will be relate to the uncontrollable emotions that can flip as fast as the blink of an eye.  Extreme.  That is what living life after loss is.  Extreme.  The most extreme task you will ever face is life after losing a child.  Unexpected and unexplained may be the emotions from one moment to the next.  Literally.  In grief there are enormous waves that can be unpredictable and offset by the minutest of details.  These waves can cause many emotions to occur all at once, sometimes the shift can be more gradual as events leading up to your loss will trigger them and more often than not, it just happens.  It just does.

Have you ever been in a conversation with someone and be all smiles and then one second later be excusing yourself to run and cry?  YEP!  Or be so, so happy and then be screaming?  YEP!  Extreme.  Do you wonder how this can happen?

For those of you that have loved ones or friends who have suffered loss, do you wonder how it is possible to be laughing and then crying within the same breath?   Have you ever had a conversation with a friend and you just don’t understand how their demeanor can shift so quickly?   Is your friend so different?  Your friend may be experiencing some of these things or perhaps all of them and it is difficult to navigate life after loss.  It is difficult to find balance within all of the emotions, chances are, they don’t understand them either.  Be kind to them.  If this applies to you, be kind to yourself.  Please read this.   This is real.  This is raw.   And this is life after loss.

I am a daughter.  I am a sister.  I am an aunt.  I am a wife.  I am a mother.

I am simple.  I am complex.

I am no stranger to pain.

I am broken.  I am sad.  I am depressed.   I am crying.

I am happy.  I am laughing.  I am singing.  I am full of joy.  I am crying all over again.

I am crazy.  I am goofy.  I am serious.  I am gentle.  I am tough.  I am weak.  I am strong.  I am sad all over again.

I am here.  I am there.   I am running.  I am falling.  I am praying.  I am screaming.  I am quiet.  I am still.  I am crying all over again.

I am angry.  I am calm.  I am confused.  I am focused.  I am progressing.  I am regressing.  I am crying all over again.

I am scared.  I am alone.  I am surrounded.  I am freaking out.  I am patient.  I am anxious.  I am breathing.  I am hopeful.  I am hurt.

I am pulled together.  I am a hot mess.  I am out of control.  I am different.  I am moved.  I am shaken.  I am fragile.  I am resilient.

I am torn.  I am screaming again.

I am dancing.  I am happy.

I am tired.  I am stressed.  I am blessed.  I am confident.  I am driven.  I am passionate.  I am loved.  I am gracious.

I am filtered.  I am uncensored.  I am lost.  I am found.  I am smiling.

I am empty.  I am complicated.   I am crying all over again.

I am vulnerable.  I am courageous.  I am scared again.

I am chosen.  I am forgiven.  I am desperate.  I am passionate.

I am grieving.  I am missing my son.

I am surviving.

I am falling.   I am standing.

I am STILL STANDING.

I am STILL STANDING after eight years.

The post I am… after loss appeared first on Still Standing Magazine.

Guest Post by Sarah Rieke

“Well at least you weren’t further along in your pregnancy.”
“Thank goodness you didn’t have to spend weeks in the NICU.”
“You should be so glad you got to have your baby for the time that you did.”

To those who have never experienced infertility, pregnancy, or infant loss it seems there is a basic ranking system to evaluate how much pain one should be allowed to experience: the longer you were with your baby, the greater your grief is allowed to be. It seems to make logical sense, right.

Right?

Except it’s not that simple. Having the hope and glimmer of a little life, even for just one tiny millisecond of time, and then having it taken from you in one way or another is enough to render one’s heart almost completely paralyzed. That little life meant so much. It meant so many things. It represented so many hopes and dreams. And then, just like that, it was gone.

I lost my infant daughter four hours after she was born. It has been communicated to me on several occasions that my loss is greater than that of someone who only experienced a miscarriage. And to that, I say this:

In the world of infertility, pregnancy loss, and infant loss, there are no winners. What levels the playing field is the fact that, this side of eternity, not one of us will ever see the faces of our precious little ones again. And while I personally have hope that I will see my daughter again because of Jesus’s work on the cross, the idea of living the rest of my life without her seems insurmountable at times. When these little ones died they took a piece of us with them, no matter how long they were on this earth or the manner of their leaving.

The way those who have not lost seem comfortable ranking losses is just one more reason for those of us who have lost to stand together in a community of support to one another in a world that can never really understand.

Has your loss ever been “ranked”? How did it make you feel?

The post On Ranking Losses appeared first on Still Standing Magazine.