In life, after you have experienced deep loss or unexpected tragedy, it becomes nearly impossible in many moments of one’s day, to stave off the anxiety, the terrifying feeling that you will lose again.

You can get stuck in these feelings. And why not? The worst has happened.

I get stuck in these feelings.

I struggle to pull myself out of them. I want to, so badly. I want to think all is going to be okay with baby girl, and that she will make it and join us here in our world, and I won’t have to parent another child from the other side. I have to work to turn that thought around, to think that everything will be okay with this little soul.

I have to reach for that thought. I envision her birth. How differently it will look from what I had planned for Luca’s birth, but filled with just the same amount of love and hope.

I don’t want to lose another child.

I want to hold her in my arms and see her open her eyes and move around, and be- full of life.

If it’s taken this long to get this far in her gestation, how will we ever make it to her birth date? The days- forget the days, the moments even- they go by so incredibly slow. They literally just barely move when I am in them.

If I wake up in the middle of the night, I can hardly ever just go back to sleep. Thoughts take over my mind. I cry because I miss Luca. I cry because I so want to have my baby live.

It’s hard not to have these feelings. They are a natural part of life after loss. One can’t expect to ever really be sure-footed again when the ground has been pulled out from underneath them.

I have to live in the hope.

I have to force myself to live in the hope. And I’m struggling.



Summer- Take 2

I have slipped into a lull.

Physically exhausted from both the grief and anticipation, I’ve been left speechless. Which is definitely not the same as thoughtless. I am constantly, full of thought.

I can’t tell you how many random and previously visited thoughts flow through my mind during any given moment.

Luca feels so far from my memory. His sister, even though she kicks and turns and hiccups, feels so far away from my arms. I’m stuck in the middle, with myself.

I have trouble remembering what his hair felt like against my cheek. I don’t remember what he felt like in my belly. When I feel her movements now, I compare, but just can’t remember much.

And it makes me tear up to re-read that sentence. Where did he go? Where did my baby go? Besides his ashes being in a little white box that sits beneath a picture of Gina and I holding him as he passed,  in our hallway where we walk through several times a day, a place I can’t help but think he’s supposed to be right next to us. But that’s not him.

Those are just his physical remains.

Loss happens. Beings die all the time. Babies, children of all ages, partners, grandparents, parents, pets. There is no restriction or rule. You mostly never know when it’s going to happen, or sometimes you do know, but how much better does that actually make it? You still can’t help but miss your loved one. Maybe if you didn’t have that connection with them, you don’t feel that loss as deeply.

I knew that Luca wasn’t going to make it, at least I had an idea in the fog of medication I was under, for at least 24 hours. And yet, there wasn’t anything about knowing for those hours in advance that could prepare me for what I was about to embark on, for everything that I was about to feel, as a mother, as a human being, as a parent who had the make the decision of what to do with the body of their own child.

Luca was the first child I carried. Our first son, our first child. The connection and the dreams were already established even before he was out of my womb. I never saw his eyes open, heard his laugh, saw him smile. None of it.

And here we stand, just a few months away from welcoming his little sister into the world.

Love. Hope. Excitement. Hope. Anxiety. Hope. Fear. Hope.


I want to hold my own live child in my arms. I want to celebrate her birth and entry into this world. I want to have a peaceful birth. I want to put her into a car seat, and drive her home from the hospital to meet her puppies.

I have so much hope for everything we will get to have the chance to do with her. And at the same time I can’t help but feel the ache for all that we will never get to experience with Luca.

But we have hope. Let this summer be so different than the last. rainbow