(This is a guest blog about Brian Christopher from his mother, Maria. Thank you for sharing this with us, Maria.)

My husband and I were Married August 12, 1995. At our one year anniversary we thought I was pregnant-I wasn’t but we decided it was time to start our family. It was not as easy as we had hoped. After 8 years of infertility drugs, procedures, surgeries, etc… I finally got pregnant on our last attempt at IVF. I had a perfect pregnancy. We were having a healthy baby boy.

On the morning of December 11, 2004, I had discomfort on my side. It turned into sharp pain. I called my “High Risk” Ob/GYN and he told me I was anxious about the pregnancy, take tylenol and lay down. Well the pain intensified. We called to tell him we were going to the hospital. After hours of them treating me for “pre term labor contractions”, they removed the monitor on my belly because I was 25 weeks and 4 days. They believed I didn’t need the monitor under 26 weeks. When the doctor came to do a sonogram, my world came crashing down when they told me my son had passed away. They told me I had a concealed Placental Abruption, not pre term labor. My son was suffering and there was nothing I could do to help him. Unfortunately, I never got to see him or hold him. My health deteriorated after 3 days of trying to induce labor to deliver my angel. I suffered every complication possible and spent the next 30 days in the hospital trying to survive. I should have and wanted to die, but on Christmas Eve I remember hearing my husband praying to our Angel “Brian Christopher” begging him to save his mommy’s life and that night my life was saved.

But my heart will forever be broken. No doctor can repair that part of me. It has been over 7 years and the pain is still so awful. I still sob when I imagine what he may look like now. Someday we will be together again.

(This is a guest blog by Carmelita about her daughter Elimy. Thank you for sharing this, Carmelita.)

My fiance Brent & I have been trying for the last 2 years to have children. Our 4th pregnancy was our silver lining in a dark cloud of 3 miscarriages prior to this. We had figured out that I needed to be on a blood thinner because when I become pregnant my blood thickens, giving the fetus less chance of survival. We passed 12 to 14 weeks just fine. Previous pregnancies had ended around that time, so we were very worried. After overcoming that hill we thought we’d be ok. They told us we were having a girl, we chose her name… Elimy. Not Emily, but Elimy… yes, it was different, but it felt so right. On April 15, 2012, my fiance & I decided to go out to his father’s farm for a visit. We arrived in the afternoon & as I slowly made my way out of the car I felt my water break. I was 22 weeks & a day, so I didn’t know that my water had broken nor did the thought cross my mind at that moment. I was a bit embarrassed & asked my fiance to grab my bag for me so I could change. We left a few hours later with another “wetting” incident happen before us leaving.

At about 3am I woke Brent up, contractions had started and I was scared. When we arrived at the hospital, they already had an idea of what was going on since we had been there a week before We had gone there because of some unusual bleeding that they concluded was nothing for us to be concerned about. The doctor there examined me, ran some tests. He looked at both of us & said that Elimy was coming but because I was only 22 weeks along, she wouldn’t make it. He apologized & I remember his face was so sad. I don’t know if it was reflecting the expression on mine or that he genuinely felt for us. She was born on April 16, 2012 at 7:55am. She weighed 15.2 ounces and was 10 1/2 inches long. She lived with us in our arms for 2 hours & 25 minutes. We couldn’t do anything to save her, they couldn’t do anything for her & we were left to mourn. I could sit here typing this, hating the world & the God I believe in, but it isn’t how I want to remember her. I want to believe that God has a plan for us, that the doctors & nurses did everything they could… that her existance, as short as it was, was real. That I gave birth to a live baby girl for the first time & that Brent held her till her last breath.

We had her cremated & held a memorial for her at a family member’s home. We received so many condolensces & heartfelt sympathies. She was loved so much by so many. It has been 14 days since we lost her. I count the days. Everyone says that it will be ok & that it will take time to get back to being myself. I am a different person now though, I am not going to let depression take me down. Elimy would not have wanted that for me. Brent & I have decided to try again, we are going to take extra precautions & we are keeping our faith strong. I want to tell you, yes you, the person reading this. I have felt your pain & I am here to say that it really will be ok. It may take time, but never let depression or sadness drag you down to where there is no coming back. There are people here that love you & need you. The babies we have lost would not want to see us fall down that dark hole. We love them & they love us. Keep their memories alive & live each day positive. They would want us to. Cada dia pienso en ti, mi niña. Every day I think of you, my little girl. I love you, Elimy.

This is our story. One of thousands, millions even. It is lonely now not having her growing inside me… I am sure that other woman know what I mean. I hope you decide to share my story because I want to be able to assure others that there still is hope. There is hope in everything, if you just have faith the size of a mustard seed. I thought I would drown in depression the first couple of days after losing Elimy. I fight every day to keep going. I have to do it for Elimy & my relationship. In her memory, I keep going one day at a time. I love my baby girl. Thank you for letting me share. Many hugs to you all.

- Carmelita De Los Reyes

(This is a guest blog by Terri about her daughter Aimee. Thank you for sharing this, Terri.)

I feel a bit out of place about sharing my story. It has been nearly 35 years since we lost Aimee. She was due December 19, 1977. She was born December 14, 1977… full term, beautiful, but stillborn.

I had known for several days something wasn’t right. Every day since November 30 she was less active… she used to do somersaults and get hiccups over and over again… until I woke up on December 4, feeling nothing. I knew immediately something was wrong with her. I phoned my doctor, and the nurse told me the baby was probably just getting ready for her big entrance into the world, not to worry. This was before ultrasounds and all of the wonderful tools the medical profession has now.

After a couple of hours, I decided to call the doctor again… and this time I lied. I told the nurse I had fallen on the ice and she told me to come in immediately. My sister and I went in and the doctor listened with his obstetrical stethoscope. After a minute he told me “your baby is dead”… very matter of factly, very cold. I ran screaming from the office. My sister called my husband at work… we cried together and mourned all night, not sleeping at all. The next morning, the doctor’s office called and said he had decided to let nature take it’s course and not induce labor. This wasn’t good enough for me. I couldn’t imagine going for days or weeks carrying this baby, knowing it was for nothing. Already at the store that evening, people had been asking me when I was due, and how wonderful it would be to have a little one for Christmas. I knew I just couldn’t do it.

The next morning I began to call obstetricians in the area, telling them my story. Of course, nobody wanted to accept me as a patient… until I got to a young doctor from the Middle East. My husband and I went to see him that afternoon and after examining me, he told me he would induce me the next morning. We met him at the hospital and I was admitted. Three days of pitocin and a lot of labor, my water finally broke and Aimee came into the world. In those days, people treated stillbirth like it was obscene. The nurse turned the mirror so I couldn’t see her birth… I demanded she turn it back. This was my child and I wanted to see her come into the world. My husband wasn’t allowed to be with me and when she was born, the doctor put her in a pan with the placenta. I demanded an isolette and got one… with a blanket. I refused to let these people treat my daughter with anything less than the utmost respect. And she was beautiful… loads of black hair which had begun turning white in the front… long fingers… chubby cheeks… all nine pounds, four ounces of her. I asked to hold her and finally my husband was allowed to come in and meet her. One nurse had wrapped her in a blanket and she looked like any other baby… like she was asleep. Later on that evening, the hospital asked us for permission to do an autopsy. We agreed… because we wanted to know what had happened to her. Unfortunately, the autopsy revealed nothing… the pathologist told us that as far as they were able to determine, she was a healthy, normal female… her death certificate stated cause of death as “unexplained”.

My dad was my savior at this time. My husband and I just were unable to cope with the loss… while I was in the hospital, my brothers packed up the nursery for us and put everything in the attic. My dad made the funeral arrangements and paid for everything… his gift to his grandchild. I was forever grateful to him for taking over when we were unable to. My doctor didn’t allow me to attend the funeral and kept me in the hospital until two days afterwards.

Ten months after our loss… I gave birth at thirty-three weeks to a baby boy, who miraculously survived and is now 34 years old. Five years later, I had another girl, who is 29. Last July, she gave me my first granddaughter… and named her in honor of her older sister.

Even though it has been so many years ago… not one single day goes by that I don’t think of Aimee. I can still remember what she looked like. I can still remember the first moment I laid eyes on her. And even though I have had other children and am a grandparent, it doesn’t take away the pain I feel when her birthday rolls around or when I look at my younger daughter, who looks exactly like she did. No one child can replace another… but she’s in heaven, with her grandpa, saving a seat for her mama and daddy. I am so thankful that the views on stillbirth have changed so dramatically over the years. I think about the way Aimee and I were treated and it still angers me. A stillbirth is not something to be hidden… parents have the right to openly grieve and talk about it… because losing a child is a tragedy… no matter how old that child is.

(This is a guest post from Milena who lost her son, Enzo, recently. Thanks for sharing this with us, Milena.)

It is so easy to say: you are young!!!, soon you will ‘get over it’!!!, You can always have more children!!! And it is even easier for most people to completely ignore the subject fearing a contagious effect. If you cry, you aren’t letting your child rest in peace. If you don’t cry then you don’t care about your child. If you get pregnant too soon then you are trying to replace him. If you don’t get pregnant then you will be forever attached to a memory; but the truth is…

It doesn’t matter if I’m young, he is mine.

It doesn’t matter if I continue my life, he will always be present.

It doesn’t matter if I can have more children, he is irreplaceable.

It doesn’t matter if you ignore me, thank you for letting me know the type of person you truly are.

It doesn’t matter if you don’t want to talk about him, I alone can remember him and talk about him everyday.

It doesn’t matter your fear of my pain, that means that I am still alive and that I still feel emotions of this crazy life.

It doesn’t matter how much people judge me or my way of living with this pain, each person lives a loss differently.

I am not a stranger to pain, loss, memories, grief… and because of that…

I HURT… I REMEMBER… I LOVE… and I EXIST. And because of those reasons, every day that I live I will demonstrate how alive I am, and how sensitive I am to pain because he WAS MY CHILD, IS MY CHILD, and WILL ALWAYS BE MY CHILD ♥

(This is a guest blog by Clarita’s mother. Thank you for sharing this.)

Clarita Guadalupe Concepcion Gamboa. Such a big name for such a tiny girl. I figured since she was so small she needed a big name.

I was 22 weeks along when we found out she had died in utero. It was the single most devastating thing that will ever happen to me. Looking at the ultrasound and seeing no movement, hearing no heartbeat. I don’t remember a lot after that except her face, her smell…I refused to let the nurse take her from me after the priest came to baptize her. They let us take her down to the morgue. Giving her up was the hardest thing.

I wanted to die that day. I visit her grave often still. It’s a way for me to take care of her, the daughter I always wanted. I had an almost impossible time accepting it. People would tell me it was “God’s will” or that “I could have another”. Why do people say things like that? Nothing anyone ever said gave me any comfort. All I wanted was my baby girl. It hurts everyday still and she passed away on February 20, 2007.

Losing a child this way is something that you never get over. I have talked to people that have lost a little one and everyone feels the same. That is what gives me the most comfort, knowing that I am not alone. And my little Clarita will never be forgotten. I think about her everyday. You learn to live with it, but the ache never goes away. I have to go on for my boys.

(This is a guest post from Ashley. Thanks for sharing this.)

Hello, my name is Ashley. My husband and I had a still born little boy in November 2010. I was 30 weeks and 4 days pregnant. All I can remember is that it was a Sunday. The pain of losing a child hurts so bad that I can’t bring myself to even remember what he looked like at times. Well, that was how I felt until I got pregnant again… Now i am 14 weeks pregnant and every ultrasound just reminds me what could have been with our first baby. Life will never be the same…

(This is a story from Lael about the loss of her son and the birth of her daughter. Thank you for sharing this, Lael.)

My husband sometimes uses it as an argument that I changed after I lost the baby. I did; I didn’t. I hope to think that I have carried the grief with grace, with beauty. I do know it has taken strength. I hope to know that the baby, the loss, the grief, has accomplished some purpose.

When you are the only one who is going to remember a baby no one else has ever met; it’s your job to remember. You count; you have your crazy dates.

September 11, 2002. I had left the perinatologist’s office after he met with me for 15 minutes, told me that our baby had something I never heard of; I had recently learned what a perinatologist was. There was a long list of causes of Potter’s Syndrome, he didn’t know the cause but he sure knew the result. The baby was at 20 weeks; I still thought the doctors could do something! Artificial amniotic fluid or something. I begged for a few days to reassess. I drove west on the 210 Freeway to work and tried to think happy thoughts not to upset the baby. I had just started to feel the baby kick. It wasn’t butterflies but the feeling of a road sign vibrating in the wind. There was a little more or less than 1 cm of amniotic fluid surrounding the baby. He couldn’t move; his lungs couldn’t develop; he’d never be able to breathe even if he had kidneys. I was morning sick every second but would saw off my right arm for things to be different.

It was up to me to answer the doctor. There was a choice, but not having counseling or having gone through anything near to childbirth, or understanding that a 20 week baby looks whole, understanding induction, or understanding anything, there was no choice really. I want my baby to live, but that’s not possible, so how can I cause him the least pain? I was thinking of him only still. Enter the world of a medical termination.

September 16, 2002. The day they stopped the baby’s heart. My husband was away on business, where we first met. I felt like I barely had the chance to tell him that the baby was dead, when he had to leave the phone. I didn’t know it would be like this. He had refused to try to feel the baby kick. I was the only one who knew this little life. The baby was hard. It was hard to move without pain because he was dead and hard.

September 18. My sister and I hiked up Ice House Canyon in the San Gabriel mountains. It was beautiful. We sat on boulders along a stream. A falcon swooped down and stood on tree branches above us, as we vowed one day to be together in the future with our kids. We each had two in this daydream. We each had a boy and girl; they we playing together in the water.

September 19, 2002. I was afraid that if I cried too much they wouldn’t give me anesthetic. They didn’t give me enough. I wanted to sleep for days- the black no dreaming or thinking sleep. Then the baby was gone. I took a few days off from work and then returned. A cubicle-mate asked if the morning sickness was better; he didn’t know; he cried. I felt bad when I caused grief for so many people. The news was bad; my face made people cry.

January 11, 2003. My birthday. I knew how important birthdays were for the first time.

January 31, 2003. The baby’s due date. I was sampling groundwater at Camp Pendleton. Mourning doves scattered in the woods. We drove to a convenience store to pick up some supplies before our lunch break, when I felt the nausea. I was pregnant. The new baby’s due date was September 16, 2003. Joy and fear.

Being pregnant so soon after the first loss, I felt there was a delay in grieving. It came after my daughter was born. I was bewildered that she was here in my arms on September 28. I was afraid she’d die.

Did I have any concept of how long “it would take”, this grieving thing? Did know that I wouldn’t really feel some completeness until May 2008? My son was born May 6, 2008. I never found out the sex of my first baby. The only ultrasound we could get was through his back; he couldn’t move. He was so different from my daughter that I began to believe it was a he. And I knew my daughter was a girl and my son was a boy. I just knew these things. I know so many women do not get to live their perceived dream of the future. They do not even get one baby in their arms. If I could change this for them I would.

What I do know is eventually al the happy things in your life start crowding out the sadness. The grief is not so fresh. It is there; it can get triggered in an instant. Maybe just having to go to a doctor’s office can cause tears. Maybe it is how pretty the sky is. Eventually, the waves of grief come a little less often. There are too many new memories and joy for it to stay around for long. It’s those dates that only you remember that are hard for you without anyone else nearby really knowing. We are here though. We understand, no matter how our losses have occurred.

Lael Feist ( 10 years of loss!)