Grief is a sneaky bitch. I'll be minding my own business and there it is staring at me, taking my breath away and threatening to bring me to my knees. It's unfair and does not discriminate. It does not care where I am or whose company I keep. It manifests in so many unpredictable ways it's impossible to brace yourself fully. I've gotten really good at crying publicly without apology. I like to tell people I am going to cry before I do it so they can brace themselves, fully.

I've read the seven, well-defined, linear stages of grief. My personality continues to partner with my new normal and they like to check things off of lists. The numbers are irrelevant because there is no order. Grief is messy. It comes in waves.

​             I will not hide my grief as I did not hide my love. {Lindsey M. Henke}

I hold strong to this affirmation. I will not hide because hiding indicates fear or shame. Grief is not something to solve but incorporate into your new path as it is life long. Just as my love for my child. Whoever said 'time heals all wounds' did not lose their child. It will scar, the pain lessens but it will not heal and putting such an expectation upon yourself is unnecessary. Despite the challenge, I give myself permission to grieve. I let it out and name it. 
 
The waves come less frequently as I continue to embrace my grief. My choice to grieve breeds my choice to love. My daughter gave me the gift of knowing a true, pure and fierce love. I will choose to make it tangible in that I continue to love and respect myself. I choose to love and encourage a whole marriage. I choose to love when it is difficult.

So hug someone. And also sorry Mom for the swear word, it was warranted.

​Rest easy Pipsqueak.

Yesterday around 11 a.m., I received a phone call asking me to be a part of a parent panel for the Star Legacy Foundation, dedicated to stillbirth research and education. The foundation was hosting a retreat in Toana, VA and their goal is to educate health care professionals on stillbirth. The audience would comprise of mostly labor and delivery nurses. They needed me to be there at 5 p.m. A family had an unavoidable event leaving them unable to attend and a bereavement group counselor referred me {see can't stop talking in groups, see internet ramblings}. In a knee-jerk reaction, I agreed. I thought how lovely a room full of strangers is going to let me talk for an undetermined amount of time about my beautiful child. And they can't leave. Then I hung up and had a panic attack in my car. How am I going to stand up exactly ten weeks to the day I gave birth, share my story and answer questions? I'm going to ugly cry. I'm going to faint. More panic. Then I knew I'd do it for Piper. I had vowed to live my life and celebrate hers. I showered, dressed and debated mascara.

​Upon my arrival, I was introduced to two more brave families on the panel. I fought waves of anxiety as we were escorted to the front of the room then introduced. I was so thankful there was a chair. I thought if I fainted from the seated position rather than the standing I was less likely to have a head injury.

First tears then the story. I told them I am the statistic. I am the 1 in 2,000. [To clarify 1 in 160 births do not result in a living child but Piper's rare umbilical cord accident is seen in 1 out of 2,000]. The more I spoke the louder my heart sang. I hope I did her justice. I led them through my pregnancy and entire hospital stay. I fielded questions and answered them as frankly as possible. They thanked me but it is me who should thank them. This public forum was another therapeutic outlet to share my girl's short, beautiful story.

Parents experiencing perinatal loss need the opportunity to separate their child's birth experience from their death. There is already too much overlap. Birthing, holding and saying good-bye to our daughter has allowed me to begin my grief journey on sturdier ground. We encouraged the nursing communities to allow families time to mourn before making big decisions about what is to follow. To celebrate their child's life by making the only memories you'll have of your baby.

As I finished speaking, one nurse stood and told me I was the reason she was there. She had been the nurse to walk me teary-eyed in to labor and delivery the day my world stopped. She told me how we live in her heart. In by doing this, she handed me back a piece of mine.

​Rest easy Piper Kai.



​

I could hardly wait for Beau to go to the gym tonight so I could participate in my 'ritual'. Rituals are my way of organized grieving. My counselor used this term to describe it one time and I held on to it. You see, I like order and control. And who doesn't. I try to take a few moments or hours to allow myself to feel all the feels. Time to reflect, write or cry. I woke up today knowing it was going to be one of those days. A pajama and cookie dough kind-of day.

My rituals vary from day to day but the one I needed tonight was some time in her nursery.I prefer to participate in this alone. Not that I feel the need to hide it but because it's my time. I carefully take out all her tiny, newborn clothes and refold them in her drawers. I read her books and rock in her chair. I hold her hat from the hospital. And I lean in to the grief. Lean hard.

​Pink and gray. That beautiful nursery. It smells like a baby should live in there because Lolly lovingly washed all of her clothes in the special baby detergent. There are diapers in the drawers. The crib bedding that took me months to pick out. The gray walls and the soft pink curtains. There's the swing that I took out of the box and left on the floor because I was too excited {then too pregnant to assemble}. Her furniture that Beau and I put together the day we got it. There are also things that should not live in there. Her car seat, bottles and high chair are all stacked in a corner. Her bathtub and rubber ducky live in her closet. My brothers, Ethan and Arin, and our dear friend Jason came to our house before we returned without Piper and put all of the things strewn about the house in her room.

​Her nursery houses my most prized possession. Her memory box the hospital put together for us. You ever play that game in your head. If my house caught on fire what would I grab? Beau and Karma Jane go without saying. But the way I sleep they would have to grab me. But I'd choose that box. In that purple box, lives our daughter's ultrasound photos, hospital bracelet and her hand and foot prints.

​I can understand the horror that accompanies the thought process of 'why'. Why would I go in there? Doesn't it hurt? Sometimes I feel like putting all of her things on the curb because the thought of her never using them is almost unbearable. But most the time, I crave that nursery, to feel close to her. And I know there will come a day, hopefully, that I will need to prepare that room for subsequent children. Or I will feel strong enough to move some of things. But not today. Today I lean in.

​Today the choice is to grieve my daughter. Fully and properly.

​Rest easy Piper Kai.

In the days and weeks following Piper's death I marched in a slow, painful way through the most basics; eating, showering and breathing.  I'm still on this pilgrimage but am gaining strength. My husband, Beau, holds me up while he grieves in his own, quiet, strong way. Our families have surrounded us with loving support while I scream the 'whys' to the universe. My sister friends have loved from near and far. Food, flowers and condolences continue to arrive. I was numb. And then there was the pain.

​I'll never be able to thank my village for pointing me in the right direction. This post won't even touch the gratitude I hold for my tribe. There is no right way to grieve but for me not being alone is key. In the beginning, I had several round the clock 'babysitters' who offered numerous distractions and didn't wince when I cried. The silence leaves too much room for sadness. 

Therapy comes in many forms. Eating all the cookie dough, running, sitting at the beach and snuggling my baby niece. I take every group exercise there is to offer at the YMCA. I  hide the mom bod in the back of the room and Zumba through my tears. I journal or watch an entire season on Netflix. Although, I do have a wonderful grief counselor. She is my outside resource, my unbiased confidant. I've tried some group meetings but they aren't really for me. The therapist in me cannot, not participate in providing unsolicited advice.

People, although well meaning, say "I can't believe your here {gym, hurling matches, grocery store, bank}". To you I reply, "I can't either". But the alternative is sitting at home in my pajamas, crying until Beau gets off work. Not that this doesn't happen. I still ugly cry {the kind where your face squishes up} almost every time I see someone for the first time after Pipe's death. My grief does not make me uncomfortable. I think you must lean in to it for awhile.  It's taken me these few months to realize it is seeing the pain in other's that is difficult. Grandparents without a grandchild; Uncles and Aunts without their niece; Our friends without another nugget running around. The list goes on and it's not a short one. But their pain means she mattered to them. She was hoped for and imagined and she is loved. Her short existence was acknowledged by so many.  Our tribe grows daily.

So here I am putting one foot in front of the other. But I am not alone.

​Rest easy Piper Kai.

This is selfish. It's for me and my pain. I hope it helps to know another mother's journey to this new normal. The new normal is a phrase I hear a lot in the world of mom's who have experienced loss. It's a patient, effortful practice to retrain your heart to beat.  My mantra to this new life is "Piper died but I am alive". Sometimes I whisper it to myself or scream it, depends on the moment. You can choose to exist or choose to live.

​In the first weeks after my Pipes died I obsessively googled. Statistics, personal accounts, anything to fill the loneliness of not taking home a baby from the hospital. I needed to know I wasn't alone and this pain​ would not in fact kill me. I needed to know it was survivable. So if you are here; I'm sorry. You must hurt or know someone who is hurting.

​Piper was planned for and conceived out of love. She was wished for and wanted. Following a happy, healthy and uncomplicated pregnancy my Piper Kai was born still on July 13th, 2016 at 912 a.m. Early the morning of July 11th our baby girl's heart stopped beating and so did mine. She was perfect. 6 lbs, 4 ounces and 20 inches long. She had blonde hair and her Daddy's nose. I held this perfect creature and memorized every inch of her. Breathed her in and kissed her face. Nana, Grandpa, Lolly, Pop, Uncle Ethan and Aunt Carly got to marvel and snuggle my Piper. Saying hello and goodbye all in a single day is the most painful, tragic thing a person should have to endure. She suffered a true knot of the umbilical cord. Which I'm told is very rare occurrence. It's more likely to be struck by lightning, twice.

​As I write this I am acutely aware of how tragic it is and was for my husband to watch me give birth to our daughter. Yes, give birth. There's a misconception that after your child passes, it's over. It's only the beginning. I was induced and delivered Piper. The process took roughly three days. One day I may feel strong enough to detail those days. As I wander around gathering pieces of my broken heart I've discovered that this was good. ​It was my last act of motherly love, bringing Piper in to this world as I had intended. She was weighed and measured. Hand and foot prints taken.

​I miss her and all of the hopes we had for her. I promise to live each day celebrating your life.

​Rest easy Piper Kai.

​