September 4, 1995

So much is lost.

I used to walk through life so easily, hardly giving any thought to the next step I planned to take. Now I walk in fear. Afraid of what has happened to me, afraid of what may never happen again.

I not only lost a child. Though, that alone should be enough for anyone to endure. I lost my innocence - my belief that if I am good enough that bad things won't happen to me, at least not today. I lost a part of my future. When Madison died, all my hopes for her died too.

I find that today, much of my emptiness is filled with anger. I resent anyone who is continuing their walk through life free of the terror I have. Even my children. That hurts to say, but I find myself feeling anger towards them, too. Why did they turn out so perfect when Madison did not? I know that these feelings are illogical. Many people say that I am so lucky to have them. If that is true, then why was I so unlucky that I didn't get to have Madison?

I feel so unlucky, in fact, I truly believe that at any moment I could be struck down. If I were in a group of people and something were to happen to one of them, I'm convinced it would be me. It is as if all bets are off between me and God. I am so shocked that this could happen to me. Now I live with the realization that it could happen again, to anyone at any time. I feel so vulnerable, so lost.

So much of my identity has been connected to motherhood. I was so proud that I had two perfect pregnancies and two perfect babies, and I hardly had to think about it. I did things completely different than anyone in my family. I was so proud to have gained their respect.

I even found my future career through my children. I loved helping moms breastfeed their babies. It fit so perfectly. I eventually wanted to become a nurse, then maybe a midwife. I knew that this connection I felt with mothers and babies was a wonderful thing for me, so fulfilling. I was grateful that my children led me down this path.

Now, where am I? I thought I was just experiencing another wonderful pregnancy, looking forward to having a baby , going through all the wonderful things that come with having another child, only easier this time. There would be no questions about whether she should sleep with us, nurse on demand, or go with us to hockey games.

Instead, I got to experience the death of my child, of my soul. We received the speed course in finding a cemetery plot, planning a funeral, and living with the loss of a baby. I'm only 28 years old, I should not have to know how to bury one of my children!

Now, I sit here lost, afraid to do or feel anything. My plans for the next few years were set and I was secure. I don't know what to do. Logic tells me to take my time. I know that I am in no condition to be making major decisions about my life, I can barely make my own breakfast. But, at the same time, I wish I had something to plan for, something to look forward to. Of course, the something I want most of all is not here, and never will be.

The thought of another baby has entered my mind and that makes me feel guilty. How could I think I could replace Madison (which is what it feels like). When I get past that feeling, I think about the fact that I will never have a "normal" pregnancy again. The thought of taking the chance that this could happen again paralyses me. Also, the thought that I may never have another baby fills me with sadness. I was not ready to end this part of my life, and I still am not. How would I ever have the strength to make it through months of fear? Being afraid to tell anyone I'm pregnant because this could happen again? I feel so cheated!

I am also beginning to feel the need to find a reason that this happened. I know that this can be a bad thing. I am faced with the fact that I will probably never know. I keep wondering about that immunoglobin shot I had when I was only 19 days pregnant. ( I have learned that these defects occur within the first 28 days of pregnancy.) I am also wondering about that strange sickness Jensen had around the same time. I thought it may have been Fifth's disease and I know that it can cause miscarriage in the first trimester, but I don't know about birth defects. These are things I think I want to research. I sense that some people wish I wouldn't. They believe I am just chasing my tail. Am I? I'm not sure. I guess I feel like if I could find a reason, that I could have some control over this happening again. I also know that I may bring myself alot of guilt if I find that I may have unknowingly participated in it happening to Madison.

So, the protective walls that were around me are now gone. I feel like I am an open wound, a raw nerve. As tremendous as my pain is, I wallow in it some. It keeps me close to her. I have no memories of her hugs or kisses to keep me close. I mostly have only the pain of her loss. Time (which many people love to tell me "will heal") seems to be my greatest enemy. It takes me farther away from her, from her short life with me. It dulls my memories and I feel as though people will begin to forget her.

I will never forget. We went to see her yesterday, one week since we laid her to rest next to her great-grandmom, Anna. I felt so out of place, the only "young" people there. I watched an old man walk from grave to grave in deep thought. He said hi to me as I walked past and I could see his pain. I thought, this will be me. One day I will be old and I will be here walking through the graves and still crying over the loss of my daughter. Only then, maybe, I will walk not in fear, but in peace. . . . . .

September 8, 1995

Tomorrow I will light a candle for Madison. I may even go up to see her, too. It has been two weeks since her birth. Sometimes it seems as if it has been an eternity. I am happy to have the memories of her. I have been trying to think of ways to keep those memories alive to me and everyone else. It is not an easy task. I am so afraid that people will begin to forget her.

We are hoping to get a marker for her soon. I had thought that we'd do that this week, but it has been put off. It is okay, though. I sort of have something to look forward to doing for her. I know that there will come a time when there will be nothing left to do but live without her.

I think of her constantly. I think of who she was and who she may have been. I really feel that I know her so well. I know that had she been able to come and live with us that she would have been an experience! Just from seeing her, I saw that she was a strong spirit. That is hard to explain. Bill and I noticed that her bottom lip was stuck out like she had something important to say. I wish I could let her know that we heard her. We heard her in our hearts.

I can't describe how much I miss her. I wonder how this feeling will change through time. Will we learn to live with it? I know we must, but it is hard. When I see little girls I think of what she may have looked like. Would she have been dark eyed with dark curls like I picture her? Would she have liked to play with baby dolls or trucks?

I'm feeling more lonely now. People are slipping away from me. Only the ones who were in our close circle in the beginning are still around. I feel like I have to reach out and pull people to me. That is difficult to do. I wonder if they want to be here with me, do I have the right to pull them in to my pain? The people who call me now seem surprized by me. I don't cry in front of them much. I can talk about her endlessly and even laugh some. They don't know how to take me. I think they expect me to be a complete emotional wreck when I talk of her. That bothers me. They don't know my life when they go home. They don't know what I'm like in the dark.

Nighttime is still hard. All my defenses drop then. I wonder if it is the exaustion from trying to be "normal" and function all day. I think it is more because of the quiet hours when I find myself drawn to think about her, and mourn her. I remember when I was in a difficult part of my labor. It was so dark. The light had bothered me, so they just turned on the bathroom light in my room. I remember looking down and is seemed as though a light was just shining on my body. When my water broke and the pain was gone, I didn't notice the light anymore. I wonder if it was a light shining from some other place, a path for her to follow home.

These thoughts drift in and out of my mind continuously, usually when I least expect it. Sometimes they are a blessing, sometimes not. My mind tortures me some, too. When I am doing something that I "enjoy", thoughts creep into my mind - thoughts that make me feel guilty. How can I "enjoy" anything? What gives me the right to be happy when my baby is gone?

September 13, 1995

I went to see Madison on Sunday, the first time by myself. I went and sat with her for a while. I took the dead flowers off her grave (I still have a problem with that) and spread some rose petals. We put an angel cherub on her grave until we can get the marker. The girls left two dimes in the angel's lap and our neighbors left a coin with Saint Jude on it and a card with the "Footprints" poem. It is nice to see the things there. I looked at and read all of them. I talked to her for a while, that is not an easy thing for me to do for some reason. I think that it feels strange to talk to her out loud because I have always talked to her in my mind, sort of as a prayer.

These two old ladies, one with a cane, came walking down the hill. I thought to myself, hoping, that they would probably take a wide gerth to avoid walking too close to me. They didn't. When they got closer, one of them said, "Is that your baby there?" (I pictured her looking at her granddaughter and saying, "Did you break your doll, sweetheart?") I said yes and she said, "How old was she?" I told her she was stillborn and that her name was Madison. She said, "I only know one other little girl named Madison. It is a pretty name. I'm so sorry to hear about that." She kept walking down the hill. I fell apart. I was crying and trying to hide my face from them, when I noticed another woman who had practically walked all the way to me. I knew she had seen me. She stopped and asked me the same questions again. I thought, "Why is this happening?!" After she said how sorry she was and was starting to walk down the hill, she turned and said, "That's really terrible. I lost one too like that. I'm real sorry." I thought that must be why this happened. When I felt most alone in my sorrow, I realized that I was not.

September 24, 1997

I talked with a friend, Kathy, who had a stillborn daughter at term in 1982 named Erin. This was after an ectopic pregnancy, where she lost a tube, a miscarriage, and fertility treatments. Her story really touched me. She now has three healthy children. It is good for people like us to be around survivors. We need to see people who have been there and been able to go on.

She said something to me. We were talking about Madison's spirit. She said, "She's still with you, you know." I knew that, but I had been struggling with that very subject recently. She said, "I felt Erin's spirit. It changed as time went on. At first, she was a baby in my mind. Then, she evolved and became more like my sister. Then, I eventually saw her as an equal, an amazing human spirit just like me." I have thought about that so much. I can see exactly what she is saying, though I have never thought about it before. To me, Madison is still a baby spirit, but at the same time she is an "old soul" with more wisdom and experience than I could ever imagine. I think I will like to see her spirit evolve in my mind, just as I would like to have seen her grow up.

We also had a funny talk about this "society" we are a part of. She said, "You understand things now your would have never known because of what has happened to you." I said, "I know, I respect that, but I wish I could tell God "ENOUGH, ALREADY! I get the picture now. You do not need to broaden me anymore with these kinds of experiences!" I wonder if now I will have to lose a limb, so that I can understand what it is like for people who lose limbs. Where will it end?"

November 11, 1995

Traci's baby was born about an hour and a half ago, healthy. I am overwhelmed with a sense of relief. It is strange to feel such relief at a healthy baby. I had always taken that for granted - before Madison. Now I cherish it, and revel in the miracle it is.

It stormed last night. I couldn't sleep well. I kept waking up hearing the wind beat against the house. I kept hearing the twigs scratch our windows and it sounded like screams - very eerie. Madison's angel cherub has turned completely around now, its back to me. Maybe this should freak me out, but instead I can feel the power of it all.

I still feel dulled. That is the only word I can find to describe it. The only feeling that I have that is pure is the pain. Even the fleeting moments of 'happiness' feel forced and artificial. I can smile and laugh, but it is like I am watching someone else do it. Like it is not really me.

Things are changing, though. I am beginning to raise my head and look into the future. I am finding my children again and beginning to reconnect with my husband. I am finding the sustaining power in the little things that were lost to me for so long - reading books to my children, peaceful moments with Bill. Not everything is a struggle as it once was. The simplification of my life has taught me what is truly important to me. I am trying to listen to that lesson, and live it.

One question that was sent to me through a book is "Now that this has happened to you, what are you going to do with it?" A good question, I think. I already know the answer. I am going to help other families who are going through this. It is the legacy of Madison's life. As painful as it may be, I feel compelled to do it. I know that it will be important to find a place within myself that is strong enough not to be sent into a downward spiral everytime the issue comes up. That is what will be the most difficult, I know. I have to learn how to help other people without destroying myself - a separation of experiences. It will take time, I think. But, I am going to do what I can.

In the meantime . . . I think I will just ride out the storm and look forward to the rainbow.

November 26, 1995

Three months since Madison. It's 2:00am and I can't sleep. I am at my mother's house on a lake. I decide to sneak outside and sit on the dock. I search in the dark for my clothes. I can't turn on the light - don't want to wake up the girls. I finally find everything including my cassette player with headphones and my new Natalie Merchant tape. I go out, it is freezing. The air is crisp, clean. The stars are so bright. I can see Orion and the Big Dipper, my favorites. I take a chair off the porch and walk to the dock. I can hear dogs barking, everything else is still. I put on my headphones and lean back in the chair so I can look up at the stars and I begin to weep. I think that at this moment all of the answers I am looking for should just pour into my mind, but there is nothing. I look up and cry. I cry for everything I have lost. I am shivering in the cold. I think I should move around, so I jump off the dock into the sand and begin to pace. I am still listening to my music. I decide to write Madison's name in the sand. I remember when Bill and I went to the beach on our honeymoon and wrote our names in the sand and took pictures of it. We did the same thing when we took the girls to the beach for the first time - sort of a ritual. Madison will have her ritual, too. I write her name in big, crooked letters, slipping in the mud and laughing at myself. I begin walking around her name. Soon, I begin to dance. A thought of self-consciousness passes through my mind, quickly. I decide I don't care. I dance back and forth, each time adding a little something new. Changing beats and rhythms with the music. I feel exhilarated, alive. I am dancing for Madison, for my spirit. And I can feel her. I can feel her looking down at me from the stars, reflecting in the lights across the water, breathing her in with the mists. I see her footprints in the sand. We dance together - a dance of joy. I am in disbelief that I can feel this way now. And I think I got an answer after all. . .

August 26, 1997

Today I remember.

I go places my mind keeps from me. I smell the smells. I cry the tears. I remember you.

We brought you home from the hospital and laid you on our bed. Where you were conceived and dreamed about. I sat with you until it was time to go. Your daddy carried you through the house to each room, just as he would have any other child.

You rode on my lap in the car. Your sisters wanted you in the back, but I wanted you close. We had the windows down and the wind was blowing through me. Like a hollow shell.

I was the last out of the car, holding you in my arms. All eyes were watching me as I carried you up the hill. I laid you on the blanket. Clouds begin forming and it starts to rain. Tears of joy from heaven. I stand in the rain and feel it run down my body. I add my tears to the rain.

Driving home. It's over now. And what is in the sky? The most beautiful rainbow I've ever seen. Your spirit set free, flying over the clouds. Finally at peace. . .

@}-}--- Happy Birthday, Madison ---{-{@

Love, Mommy

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