Samantha Grace

Told by: Christina

 

I lost my beautiful baby girl Samantha Grace on July 24th, 2014.

I developed preeclampsia in the last few weeks of my pregnancy and when I was 40 weeks and 2 days the doctors decided to induce me.

I went to the hospital on the 23rd in the morning because my blood pressure was so high. They induced me at 5:00 that night, after they inserted a balloon to dilate my cervix they told me to go home and then come back in the morning. I listened to the doctors cause I thought doctors the know best and it was my first pregnancy. After being at my sisters house for five hours the balloon fell out and the doctor said by the time the balloon falls out I’ll be 4cm so we headed to the hospital, by the time we got to the hospital I was 8 cm. I dilated 4 cm in 20 minutes. After being at the hospital for 20 minutes we found out my baby girl didn’t have a heart beat any more. My baby girl was born at 3:33.

After I gave birth we found out that because I dilated so quickly my placenta tore from the uterine wall and the umbilical cord was by her face and she lacked oxygen. It felt like a bad dream at first and I wanted to wake up from it. I didn’t understand why. I just kept asking why. My baby girl had a vibrant heart beat at 6:00 that night then by 12:00 she was gone. I know that she is in the loving arms of Jesus now though and we’ll get to meet her one day. I am thankful for the nine months we got with our little angel.

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Blessed but Anguished

Told by: Uli

You may consider this a manual how to treat a mom who just lost a baby, who had a stillbirth, or you may just read it to share my personal pain. Please don’t ask me how I am doing. There is no good answer. I can try to smile (but mostly choke back tears) and say good or okay, but it’s a lie. I can be honest and say horrible, still choking back tears, but you really don’t want to hear that. No, I am not okay. I am in agony, I couldn’t have imagined 7 days ago. It hurts so bad. Crying doesn’t help, or maybe it does, but it doesn’t feel like it. I am hurting emotionally, my heart is empty, there is a huge hole. I am hurting physically, I just gave birth 7 days ago. My boobs hurt, my body hurts, my back hurts, my eyes are burning. I am sleep deprived. It’s exhausting to cry so much. If you did ask me how I am doing, don’t feel bad. I would have asked the exact same question before going through this. If you tell me you are sorry, I appreciate it. I am blessed by your kindness and support and prayers.

There is an elephant in the room, in any room I am in right now. The elephant is Maya. She will be with me always, but right now it’s a huge elephant I can’t ignore. I can pretend it’s not there; I can order toys for my sons, make a photo book because I have a free code, go to the store because they have a sale, but any moment that elephant can become front and center and I may cry. Not because of something you said or did, just because I am in pain. If you hug me, I appreciate it, I really do, but I may still cry. I want to talk about my daughter. I want to talk about how she was born, and how she died. I want to talk about how she looked, so tiny and perfect, and wonderfully made. I want to show people her picture. I want to share her birth story. I want to buy a locket so I can have her picture close to my heart. I want to hold her and never let go. I want to stop crying. I wish I knew her eye color. Linus thinks she had green eyes, which is very unlikely. He thinks we should have named her Wild Styles, like the girl from the Lego Movie. I want to finish her nursery. I want to never open the door to her room again. I don’t want to talk about her. I just want to ignore and deny this ever happened. I don’t want anybody to ever see her photos. I want 2015 to get here, to see if time really heals, because I can’t imagine. I hope time will heal. I want to rewind time and go back to March 18th and be happy and pregnant. If you ask me what I did last weekend, I might answer: “I ordered my daughter’s urn.” You don’t want to hear that answer. It’s not fair to you. I am blessed by wonderful nurses and a wonderful midwife. My midwife’s 9 year old son died last year. I can’t even fathom the pain she must be going through. I want to be there for my boys, every moment of the day. I want to spoil them. I want to buy legos for them. I want to put my everything into them, but I still have to be their mother, who disciplines them and tells them no when they ask for a second dessert, or if they misbehave. I am so blessed having two healthy boys. I am worried about my older son. He has wet his bed two nights in a row. He has been completely potty trained since age 3, including night time. I don’t know if it’s related to his baby sister dying, or staying up late playing with his legos. I am worried about my younger son. He doesn’t understand the permanence of death. He started bawling yesterday. He asked when his baby sister was coming home. I told him that she is not coming, and he just started crying. It broke my heart. I want to be strong for them, but also vulnerable for them.

They both say we can have another baby girl. It’s okay for them to say that. It helps them. It’s not okay for adults to say that to me. I am so blessed having my husband who is walking this journey with me. I wish I could help him more in his grief. I want my friends to ask me to go to the park for a playdate with the boys, but I think they are scared, because they realize I am not good company right now. I can’t participate in small talk. I am not fun to be around. I want to stay home and close the door and watch TV with the boys all day long. I am so blessed having a small group who cares for us. I dread checking the mail, because there may be another condolence letter. But I love reading every one of them, even if they make me cry. It’s not okay to tell me “it wasn’t meant to be.” What does that mean? I am blessed by my son’s wonderful preschool and the teachers there. They have been so kind. My house is a mess. But who cares if there are crumbs on the kitchen floor. I am blessed by wonderful co-workers who are willing to jump in and cover my class. I dread going back to school in a few weeks. What will I tell my students? I would love to get my hair cut. I have been meaning to get it cut for weeks now. But I can’t imagine making small talk with the hair dresser. I am feeding the kids sandwiches or chicken nuggets every day. And that’s okay for now. I would love it if people brought us food. But I am scared. If they get here, and my husband is not home, and they are kind to me, I will cry. If you ring the door bell, I may not answer. If you call, I may not answer. If you text or email, I may or may not answer. I am blessed. And I am in unbearable pain.

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5 (100%) 2 votes

The Beginning of Her Story

Told by: Kelly

I’m 37. I have four living children ages 10, 8, 6, and 3.

All of their pregnancies/deliveries were peaceful and uneventful for the most part. We had no reason to believe that our 5th baby would be any different. In fact, my 5th pregnancy was so normal, it drew no special attention at any point along the way.

I was 40 weeks and 6 days pregnant when I finally went into labor. I had been in labor for almost 7 hours when we started losing our baby’s heart beat, for no apparent reason. I was rushed to the OR for an emergency C-section, but was ultimately allowed to delivery her normally under enormous pressure to “get it done now!” I had her out in just minutes. But I wasn’t quick enough.

Our sweet, perfect Hazel was born February 4th 2014 at 3:49 am in the OR room, and handed directly to the neonatology team. I never heard her cry. I never got to look in her eyes. I never cradled her new, naked body next to my chest. I could only watch from my gurney where I was being stitched up as the team pumped her little chest and began to intubate.

My husband followed Hazel up to the NICU where they continued the process of trying to resuscitate her. I was taken to my room to deal with heavy bleeding and intense shaking. At this point I wasn’t terribly worried. I knew the doctors had it under control and it would just be a matter of time before I was nursing my baby and wrapping her in pink. Right? Two hours passed. The nurses finally agreed to let me be wheeled up to NICU to see my Hazel. I won’t go into all the details of what it was like to see my baby covered in tubes, wires, sensors. Nor will I bore you with all the medical details. But I was told that her brain was already very oxygen starved and she was experiencing brain malfunction. She would need to be transferred to another hospital to receive cold cap therapy.

The transfer team took hours to come.

She was finally moved about 8 am. I was told I could not go with her because of my heavy bleeding. But the doctor agreed that if my bleeding was under control by lunch time, I could be discharged at go see her then. In the mean time, I began to pump, hoping that I could at least take a little bottle to my baby and let her drink some of that liquid gold. Around 9:45 I received a visit from the neonatologist, letting me know that Hazel was “not responding well” to treatment.

Apparently that is code for “Your baby is dying and if you want to see her you better get going.” I made them yank the IVs out of my arm. I dressed, grabbed my bag and left the hospital with a trail of nurses waving paperwork at me and telling me to get in a wheel chair. The milk I had pumped was left in the fridge in my room.

I waited for what seemed ages out on the curb for my ride to come get me and take me to Hazel. All the while, I cried to Heaven “Save my baby! Save my baby. Only you can save my baby. Hear me, God! Save my baby!” The 25 minute drive to the hospital was eternal. I didn’t move a muscle or say a word. I sat tense, but still believing that my baby would be ok and I’d get to take her home before long. I was still confident that someday I’d look back on this day, with my sweet Hazel in arms, and tell her survival story.

Instead, I’m telling her death story.

When I got to the hospital, I raced as quickly as my aching stitches would allow down the maze of hallways to the little room where Hazel waited for me behind that tacky blue curtain. She was different. One eye was shut. The other was open just a slit. She was totally motionless except for the gentle rise and fall of her ventilated chest. I saw what I assumed to be the “cold cap” we had sent her here to receive. It sat next to her on the bed, unused. A doctor came near. I almost screamed, “where’s the cold cap!! Isn’t that why she’s here??”

Very bluntly he laid it all out: it wouldn’t help now. It was too late. She had no more neurological activity.

Her eyes were fixed and dilated. “I’m sorry,” he said. “So we’re just going to let her go?!” I demanded. Apparently, we were.

I saw it in my husband’s eyes. At that moment I had to accept what was happening, although I’m sure I was not really comprehending the full implications of Hazel’s condition. Her heart was barely beating, but she was still there. Wasn’t there a glimmer of hope? No. Not even a glimmer. I was going to lose her. So I decided that our last minutes together would be as peaceful as I could make them. I asked if I could put my arm under her tiny limp head. The nurses agreed, and actually moved her off the table, tubes and all, into my arms where I sat waiting in a large, stiff rocking chair. I nestled her as best I could around all of the tubes and wires. Soon a monitor started beeping. My husband and I ignored it. We were too locked on Hazel’s sweet face to care. But a nurse came in and noticed that the heart beat monitor had flat lined. She used her stethoscope to find a pulse. “I don’t hear one.” she said too calmly, too flatly, too coldly.

The doctor came in. He didn’t find one either. Time of death: 12:09 pm.

My baby died in my arms after just 8 hours and 21 minutes of physical agony in this world. Minutes after her passing, our children arrived. They had just missed seeing their little sister alive. As their mother, I had the duty of delivering the sad news as gently as I could, and with as much dignity as I could muster. I know that angels bore me up in that moment. I never dreamed I would have to deliver such devastating, soul crushing news to my own children.

They each got a turn to hold her, kiss her, and say a good bye. My oldest daughter brought a hat she had just finished knitting for Hazel. We put it on her. Our children left, and we continued to hold Hazel for hours. Funny, I had just delivered a baby, and we had not eaten anything all day long. Yet even as evening came on, I felt no hunger. Only emptiness.

Time wore on. If I could have, I would have stopped time so that I could spend endless hours holding my little one. But I knew I had to leave the dead to go care for the living. My children at home were hurting and they needed me. So we began the solemn, heart wrenching process of giving Hazel her first and only bath. When she was clean, I dressed her in a white gown that a social worker gave to us in a plastic bag marked “Bereavement kit: girl”. So now I was a case for social workers. I was angry at myself for leaving my hospital bag in my ride’s car. It contained all the things I wanted to put on Hazel in that moment: the blanket, the outfit, the cute socks, the hair bow. She would never wear any of it. Instead, she was wearing this donated “bereavement kit”. After I had dressed her in the white gown, her umbilical cord began to bleed all over and we had to take the bereavement kit off.

The nurse spent quite some time hunting down an outfit that would fit my 8 lb 15 oz., 21.5 inch baby. Apparently the NICU is only used to dressing premies, not large, chubby, full term babies with massive heads of hair.

They stuffed my baby into a too-small, shabby, red and white outfit. I smoothed her hair once more, laid the donated pink, crocheted blanket on her, kissed my last kiss and left my baby behind. That is not the end of Hazel’s story. It really is the beginning. But the rest I cannot tell you until I meet her again in that other world where there are no dead babies or heart-broken mothers.

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My Sleeping Beauty

Told by: Kelly

I’m 37. I have four living children ages 10, 8, 6, and 3. All of their pregnancies/deliveries were peaceful and uneventful for the most part. We had no reason to believe that our 5th baby would be any different. In fact, my 5th pregnancy was so normal, it drew no special attention at any point along the way.

I was 40 weeks and 6 days pregnant when I finally went into labor. I had been in labor for almost 7 hours when we started losing our baby’s heart beat, for no apparent reason. I was rushed to the OR for an emergency C-section, but was ultimately allowed to delivery her normally under enormous pressure to “get it done now!” I had her out in just minutes. But I wasn’t quick enough.

Our sweet, perfect Hazel was born February 4th 2014 at 3:49 am in the OR room, and handed directly to the neonatology team. I never heard her cry. I never got to look in her eyes. I never cradled her new, naked body next to my chest. I could only watch from my gurney where I was being stitched up as the team pumped her little chest and began to intubate.

My husband followed Hazel up to the NICU where they continued the process of trying to resuscitate her. I was taken to my room to deal with heavy bleeding and intense shaking. At this point I wasn’t terribly worried. I knew the doctors had it under control and it would just be a matter of time before I was nursing my baby and wrapping her in pink. Right? Two hours passed. The nurses finally agreed to let me be wheeled up to NICU to see my Hazel.

I won’t go into all the details of what it was like to see my baby covered in tubes, wires, sensors. Nor will I bore you with all the medical details. But I was told that her brain was already very oxygen starved and she was experiencing brain malfunction. She would need to be transferred to another hospital to receive cold cap therapy. The transfer team took hours to come. She was finally moved about 8 am. I was told I could not go with her because of my heavy bleeding. But the doctor agreed that if my bleeding was under control by lunch time, I could be discharged at go see her then.

In the mean time, I began to pump, hoping that I could at least take a little bottle to my baby and let her drink some of that liquid gold. Around 9:45 I received a visit from the neonatologist, letting me know that Hazel was “not responding well” to treatment.

Apparently that is code for “Your baby is dying and if you want to see her you better get going.” I made them yank the IVs out of my arm. I dressed, grabbed my bag and left the hospital with a trail of nurses waving paperwork at me and telling me to get in a wheel chair. The milk I had pumped was left in the fridge in my room. I waited for what seemed ages out on the curb for my ride to come get me and take me to Hazel.

All the while, I cried to Heaven

“Save my baby! Save my baby. Only you can save my baby. Hear me, God! Save my baby!”

The 25 minute drive to the hospital was eternal. I didn’t move a muscle or say a word. I sat tense, but still believing that my baby would be ok and I’d get to take her home before long. I was still confident that someday I’d look back on this day, with my sweet Hazel in arms, and tell her survival story. Instead, I’m telling her death story. When I got to the hospital, I raced as quickly as my aching stitches would allow down the maze of hallways to the little room where Hazel waited for me behind that tacky blue curtain. She was different. One eye was shut. The other was open just a slit. She was totally motionless except for the gentle rise and fall of her ventilated chest. I saw what I assumed to be the “cold cap” we had sent her here to receive. It sat next to her on the bed, unused.

A doctor came near. I almost screamed, “where’s the cold cap!! Isn’t that why she’s here??”

Very bluntly he laid it all out: it wouldn’t help now. It was too late. She had no more neurological activity. Her eyes were fixed and dilated. “I’m sorry,” he said. “So we’re just going to let her go?!” I demanded. Apparently, we were. I saw it in my husband’s eyes. At that moment I had to accept what was happening, although I’m sure I was not really comprehending the full implications of Hazel’s condition. Her heart was barely beating, but she was still there. Wasn’t there a glimmer of hope? No. Not even a glimmer. I was going to lose her. So I decided that our last minutes together would be as peaceful as I could make them. I asked if I could put my arm under her tiny limp head. The nurses agreed, and actually moved her off the table, tubes and all, into my arms where I sat waiting in a large, stiff rocking chair. I nestled her as best I could around all of the tubes and wires. Soon a monitor started beeping. My husband and I ignored it. We were too locked on Hazel’s sweet face to care. But a nurse came in and noticed that the heart beat monitor had flat lined. She used her stethoscope to find a pulse. “I don’t hear one.” she said too calmly, too flatly, too coldly.

The doctor came in. He didn’t find one either. Time of death: 12:09 pm. My baby died in my arms after just 8 hours and 21 minutes of physical agony in this world. Minutes after her passing, our children arrived. They had just missed seeing their little sister alive. As their mother, I had the duty of delivering the sad news as gently as I could, and with as much dignity as I could muster.

I know that angels bore me up in that moment. I never dreamed I would have to deliver such devastating, soul crushing news to my own children. They each got a turn to hold her, kiss her, and say a good bye. My oldest daughter brought a hat she had just finished knitting for Hazel. We put it on her. Our children left, and we continued to hold Hazel for hours. Funny, I had just delivered a baby, and we had not eaten anything all day long. Yet even as evening came on, I felt no hunger. Only emptiness. Time wore on. If I could have, I would have stopped time so that I could spend endless hours holding my little one. But I knew I had to leave the dead to go care for the living. My children at home were hurting and they needed me. So we began the solemn, heart wrenching process of giving Hazel her first and only bath.

When she was clean, I dressed her in a white gown that a social worker gave to us in a plastic bag marked “Bereavement kit: girl”.

So now I was a case for social workers. I was angry at myself for leaving my hospital bag in my ride’s car. It contained all the things I wanted to put on Hazel in that moment: the blanket, the outfit, the cute socks, the hair bow. She would never wear any of it. Instead, she was wearing this donated “bereavement kit”. After I had dressed her in the white gown, her umbilical cord began to bleed all over and we had to take the bereavement kit off. The nurse spent quite some time hunting down an outfit that would fit my 8 lb 15 oz., 21.5 inch baby. Apparently the NICU is only used to dressing premies, not large, chubby, full term babies with massive heads of hair. They stuffed my baby into a too-small, shabby, red and white outfit. I smoothed her hair once more, laid the donated pink, crocheted blanket on her, kissed my last kiss and left my baby behind.

That is not the end of Hazel’s story. It really is the beginning. But the rest I cannot tell you until I meet her again in that other world where there are no dead babies or heart-broken mothers.

H.J.A. born at 40 weeks 6 days. 8 pounds 15 ounces. 21.5 inches long. Only the angels know why you had to leave us.

H.J.A. born at 40 weeks 6 days. 8 pounds 15 ounces. 21.5 inches long. Only the angels know why you had to leave us.

5 (100%) 1 vote

He Would Be 21

Told by: Valerie

My baby boy, Fraser, was stillborn, at term, on a rainy night, May 20th 1992.

We never dreamed this would be the terrible outcome of my 4th pregnancy. How was l going to tell his siblings…who were so excited for him to come home? We came home without him and l never thought l would recover but gradually life came back to me again…and my husband and our 3 children…we learned to live without our boy….he would have been 21 this year …he is safe in our hearts…how l would love to see him just one time…but l will someday, l know that…

We love and miss you every day Fraser, til we meet again, our precious boy…sleep well ♥♥♥♥♥♥

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61 and 41 Years Later

Told by: Joyce

I will never forget the nurse who saw me pacing the floor the night that I had my full-term stillborn son on Oct. 28th, 1972.

She took me to a room and started to cry and said “I had a stillborn child 20 years ago…”

I think I was stunned because I stopped crying. I thought, 20 years ago!  

It is now 41 years later and I can fully understand her reaction. I happened upon this site through the book “I’ll love you forever“.  Both of my adopted children have been read this book over and over. To this day I’ll sing off with I’ll love you forever…..

I truly know what that means after 41 years and 60 years of living. I know all of you on this site will understand.

 

 

 

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Beckett’s Story

Told by: Jami

Babies aren’t supposed to die.  We did everything “right”.

 

We met, fell in love, had a big beautiful wedding, lovely home, great jobs, bright future, the perfect environment to bring a baby into. We had everything…and then we found out in 9 months we were going to have you! Our lives were full of so many good things, our hearts were full of joy and anticipation.

My husband Nick and I had planned to start our family in the summer of 2011. We got pregnant right away and were ecstatic just as quickly. As soon as I looked down at the two bright pink lines on the pregnancy test staring up at me, my heart was instantly in love with this little growing person inside of me. My pregnancy was perfect, flawless. My doctor often mentioned that I was “boring” because everything was so great. I was careful to take excellent care of myself and my little growing peanut.

40 weeks passed in the blink of an eye and I was feeling great as my due date rolled around; Friday, April 20, 2012. During a casual lunch on Friday the 20th, one of my co-workers said she was certain I’d go into labor that night. “You don’t look right”, she stated nonchalantly. I brushed her off, not wanting to get my hopes up. That was the last night I went to sleep with our hearts beating together.

My contractions started sometime in the middle of the night. I was awoken with more intense contractions about 3:30 am. Unsure of what to do, I walked. I tried a bath, I watched TV, I listened to music. Mostly I was just trying to rein in my excitement. You were coming and I was so anxious to meet you! Around 5:30 am my water broke while I tossed and turned on the couch in attempt to find a comfortable position to lie in. My immediate thought was, “I need to take a shower and get some dry clothes on.”, nevermind calling the hospital or feeling hurried. I was strangely calm and composed. Upon getting dressed my husband stirred and asked what I was doing. “My water broke about an hour ago…”, I said calmly. In a surge of panic he jumped up and rushed to me. I convinced him that there wasn’t a necessity for rushing and that he could go back to sleep while I called the hospital. With shaky hands I dialed the birth center. As expected, the nurse on the other end of the line urged me to come into the hospital immediately. We packed up the car and made the agonizing eight minute drive to the hospital, beaming with the thought that we would never step foot in our home again as just a family of two.

I was admitted to the triage area for monitoring. Poked, prodded, strapped down, and questioned, I laid there with my eyes screwed tight in attempt to control the growing contractions. Two back to back, I was helpless feeling as if I wasn’t going to get a break until this was all over. My only solace laid in the rhythmic beating of your heart on the monitor. Nick and I had plans to push through this birth without any pain medication for as long as I could bear, and I was desperately clinging to that plan. I was finally transferred to my birthing room at 10:30 am. Upon checking me, my wonderful angel of a nurse, Amalia, beamed when she discovered I was fully dilated. We agreed that I would start spontaneous pushing. I pushed, and pushed, and pushed some more. Exhausted, I kept picturing what your face would look like, the color of your eyes, whether you were a boy or girl. You were my motivation and I pushed, pushed, heartbeat, heartbeat, push, push, push. “You’re crowning”, said Amalia, “I need to call the doctor”. Nick lit up as he looked down at our baby’s head making its way out.

The following moments were a blur. The doctor rushed in with a concerned look. Oxygen was placed on my face. Nurses rushed in, doctors, more nurses, more panicked faces.

The doctor said something but I could only hear white noise. With the help of forceps, my son was pulled from my body. No breath, no heartbeat. Silence.

I looked at Nick. “Everything will be fine”, I assured him. I knew it wasn’t. Sad faces falling quickly all around the room. “We need to name him”, Nick said calmly. “Beckett, he looks like Beckett.” I nodded silently. The pediatric doctor came to me and Nick. She stated that they had done all they could, they were going to stop trying to resuscitate him. Just like that? Stop? The numbness set in.

Babies aren’t supposed to die. We did everything “right”.

We spend the day following Beckett’s 1:41 pm birth with him. I look back at photos from that day and gaze into my empty eyes. We couldn’t stand to see our son’s body stiffen and change color over the following hours, so we said our final goodbyes just before midnight that evening. I remember being so concerned about leaving him alone in the hospital room as we left. I swaddled him tight and gave him a final kiss. A final kiss until I see him in Heaven someday.

Minutes, hours, days, weeks. They were all a blur. People, flowers, cards, calls. I could care less. Nick and I came home to a cold and empty house, still a family of two. I was broken.

Nick and I opted for having an autopsy done on Beckett following his death. Every single excruciating day of the six weeks we waited for the results was torture. Nothing. There was no reason for his death. The autopsy was ruled “inconclusive” and gave me no peace, no closure. I have forced myself to stop torturing my mind with the “whys” and the “what ifs”. I have resolved that I will never know…

I was 28 years old. I’d lost my baby, my first and only child.

Losing Beckett has changed me, tested me, shaped me, forced me to grow. My marriage has been tested and proved to be a rock in my life. Beckett’s life and death will not be in vain. I cling to the belief that everything happens for a reason and one day I will have the privilege of being used to help someone else grieving a loss.

My angel Beckett James has been looking over us ever since he left this Earth on Saturday, April 21, 2012. He sent us his baby sister only six weeks after his death. Just two and a half months into my grieving process I discovered rather unexpectedly that I was expecting again. I cried, I laughed, I panicked, I worried. My pregnancy was littered with an array of rollercoaster emotions. Finally, on February 25, 2013, Adelaide Grace was brought into this world after eighteen months of pregnancy. I held my breath until I heard her first cry. Tears flowed and flowed out of me and I grieved the loss of Beckett and the cries from him I was brutally deprived of.

In my naiveness, I thought having a new baby would take away the hole in my heart from losing Beckett. My heart has joy from the beautiful life Nick and I have, but a piece of my heart will always be with Beckett in Heaven.

Someday I will see you again, son. Someday I will kiss those chubby cheeks and smile when you call me “mommy”. Until then, I long desperately for those moments.

“Heaven blew every trumpet and played every horn

on the wonderful, marvelous night you were born.” –Nancy Tillman

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Caroleeah & Sammy

Told by: Melanie

My 2 losses , 14 years ago I had a still born little girl, and last year I had a still born little boy.

Caroleeah and Sammy.

 

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