How to Help a Grieving Child

Remember when you found out you lost your baby?

Bring up that feeling for a moment.

Earth shattering.

Can’t breathe.

Crumbling to the core.

Broken.

Heartbroken.

Maybe you burst into tears. Maybe you went completely numb. Maybe you were angry at God. Maybe you were in complete denial.

Most likely you took time to process this horrendous moment. You probably sat in silence at some point trying to sort out your thoughts. Eventually maybe someone checked in on you and asked how you were doing.

Now…

Try to remember when you told your child their sibling wasn’t coming home.

Try to picture their face. 

Furrowed brow.

Confusion.

“What do you mean?” 

“Why?”

Overwhelmed.

Did your child start crying? Did they ask for clarification? Did their mood turn somber? Did their body language change? 

Maybe they were too young to understand. Maybe they had never experienced death before. Maybe they were stunned by the emotions they saw you display. Maybe they attempted humor to ease the tension you displayed.

Most likely you tried to answer any questions they had. You probably tried to explain loss. I’m guessing you may have hugged them, regardless of the reaction they had. Eventually the conversation transitioned to something else and you may have not checked in on their feelings like adults did with you.

This isn’t a guilt trip. This isn’t mom shaming. This is my experience. This is my reflection of my grieving children. 

I remember telling Emberli and Ava that their brother passed away. We were sitting on the couch in our living room. We had just gotten the twins to bed. Matt was home from work that night. Emberli was asking us what we were talking about earlier in the day with my mother in law. She knew we were having a private conversation and told her we would tell her tonight. 

How misleading were we? She most likely thought it was a surprise for her and Ava. I don’t think children routinely think of the worst case scenarios when looking forward to a conversation. Not like an adult at least. 

“Sometimes when someone is too perfect for Earth, God decides they need to come to be with him in heaven. Today God wanted Porter to be in heaven instead of here. I’m so sorry we won’t be having a baby brother anymore.”

Emberli’s face went from smiling ear to ear to blank. There was a confused stare and a furrowed brow. 

“What do you mean? Why?”

I had hoped that my vague explanation of where Porter went would be enough. Because to be honest, I didn’t want to say “Your brother died.” That was too morbid and too real. I was wrong though. She needed the realness just as much as I did.

“Porter’s heart stopped beating while in my tummy.”

Emberli’s eyes welled up with tears. You could see the flood of emotions building up in her as she processed that statement. I wonder what she was thinking. Was she thinking she couldn’t breathe? Was the sadness unbearable for her too?

“I’m so sorry. Porter isn’t coming home again.”

She buried her face in my chest. Sobbing. My 7 year old was sobbing at the loss of her brother. Again. As a reminder to those new to Porter’s story, it was just over a year ago when we had a similar conversation with the big girls. Emberli cried then too. Except at that point in time, we reassured her that we would have Porter one day. This time there was no one day. He was gone now forever. All we had was to say “We will see him in heaven.”

But Ava…

Sweet Ava Kate. 

Ava was only 3 years old. She knew of Porter. She likely did not remember the last time we lost him. She has never felt or seen the type of emotions we were displaying. She knew Porter was coming after Christmas. She knew he was in my tummy and he was her baby brother. Ava’s reaction was different.

“Sometimes when someone is too perfect for Earth, God decides they need to come to be with him in heaven. Today God wanted Porter to be in heaven instead of here. I’m so sorry we won’t be having a baby brother anymore.”

Ava’s face stayed smiling. She looked around at everyone’s face to get a read on how to react. She saw my face serious and sad. She saw Emberli’s face confused. She saw Matt’s face sad. Her smile faded. She watched Emberli cry. 

“So no more baby brother?”

“No baby. Porter went to be with Jesus in heaven.”

She laughed and shouted, “No more baby brother after Christmas! No more Porter after Christmas! Baby Porter’s in heaven!”

This was not somber or soft or sad. She said it in her silly Ava way. We could tell she was trying to evoke an emotion from us that she could understand. Ava understood happy, silly, giggly her made others smile and laugh. So of course, at 3, this was her processing.

She repeated this a few times. And each time, it felt like a knife being stabbed in my heart. The reality that my baby had died. Their brother had died. She was saying this over and over and it was real. This really was happening to us. Matt was able to quiet her down and stop the shouting. I’m sure he could see the pain in my eyes. 

Before more questions could be asked, we offered to put on a movie and we could all watch it together. This broke the tension and gave us a transition to something else, something not Porter. 

This was day one for the girls’ grieving. It didn’t end here. But I didn’t comfort them in their grief like a mother should. I was so swallowed up in my own grief that I couldn’t see my own children grieving along with me. 

But their grief did not go unnoticed. If it had, then there wouldn’t be this blog post. Days after Porter died, my mom found a wonderful book for Emberli on loss. I will link it here on Amazon. It is a workbook format where you write and draw along with the prompts. I sat the girls down and showed them the book. We briefly went through the pages and discussed it’s purpose. 

That was it. 

I had her put it away in the playroom.

I never sat down with her again.

I know that is sad.

I should have sat down with her and processed her feelings together. 

But I honestly didn’t know how to process my own feelings.

Weeks later, Emberli was up early in the playroom. I walked in and glanced over her shoulder to see what she was doing. She had this book open, quietly working on the pages. She glanced up at me.

“Want to see?”

Emberli showed me the pages one at a time. She read the prompts out loud to me and then showed me her answers and drawings. She didn’t elaborate much and I didn’t ask. We looked together. And I let the feelings of sadness and grief wash over me. 

Because watching her process her grief broke my heart. 

Why did she have to experience this?

Why did she have to have these emotions at 7?

Why did she have to have a mom that could not help her process these emotions?

I kissed her forehead and told her I loved it. Then I wanted out of these feelings and transitioned to the next task. 

“Let’s have breakfast.”

Ava’s grieving has looked very different from Emberli’s. Ava would randomly say, “We aren’t having a baby brother anymore.” Then she would smile and watch the reactions from the rest of us. I repeated “Baby Porter is in heaven with God” like I was a broken record. 

4 weeks.

It took Ava 4 weeks to show emotion about Porter. 

I remember it so clearly.

I packed up Ava, Hannah and Heidi in the car to head to Ava’s ballet class. It was a Wednesday morning about 9:30am. Ava sits in the 3rd row of our mini van in a rear facing car seat. KLOVE was playing on the radio and a song was playing. I was quietly singing along in the front of the mini van. 

“Mom! They said God! Porter is with God!”

“Yes, he is baby girl.”

“Mom! They said heaven! Porter is in heaven!”

“Yes, he is with God in heaven.”

About 30 seconds passed in silence and then crying erupted from the 3rd row. I turned the music off and asked her what’s wrong. She was crying and said she wants Porter to come to our home. I told her he can’t come home. He went to be with God now. She cried harder and demanded that Porter come home on Sunday to go to church with us. I told her he can’t come home because he’s in heaven. She cried even harder. She pleaded with me and asked if Porter can come home after Christmas then. I am now crying in the front seat. How do you shut down your child for a 3rd time in a row? How do you keep telling them that they can’t have their baby brother at home as they are crying? 

“I’m sorry, sweetie. He can’t come home after Christmas because he’s in heaven with God. But we can see him one day when we go to heaven too.”

She says ok. I want to transition away from these feelings before I have to be at dance class. 

“Let’s listen to music now, ok?’

As a mom, my heart breaks knowing I wasn’t fully present with them in their grief. If I could do it over again, I would talk more openly about it with them. I would check in more often. I would share how I was feeling and explain that it was ok to feel these emotions. I would pray more with them out loud so they could hear me say to God to hold my sweet boy tight for me. 

Hopefully this will shape them. Hopefully the next time they experience grief they will turn to journaling or worship music. Hopefully next time I will be able to comfort them and meet them in their grief before weeks pass. Hopefully they know that grief is ok. It is normal. It is healthy. 

I want them to know that grief is a form of love. I want them to know that everyone grieves differently. I want them to know that the timeframe it takes to process grief is different for everyone. I want them to know that life after loss is different and that’s ok. I want them to know that this time on Earth is not going to be perfect. That we have more to look forward to after this life. That going to heaven will be the best day of our lives because we get to be with Jesus who died for us. I want them to know that we will all embrace and worship God together as one family in heaven. One day. 

Post D&C

“Have you picked out a good dream?”

Yes. 

New reality.

New truth.

Baby Porter.

In my arms.

Never letting go.

Teeth are chattering.

Tongue is throbbing.

“Try to relax. Do you want another warmed blanket?”

Yes.

New reality.

New truth.

Baby Porter.

Gone.

Forever.

Never letting go.

My teeth hurt.

My tongue is numb.

My throat hurts.

“I think I bit my tongue.” 

Cold.

Close my eyes.

Dark.

Try to breathe.

What is happening?

Last thing I remembered was going into the OR. It was cold. The room felt big for my small baby. I was awake. They half smiled at me, shared a light hearted joke, moved me to the operating table. 

“Have you picked out a good dream?” asked the anesthesiologist.

“Yes…” 

When I woke up in recovery, I had several nurses rushing around me. I was agitated. My teeth would not stop chattering. I was cold and shivering. My tongue was completely numb. My throat felt like shards of glass. For a brief moment, I didn’t know where I was or why. 

But at least I could close my eyes and forget for just a moment. 

Yes. 

New reality.

New truth.

Baby Porter.

In my arms.

Never letting go.

Waking up again, this time aching. A new male nurse was standing on my left charting. 

“It looks like I have a release for you to sign. It’s for… products of conception. Sign here.”

My eyes are welling up. My voice cracks for the first time in hours. My new reality, new truth, is setting in when I realize they are letting me keep my baby. Tears are streaming down my cheeks.

“Really?” 

My tongue is numb. My throat is like sandpaper. My teeth hurt from the pressure of clenching my jaw. Tears are trickling down my cheeks. And I am smiling ear to ear all because I get to bring my baby home. 

My nurse, uncomfortable by my reaction, asked if my husband was waiting for me and quickly called down for him to come up. 

My baby.

My Porter.

He was not going to be thrown away.

He was not just ‘products of conception.’

He was my baby boy.

And they were letting me keep my 13 week baby.

Matt came up and found me half asleep, smiling. I told him about Porter. That we get to keep Porter. In 21 days we get to take our son home. 

We were ready to go home but had to check off a to-do list to be discharged.

  1. Check vitals
  2. Check blood flow
  3. Take out IVs (I had two)
  4. Walk a lap around the recovery unit
  5. Get dressed 
  6. Sign consents
  7. Receive discharge and RX instructions
  8. Wait for a transporter to push wheel chair to car pick up

My vitals were fine. My blood flow was light to medium. There were some gushes but overall not heavy. I had two IVs; one in the bend of my left arm (original placement) and a second in my right hand. We had no idea why I had a second one that was bloody but both were hooked up to fluids of some sort. 

I slid my legs over to the left of my bed. Matt helped me put on a pair of mesh underwear. There is no dignity left post birth, whether you are holding an alive baby or leaving with empty arms. 

We walked our lap around the unit. My legs hurt. My quads felt like I had held a squat for an hour. The pain was deep, deep down in my muscles. I ran my hand along my leg and felt tenderness. I asked the nurse, “Did I get an intramuscular injection in my legs?” Yep. Two shots in the thighs. Ouch.

Lap was done. Prepare for the real world. Time to get dressed. Matt pulled my clothes out of the clear plastic hospital bag. He helped me pull on my leggings and shoes. 

I did not listen to the advice given to me. A sweet friend, kindly advised me to wear lose sweatpants for my surgery day. That morning I put on my loose and comfy pants but felt bloated and ugly in them. Just before we left the house I switched to a pair of leggings. I wish I had worn my sweatpants. The fabric was tight. My uterus hurt. My pants were unforgiving to my postpartum pad and mesh underwear. 

We signed our consent forms for Porter and discharge papers. My OB prescribed me a few medications; an antibiotic, a pain medication and something for my uterus. 

“Ok. Sounds fine.”

Matt left to pull the car up and I took my wheel chair ride down to the hospital entrance. No baby this time. Not like the previous three times I had left this hospital. Just me, my mesh underwear and my postpartum blood soaked pad.

I clenched Porter’s consent papers. 

It was all I had left of him for 3 weeks.

This paper was the only thing I had promising his return.

My tongue is still numb.

My throat is still raw. 

My jaw is still tense.

Prior to leaving the hospital I was chatting with the nurse about how hungry I was since fasting for surgery. We listed off food ideas: a burger, Mexican food, a salad or sandwich. My nurse chuckled and suggested soup.

He was right. My throat was sore from the tube they put down my throat. And my tongue was numb because I had been biting my tongue from the time I was out to when I woke up. My jaw was tense from clenching my teeth post anesthesia. 

Can you guess what we had?

Soup. 

The warmth soothed the soreness, but my tongue could not taste anything. I tried to chew the bread roll but my jaw hurt so bad. 

Around 8pm my OB called me. I had never received a late follow up call like this before. I answered, worried something was wrong. 

“I just wanted to check in with you and see how you were doing.” 

If that is not great medical treatment, I don’t know what is.

She filled me in on what had happened during surgery. Porter was taken out along with my placenta. But then my uterus would not clamp down. I started to lose blood fast. My body was starting to hemorrhage. I received two intramuscular shots in the legs to help stop the bleeding. They had to start a second IV to administer more medication to  stop the bleeding. They packed my uterus and inserted a balloon to slow down the bleeding. My cervix was traumatized and needed stitches to help it close up and heal. She prescribed me a medication that would help my uterus contract back down. She said it could cause a bit of cramping and heavier bleeding since it is forcing my uterus to clamp down faster and more efficiently. 

She wanted to make sure I was ok. 

Was I ok? 

Physically: I was ok. My body hurt. But I was ok. I was alive.

Emotionally: I was numb with a hint of despair and elation. 

I bet you are wondering why the hell there was a hint of elation. Who feels a “hint of elation” after a d&c?

Me. I did. Because I was given a piece of printer paper saying “Consent to release products of conception.” And the hospital had a copy of this. It was real. It was proof my baby was alive and conceived. No one could forget his existence because this piece of paper said I would get to keep my baby. 

Porter.

“I’m ok. Thank you for helping us keep Porter. They told me as I woke up and it made my day.”

Yes.

New reality.

New truth.

Baby Porter.

Gone.

Forever.

Baby Porter.

Coming home.

Never letting go. 

Dilation and Curettage

The day after we found out Porter was gone, I met my midwife, Michelle, for coffee to process and talk. I really struggled here. I didn’t want to decide the next step because I didn’t want it to be real. It was advised to me that because of my recent c-section (with the twins) and since Porter was 13 weeks, my safest option would be a D&C (dilation and curettage) and she would prefer it be performed in the hospital in case of a hemorrhage. 

What is a D&C?

The D&C procedure includes dilating the cervix so that the remaining lining and embryo/fetus can be removed by scraping and/or suctioning. This is a procedure you will need to undergo anesthesia. Some OBGYN allow this procedure to be done in office or hospital. 

I trusted Michelle, but I wanted be able to keep my son. I was very hung up on how they would handle and hold my sweet boy. Yes, I knew he would not be whole, but he was my baby and I did not want him thrown away in pieces. Michelle listened to me and did everything she could to see if we could keep Porter afterwards, but it didn’t seem like it was going to happen. Her friend and coworker, Celeste Pottroff, was the OBGYN that would perform the surgery. Michelle said Celeste would do everything she could for us to keep Porter. 

Leading up to July 2nd, I was angry and anxious. I was extremely nervous about the possibility of hemorrhaging. I didn’t want to let Porter leave my body but I was partially ready for a bit more closure. 

Guidelines prior to D&C:

No eating 12 hours prior to surgery

No drinking even water 12 hours prior to surgery

No jewelry 

No makeup

No deodorant 

No ibuprofen the day before

The day of surgery, my mother in law came to be with our four girls. My oldest knew that we were going to the hospital because Porter was gone. But Ava, our 3 year old, seemed to not understand completely that Porter was not coming home with us. Leaving my girls that morning was heart wrenching. This was the last time they would ever see me with Porter and possibly the last time ever pregnant with their a sibling. 

(I will have an entire post on grieving children, what it looks like and what we have done to help them cope.) 

We drove silently to the hospital. 

We didn’t talk.

We may have held hands. 

I honestly can only remember wanting to die all over again. 

I was able to preregister on the phone with the hospital. They tell you to get to the hospital two hours prior to surgery. I was expecting some wait time, really anything that could stall the inevitable was good to me. So when we arrived and quickly bypassed the registration and went straight to the surgery waiting room, I was petrified. 

I checked in my name and before we could even find a seat in the waiting room, a nurse was there to take me up. I was panicking.

I had zero time to process.

I had zero time to hold Matt’s hand.

I had zero time to tell him my fears.

I had zero time to try to make light hearted jokes to cut the tension. 

See the sad and traumatizing part of having a procedure in the hospital, at least the one we were at, was that no one was allowed to go into pre-op with you. You had to go up alone. Prep alone. Get your IV alone. Answer the same questions over and over. Alone. 

I didn’t want to be alone. That was the last thing I wanted. I just wanted to be with someone and not feel like I was drowning. Because I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t move. Not without Matt there reminding me we would be ok. 

But the nurse said “It’s ok! He will be up as soon as you are prepped.” And I hugged him and kissed him and walked away. I followed the nurse silently up to pre-op knowing full well that I was about to be asked to relive my story to strangers. 

Steps to preparing for operation:

  1. Step on scale and get weighed
  2. Answer “What procedure are you here for?” approximately 20x
  3. Answer “When was your last period?” as avoidant as possible
  4. Share intimate details of your fertility
  5. Listen to nurse share her story
  6. Enter pre op bay (?)
  7. Listen to 20 step process on how to change and clean body
  8. Try to remember 20 step process while fearing some gust of air will blow open the curtain
  9. Wipe entire body down with sticky antibacterial wipes
  10. Stand butt naked fanning your hands to aid in the drying process
  11. Put on gown that someone has probably died in
  12. Put on infamous hospital grip socks
  13. Wait on edge of bed for said nurse to come back

Ok maybe this isn’t the process for everyone but I can say that for some people this part is overwhelming. 

I was so nervous for the next part of pre-op. 

Have I mentioned that I am completely terrified of needles? And IVs? I am talking hyperventilating, panic attack, flapping hands and crying. I hate it. I am scared shitless. Don’t ask me how I made it through my c-section with the twins, because that was also a shit show. LOL

The old lady that did the IVs was so so sweet. I did my entire spiel of can’t breathe, hand flapping and crying. I did the same thing I always do, “I am afraid of needles. You only have one try. If you miss, I won’t be able to try again.” 

Seriously, face palm. I know, reader, you are probably shaking your head thinking, “drama.” Girlfriend, I know! I admit it. 

This lady did it the first try and gave me a hug. She told my nurse to get my husband up here stat before I broke down again. Yep, that’s me the special high maintenance patient. But before he came up, a charting nurse and then followed by the anesthesia resident came in and ask me the same probing questions. 

“What procedure are you here for?”

I crumbled. 

That was it.

I couldn’t answer it anymore.

My baby died and I was here to have him taken away from me forever. Did they understand who Porter was? No. Did they know our story and how he was meant to be our baby? No. 

I couldn’t take having to say I was there to have my baby removed from me. He’s my baby.

Luckily, Matt saved the day. AKA he walked through the opening in the curtain and I pulled it together a bit. I know this part of the story is redundant but it felt like a wave crashing into my chest over and over. I was drowning.

That is until Celeste Pottroff came in to see us. I had said hello to her one other time in the office on a happier note earlier in my pregnancy. This woman is unlike many OBGYNs. She sat next to my bed and spoke quietly to me as if she was aware of the mourning we were in. The key detail to Celeste that made her truly stand out was when she asked us this:

“Does your baby have a name?”

I crumbled.

I wept.

I told the miraculous story that was Porter Vaughn Gooding’s. 

I said it with pride, like any mother would have in their child that had surpassed obstacles. 

Matt asked if there was any way we could keep Porter after. She said she could see what she could do, but was honest with us that this was not something that was done at the hospital. 

She gave me a hug and said she would be back to walk with my bed into surgery soon.

TO BE CONTINUED…

In Limbo

Do you remember skating at the roller rink as a kid? 

Across the loud speaker the DJ would announce “Annnnnnnd now everyone it’s time to join in the center of the floor for limmmmmmmmmbooooooooo!” Half the floor would clear and the other half of us would circle around to get in line 20 feet back. They always held the bar high enough where most of us could easily skate under it. But it would eventually get to a point where there would actually be some limbo-ing involved. 

When it was my turn I started skating, just a bit too fast, toward the bar. As I approached the bar, my body leaned back to limbo; a combination of trying not to fall to the ground but not hit the bar above me. And then finally after feeling like I had held my breath for an eternity, I surpassed the bar and made it to the other side. 

The aftermath of my miscarriage was like that. 

Except no skates 

Or DJ

Or music

Or well any of it besides the limbo part

Just the combination of trying not to feel like I am dying in my grief but not go completely numb and disassociate from the world. The Miscarriage Limbo aka a missed miscarriage seemed to be the cruelest joke my body could play on me but yet the most endearing. 

I had E I G H T days with Porter after knowing he had died. Those eight days were a rainbow of emotions. Everything from complete devastation to numb to acceptance to crumbling again. I was still pregnant but not pregnant. I still carried my baby but he was my dead baby. I still looked pregnant but felt nothing like I was pregnant. For eight days, I was in limbo. Complete confusion of my realities. Did I even have an identity anymore? 

The first two days after Porter, I cried. I did not get out of bed. I wanted to die. I could not look at myself. I could not look at my children or my husband. I hated everything. 

I would walk into the kitchen and crumble.

I would look at our table and think where everyone’s new spot would be when Porter arrived. 

But now he wasn’t arriving anymore.

I would walk down our hallway past the playroom and crumble.

I would see the room that was destined to be his nursery.

But now it wasn’t his anymore.

I would see our car in our driveway and crumble.

I would think of how many car rides we spent talking about car seat arrangements. 

But now there wasn’t any new arrangement for him anymore.

After two days, the tears stopped. I could not cry anymore. I only felt an overwhelming emptiness and numbness that swallowed me entirely. I could get through the motions if I just didn’t feel anything. No sadness, no joy. Just numb to everything. But at least I could feed my children and get them to bed at the end of the day. Understandably, this was my survival strategy. 

Five days after, the emotions came flooding back. Devastation, anger, disbelief, complete sadness, confusion. When people told me grief came in waves, I didn’t truly understand that feeling until this point. The naïve me thought maybe those first two days were all I was going to cry and then I could just be rational again. W R O N G. It came back like a tidal wave. Every thought brought me to my knees, crumbling all over again. 

“What is wrong with me?”

That was my number one thought day 5-7. I had never experienced grief before. I had never lost a loved one. I was hoping I could just ‘cry it out’ and be ok again. But that’s not how grief works. There was nothing wrong with me though. There is nothing wrong with how, when, or where you are grieving. Just remember that. 

The last few days of carrying Porter were confusing. I was feeling ready for closure, to move on to “the next step.” I was hoping I would be able to escape the feelings I had if I could just move onto the next “task” in my grieving process. I logically thought that when Porter was truly gone from me, I would be able to check off which stage of grief I was in and then keep going.

W R O N G again.

The thought of Porter being taken away from me again, but not physically forever, was nauseating. The anticipation for Tuesday, July 2nd was paralyzing. I wanted to be numb and not think of it but I also wanted to feel everything because it was my last time I could feel these emotions with Porter still here within me. 

Being stuck in an emotional limbo is a lot like skating in that roller rink as a kid.

The anticipation builds the closer you get to the bar, the closer you get to the other side.

Now I just had to hold my breath until I got to the other side on day EIGHT. 

TO BE CONTINUED

7 Ways to Share Loss

7 ways to tell the world your baby died

I know the title of this blog post may seem a bit morbid. But to be honest, when we lost Porter this was on my mind and he was more than just a miscarriage to me. He DIED inside my womb and I was trying to sort out in my brain…

HOW IN THE HECK DO I TELL PEOPLE ABOUT THIS TERRIBLE THING?!

In my world and in my life, I like to live by the assumption that if I am an open, honest, vulnerable book with the things in my life, then maybe people won’t say stupid things. ?I may give people too much credit with their empathetic and sympathetic meter, but my therapist said it’s ok to protect myself that way so I am running with that! LOL

When we officially found out that Porter had died, we told my mother in law in person and I called my mom after she was off work. From there, they each spread the news on their side of the family so there were no awkward or uncomfortable situations we had to be in. A few of my friends I did trust enough to text that “he was gone.” But I wasn’t able to continue dialogue after that. It took everything in me to muster up the strength to say it those few times to people. I could not handle saying it to everyone each and every time I encountered them.

 I did not want to relive June 24th. 

I did not want to cry and crumble to the ground in public places.

 (Which was my MO for awhile- sorry cashier at Target, pharmacist at CVS, Starbucks lady, old man in the mall, swim lesson attendees, just to name a few)

I needed a way to tell the masses that my baby had died. Sorry, but there is no cute meme out there that can convey this tragic message. There is no perfect picture or perfect quote either. I google searched “miscarriage quotes” and that just sucked. Everything felt like it couldn’t measure up to the feelings I had in the moment. Nothing seemed to captivated my pain. 

This is what I went with and now it has become something I treasure because it is just proof that He was my son and he was loved so much.

This for me was what I needed to do. I needed it out there and it was what worked for my family. This isn’t the only “way” that women like me… like us… told the world our baby died.

And again, TBH, there is no right way. There is no easy way. But I want to give you SOME possible ways that will help you share this news if you choose to. I asked 122 women how they broke the news to friends and family when they lost their baby. I’ve taken the time to compile it down to a list of 7 ways to tell people that your baby is no longer Earthside.

Here are the 7 ways people shared their miscarriage, stillbirth or infant loss. 

  1. Quote on social media
  2. Writing out your story on a blog, email or social media
  3. Baby picture on social media
  4. Tell your most trusted family member and delegate them to spread the word
  5. Send mass text message to family and friends
  6. Tell people in person as you see them
  7. Make a video or slideshow on social media

None of these are the perfect way. None of these will keep insensitive comments at bay. (Sorry mama, there are just some NOT so smart people in the world that can’t keep the golden rule <3) Try not to get hung up on finding the perfect announcement because it doesn’t determine the amount of pain or love you have in the moment. 

And mama, if none of these feel right to you, take all the time you need. From the 123 women I heard from, a lot of them waiting weeks, months, to the due date, or years to share with the world about their baby. The funny thing about grief is it takes time to move through and process but that timeframe is different for everyone. 

Hang in there. You are loved. Your baby is loved. You aren’t alone. <3 

Aftershock of Miscarriage

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding.” Psalm 3:5

Can’t breathe.

Can’t move. 

Can’t talk.

My heart is pounding in my ears.

Can’t breathe. 

Can’t move.

Can’t talk.

Tears are streaming down my face.

“I want to die.” 

That is the only thing I can think. 

I just want to die.

My midwife, Michelle, left the room for a moment to get a loss bag for me. For maybe 2 minutes I was alone in a box of a room, just empty. All I felt was wanting to die. I wanted to die and escape my sadness. Not in the way of suicide but I can only explain it as wanting to run away from my intense sorrow and devastation. And in that moment the words “I want to die” were the only way I could communicate to my own brain to cope.

Michelle walked back into the room with a small gray bag that was handmade for women like me. Like me… someone like me who was dying inside. Someone like me that had lost a baby they loved so much. Someone like me that was entering a club so many are in and not by choice. She opened the bag and began to tell me some of the things inside.

I crumbled again.

Can’t breathe. 

Can’t move.

Can’t talk.

She closed the bag and braced me by the arms. I wept. I wept of such sadness over the son I fought tooth and nail for. But she held me there. She told me to honor where I was. She allowed me to push back the blood work needed as a baseline for pre-op if I chose to go that way to another day. We settled on a time for our coffee chat and I was walked out the back way, to avoid the waiting room.

The medical assistant who walked me out was so sweet. I’m not sure this is something many get “trained” in at the start of a job. But as she walked me through the office, I clutched the loss bag so tightly to my chest that my knuckles turned white. We silently walked down a staff hallway and reached the exit door. When she opened the door, I froze.

Can’t breathe.

Can’t move.

Can’t talk.

I crumbled again.

I wept in this doorway realizing that leaving this office was admitting to myself and to the world that this was real. This was my reality. This was the life and story I had to walk with. 

She held me in that doorway. She didn’t let go. This young woman cried with me in my pain. 

“I don’t want to leave you like this,” she said.

Me. Either.

Somewhere deep down I mustered all the strength I needed to walk the 100ft to my car. Each step was like moving bricks tied to my legs. Walking to my car was an eternity of pain in every step because this was real. He was gone. The girls had no brother. My husband had no son. There was no baby coming. There was no Porter for us to love. 

I got into our car and crumbled again. 

Can’t breathe.

Can’t move.

Can’t talk.

Matt held me across the center console with tears streaming down his face. And I wept. I wept for all the things we had lost losing Porter from our lives. 

We drove home in silence. My mind was a broken record, “I want to die.” And when we got home, I crawled into my bed and cried until the tears could not come anymore. I embraced my body to hold my baby, my sweet baby who was dead inside me. That is a sentence no one should ever have to hear, say or even think. My dead son in my womb with me here alive. How was that fair?

But his soul was in heaven. His sweet soul was with Jesus. ?

TO BE CONTINUED…

Porter Part 3: I Knew From the Beginning

“For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well. My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them.” Psalm 139:13-16 from ESV

When I went to write this part of Porter’s story, I stared at the blank screen and just felt emptiness. 

It is hard to relive and retell this part of Porter. It is hard because I hate it so much. I hate that this was written for us and for Porter… to lose him twice…and this time forever. 

But this is his story and his story has purpose, which is why I need to share it.

We left off with being “graduated” from my IVF clinic to my midwife at 7w4d. I had just recently had another large bleeding episode and despite being told I could exercise, I chose not to and to just take it easy. I went to see my midwife, Michelle Davis, the next day. I told her about all the bleeding and she wanted to do a quick peak to see.

Well by golly, there were 3 SCHs (sub chorionic hematoma) near Porter. TBH, I was not super concerned as I had a SCH with the twins. But I knew that meant I needed to just take it easy. 

So I did.

And nearly 10 days later, I bled again. Michelle truly was amazing and had me come in for another ultrasound. Porter was there and he was so happy and wiggly. But the SCH was much larger this time. They told me to take it easy and that we would watch it. I didn’t feel super uneasy with this news. I was bummed it was larger but for some reason it didn’t scare me. 

Around rolls my 12 week appointment. It was a Tuesday. And guys… I was a wreck. I cried the entire appointment for truly no reason. I just felt anxious and off. We did an ultrasound to check on the SCH and it was still there. It was still big. It was at my cervix. But sweet Porter was there too. He was wiggling around. He was a baby in there now. His picture is actually on my last post. He had the sweetest little baby body. The longest little legs. 

But even seeing him, I felt off.

I even stalled the end of my appointment. I remember looking at Michelle and just saying “I’m sorry I’m taking your time. I just feel anxious.” I said this over and over. I didn’t want to leave. Maybe deep down I knew this was the last time I would see Porter alive. Maybe deep down my subconscious was trying to prepare me. Maybe… 

Michelle ended up giving me some essential oils to help with stress and gave me a hug. She also told me to stop using my home doppler because Porter was fine. And I tried to listen to her advice. 

Wednesday was a busy day with the kiddos. And I felt off all day. Something was wrong but I tried not to think about it. Physically I felt like my body was in overdrive trying to do something. I truly think it was Porter fighting for his life. I could feel him dying. I could feel his soul leaving my womb. And deep down, I knew.

Thursday morning. I opened my eyes and felt ‘normal.’ No morning sickness. No grogginess. No exhaustion. I felt nothing. I tried to move past it and by the evening I pulled out my home doppler and I could not find him. I knew he was gone. 

I texted Matt: He’s gone. I can’t find him on the doppler.

Matt assured me he was just hiding. But I knew. I crumbled in my bed and sobbed. I knew he was gone.

I spent the entire weekend Friday through Sunday, searching for him on the doppler. I was hoping Matt would be right. 

But I knew.

Sunday night, I texted Michelle and told her I could not find him. I asked for a heartbeat check. She said of course and told me I could come in at 8am the next day. Matt stayed optimistic. But I knew.

Monday morning. We arranged Emberli and Ava to spend the morning with my mother in law. I stared out the window the entire drive. Matt asked me if I was nervous. I said yes and then we were silent the rest of the drive because I knew.

We arrived with the twins in tow in their stroller. We were walked back to the room. I had to leave a urine sample. I was returning to the room when Michelle saw me.“He’s gone.” She grabbed my arm and said she would be right in to check. The medical assistant took my vitals. My blood pressure was “normal” and I told Matt that. He tried to shrugged it off, maybe he knew I knew. 

The next part of this story is where my heart shatters…

She places gel on my belly.

She touches the ultrasound probe to my belly.

I am staring at her.

She looks at me.

She shakes her head ‘no.’

She looks down.

I shatter into a million pieces right there.

I am screaming “NO, please God, NO!“

I can’t breathe.

I can’t move.

I grip her arm and can’t let go.

Matt cradles me on the table.

I can’t let go.

I am dying.

I am dead.

My baby is dead.

My baby, who went against all odds, is dead.

The twins are crying in the stroller because I am crumbled to the core. Matt is crying watching his wife lose every piece of herself in a tiny 7×7 room. Michelle is letting us cry. She gets a tech to come in and confirm. And then again with a vaginal ultrasound. She asked if I wanted to see him. I tried to look and broke into a million more pieces. 

My baby. My Porter. My only son. My sweet boy.

He was gone and in that moment I wanted to be gone with him. 

Matt headed out to the car with the twins because they were inconsolable. They wanted mom to hold them but I just could not move or breathe or talk. Just weep. That’s all I could do. Michelle gave us time. Her other appointments didn’t matter. She didn’t leave us. She let us cry. Michelle brought me a loss bag that was donated to the office. I cried. I couldn’t look at what was inside at the time. It felt unreal. 

We briefly discussed what would happen after this. She advised a D&C (dilation and curettage) because I was at risk for hemorrhaging due to my recent c-section the previous summer. I asked what that actually entailed.

You guys, I should not have asked that. I knew in general what it meant. But I needed to know. When Michelle explained it to me, I crumbled again. 

My baby. 

Taken out in pieces.

And then thrown away.

No, I didn’t want my baby to be ripped apart.

Sweet Michelle, the precious and amazing midwife that she is, honored that. She honored Porter right then and there. She said I didn’t have to decide today. That Porter is with me today and that is the space I need to be in. We agreed to table that discussion for the next day. Rarely can you find a midwife that will meet you for coffee to help you grieve a loss after being on call and delivering five babies the night before/that morning. But that is what this woman did for me. 

She honored me and Porter for an eternity in that moment. She met me where I was in my life losing my baby in miscarriage. 

He was so loved and on this day grief was my form of love.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Porter Part 2: You Left a Mark

“I’ve picked you. I haven’t dropped you. Don’t panic. I’m with you. There’s no need to fear for I’m your God. I’ll give you strength. I’ll help you. I’ll hold you stead, keep a firm grip on you.” – Isaiah 41:9-10 from The Message

We left off with a celebration. Our sweet sweet Porter was found. He was always there. Waiting for us. Waiting for me to be his mom. Waiting for Matt to be his dad. Waiting for his four sisters to love him. He was waiting for us.

I can’t explain the feelings we had when we received that phone call. I was stunned. In the waiting, I was so worried that maybe we didn’t have a boy ever. PGS is not 100% accurate. There is always a chance that something with the test was just not accurate. But hearing those words “We found your BOY embryo” was paralyzing. All the unknowns were still out there. All the whys and wondering what does this mean for us. You see we never intended on having so many kids. We thought four was the right size for us. When we were in this limbo period between not even knowing if there was a boy or not, we already had four. I can’t speak for Matt, but for me, even in that limbo period of time, I felt empty. That there was someone missing from us. I didn’t know the depth of that feeling though. 

So, there we were, surprised, shocked, stunned, and extremely ecstatic that Porter was ALIVE. He was here on this Earth as a tiny frozen embryo just waiting to come to us. 

I won’t and can’t get into all the hairy details that happened leading up to transferring Porter with our clinic, but it is all said and done now.

We planned on transferring Porter in March of 2019. I was still exclusively pumping for the twins at the time but was able to stash enough frozen milk to get them to a year. I also had not had a postpartum period since the twins were born. My doctor prescribed progesterone to try to trick my body into a cycle since Provera (what is normally used) was not as safe when breastfeeding. I started a light period on the very last day possible to stay on their schedule. 

Talk about anxiety of WANTING your period to start! LOL

But then prepping for transfer, we ran into some roadblocks. I had fluid in my lining when I should have had a triple layer in my lining. Sometimes progesterone can ‘dry’ it up so I went ahead with starting progesterone in oil injections to see if that would work. Well the day before my scheduled transfer, I went in and the fluid was worse. So, the transfer was cancelled 24 hours before. ?

That seriously sucked. I felt like I did SIX shots in my butt for nothing! They were no fun! But in this prep time I was able to wean, so when my cycle was cancelled I could take Provera and induce a really strong period to have a fresh lining.

We prepped straight into another transfer for April. At my first lining check, my lining looked amazing and we actually bumped our transfer up an entire week earlier. 

Transfer came and on April 16th we transferred sweet Porter without a hiccup. 

I had a positive pregnancy test 5dp5dt (5 days past 5-day transfer aka 10days past ovulation) and went to get blood tests the next few days.

6dp5dt 15 (which felt low!)

8dp5dt 30 (but it doubled!)

10dp5dt 115 (we were in the clear!)

I could not believe he stuck! Porter was meant to be with us. We loved him so much from the very beginning when he was created. It felt like this was a sign that God wanted Porter to be in our family. He knew we loved him.

At 5 weeks 2 days, I went to a Body Back workout. I was told I could workout, even though my last pregnancy I didn’t and still had complications. But I went. I took it easy and felt fine. I went home and had to take Heidi (one of my twins) to her chiropractor appointment. On my way, there I had some cramping but tried to drink water to see if it would stop.

It didn’t stop. 

I was bleeding. 

It was heavy.

Logical me: It’s ok. Bleeding is common in IVF pregnancies.

Emotional me: My baby is dying and I want to die from the fear of the unknown. 

I called my IVF clinic and they said the same thing they said with the twins. 

“Bleeding can be normal in early pregnancy, blah, blah, blah. Stay off your feet, drink water…”

Luckily, they were able to move my ultrasound up from 5w5d to 5w4d because you know that whole 24 hours made a difference ?. When we went in, there were no signs of a sub chorionic hematoma (SCH) but little Porter was there. A tiny little yolk sac and gestational sac. They said because there wasn’t any evidence of a bleed, I could resume workouts 72 hours after the bleeding stopped. So, I did and then the bleeding would start again. We came back a week later though at 6w4d and Porter had a sweet, strong heartbeat.

At 7w2d I had a 3rd heavy bleeding episode. Same routine was followed. Rest, water, and went in for an ultrasound at 7w4d. Porter was there and he was happy with his little heart beating away. My clinic decided I could be discharged at this point to my midwife I had chosen, who ended up being someone that I owe everything to.

But that is for the next part of Porter’s story…

TO BE CONTINUED

Porter Part 1: It was you all along

“For everything there is a season, a time for every activity under heaven. A time to be born and a time to die. A time to plant and a time to harvest.” Ecclesiastes 3:1–2

Monday, June 24th, 2019 was when my life changed. But to be honest, I knew deep down that it had already changed course days before. 

The prior Tuesday, I had seen the most beautiful healthy boy on an ultrasound at 12 weeks. Porter Vaughn Gooding. The sweet boy that was meant to be in our family. His story is one that will be retold to anyone that will listen. Because he was and is so loved. Because he was and is so wanted. Because he was and is so treasured. 

Now let’s back pedal so everyone can understand the background of Porter. I won’t go too far back since that would all be another story for another post. But from the beginning of our history with Porter brings us back to July 2017. 

In July 2017, Matt and I found out that we had severe male factor infertility. We initially, after trying to conceive, thought we would just do an IUI (intrauterine insemination) but we did not “qualify” due to our semen analysis results. Ultimately, we pressed on to IVF to grow our family. After completing our first IVF cycle, we chose to do PGS (preimplantation genetic screening) just to increase our chances of success. We ended up with four girl embryos and one boy embryo. In November 2017, we transferred one boy and one girl embryo. We were so happy and shocked that both little babies STUCK! We were pregnant with twins! We named them Hannah Rose and Porter Vaughn immediately after transfer. 

Fast forward, we reached our anatomy scan at 19 weeks. We were so excited to know which baby in my tummy was which! We had guesses based on heart rates which was the boy and which was the girl. During our ultrasound, of course we told the tech our excitement and how we knew, blah blah blah.

So, she happily looked at baby A and said “yep, this one is definitely the girl!”

We were thrilled! Then she pans over to baby B.

*****Hold your breath for dramatic effect*****

The tech gulps and says “so, yeah… this one is also a GIRL.”

*Jaws drop*

“Are you sure?”

“Yes…”

*Lost and confused stares*

The next hour and a half of this incredibly detailed anatomy ultrasound we all sat in silence. We were confused at how this was even possible. We left the perinatal office and called our IVF clinic. We were assured that the ultrasound must be wrong and they would order a blood test that would show if there was any cfDNA from our boy. When I went into the clinic they did an ultrasound themselves to be sure it wasn’t tech error. Nope. It wasn’t. There were two healthy little girls in there! The blood test also confirmed NO male cfDNA at all. Just GIRLS!

Now fast forwarding AGAIN. We came to terms with our girls. We mourned the loss of our son that weren’t even sure if we ever had. We didn’t know if somehow the girl embryo split into identical twins or what. We had to wait until birth to test them to be sure. 

??We welcomed Heidi Violet and Hannah Rose on July 8th, 2018! ??

Shortly after they were born we ordered a DNA test to see whether or not they were monozygotic (identical aka from one embryo) or dizygotic (fraternal aka from two embryos). Our DNA test confirmed our girls were DIZYGOTIC/FRATERNAL TWINS! (And TBH, they look nothing alike, hahaha.) 

******Pause for dramatic effect to let reader come to their own conclusion here for liability reasons*******

Yep. What you are probably thinking about somehow someone maybe mixing someone’s embryos up may have possibly happened. I can neither confirm nor deny but you can follow along with that and read between the lines. ?

Of course, at this point we had no evidence of that since we still had three frozen embryos which were supposed to be girls. After several conversations between the parties involved, we decided to thaw, rebiopsy and retest our remaining embryos to see if a human error had occurred.

January 2019, we received the call that changed our lives! PORTER WAS FOUND! It would appear that he was, somewhere in the process, mislabeled as embryo #3 when he was actually embryo #2 all along! What a miracle! By the grace of God, we still had this sweet boy that we had engrained into our life for the last year or so. We found our sweet BOY! We found our Porter Vaughn through all this chaos. 

And we celebrated his discovery and still do ?

TO BE CONTINUED…