"The scars you share become lighthouses for other people who are headed to the same rocks you hit."

There are always worst case scenarios that you hear throughout your life, but what happens when you become one? What happens when suddenly you're a statistic to the ultimate worst case scenario-child loss? 

For years I'd hear stories through the grapevine; complications, a devastated mother, an empty nursery, baby furniture that was never used. My heart would ache for them, and selfishly I'd worry about my own future pregnancies. However, not experiencing it first-hand at the time, I never heard what happened after those mom's left the hospital, after they returned home, after they were expected to continue on with their lives. 

Then there I was. I was that mom. I was the mother faced with the unimaginable-I was losing my baby. I had arrived at my prenatal appointment expecting good news. For weeks I had been battling a subchorionic hemorrhage, and it had finally subsided. Rather than hearing that all was OK and that I should go home and continue to rest-the ultrasound didn't look right. The ultrasound tech looked concerned. She left the room to get the doctor and when I saw the look on his face, I knew it was bad. He held my hand as said, "I am so sorry. You are out of amniotic fluid and it is too early. Your baby's lungs are far too underdeveloped to survive outside of the womb and the hematoma surrounding your uterus is just too big. There is a risk of you having a massive hemorrhage if we don't induce you." 

The days to come were a blur. I took the weekend to collect my thoughts and make decisions, to discuss options with my husband and our families, and to pray for a miracle. Monday morning I made the difficult walk in to the hospital to face my worst nightmare. I started induction and labored for 43 hours, internally struggling with wanting Maggie to be here, but the ache of not wanting to let her go. The moments leading up to me pushing, her silent delivery, the fear of seeing her precious face and knowing she couldn't stay here on earth. "She was just too beautiful for earth." The faces-of my husband, my parents, my family, my friends-full of pain. A time that should have been a celebration was robbed from all of us. That moment, the moment I had to kiss her goodbye. I had to hand my beautiful gift back to the nurse and watch her be carried out of the room-forever. More silence. So much silence. The sun rose the next morning and soon it was time for me to be escorted through a "secret exit" so I could avoid the happy endings in Labor and Delivery at the hospital. I carried a box full of memories instead of my daughter. This was the most painful walk of my life.

How would I tell my boys their sister didn't make it? For months they had been celebrating. Each morning my youngest would talk to her through my belly and ask her when she was going to come out and play with him. My oldest would ask me questions, "Will she look like me?" "What's it like having a little sister?" As if it wasn't hard enough for me to wrap my head around this tragedy, how could I explain this to her innocent brothers. 

I began my search-for books, blogs, articles, quotes. I needed something. I needed advice. I needed mantras. I needed to know that I would survive this. Up to this point, I had never known true heartache. Those worst case scenarios I had heard over the years? I was all wrong. They were much more painful than my naive and innocent mind had ever imagined and I felt so alone in my agony.

If you ask me to describe the early days after Maggie's passing, it's like there is a dark fog surrounding my memories. Everything hurt, everything was dark, there were so many tears. It felt as though someone had knocked the wind out of me and I couldn't catch my breath or try to move on. I was changed. My life is now broken in two parts-before Maggie and after Maggie.

Two months passed. I didn't leave the house too much and had minimal desire to socialize. That's when it happened. A friend reached out because her sister was facing the unimaginable. Her daughter had passed at 41 weeks and she had to deliver her beautiful girl in that same haunting silence that Maggie was born into. She wanted advice and needed my help. I was still so early on in my lifelong journey with grief, but knew that she needed me, because I needed someone when I went through it. This was the first mom that I connected with that lost their baby after me. I reached out and we talked and for the first time I felt like I had connected with somebody. She was so new in her grief and facing all of the same firsts I was. We instantly bonded over our girls. Looking back now, this was my first stepping stone in my "new normal" life. 

Over the next 6 months I connected with two other angel moms. We began talking regularly and finally planned a night to all get together. It had been nine months since I had said goodbye to Maggie. I was still in a very dark place. What you don't know unless you've experienced something as awful as this is the guilt you feel. Guilt that you did something to cause the loss, guilt that you didn't do enough while you held them, guilt that you aren't honoring them enough in your life, guilt if you go out of your home, and guilt if you catch yourself laughing or having a good time. I struggled with this a lot last year. But then it happened. As the three angel moms and I sat in my living room, we laughed. We had somehow made a joke and all of us started laughing-and laughed hard. It was such a release. I couldn't remember the last time that I had laughed and felt so carefree. I looked around at those brave women sitting around me and we were all laughing-and it was OK. It was OK. Maggie would want me to laugh. She wouldn't want me stuck in that stand still.

These girls taught me the importance of making connections when you suffer a loss as extreme as this. Losing a child is the most unthinkable pain, and it leaves you feeling so isolated. I remember thinking that I would never find life beautiful again. I believed I'd be stuck in the trenches for the remainder of my life-and I will-but when you have people beside you, fighting the same battles, it makes you stronger. Since then, I have continued to make connections. I am open with my loss. I want people to know it's OK to reach out to me to talk, to get advice, to help. By helping others, I'm helping myself. I'm growing and I'm gaining strength. I encourage other moms to do the same.

Maggie is the reason I have met some of the most amazing women in my life. These women support each other, validate our grief and our rituals, vent, talk about our babies openly and freely without any hesitation, and, as an amazing mentor of mine once said, "walk the same path but may just have a slightly different view." Once you know you aren't alone, your life can start to move forward-and don't worry-it does not mean you are leaving your child behind. Your child will continue to grow in memory with the love and support of those walking with you.

As Ernest Hemingway once said, "We are all broken. That's how the light gets in."

The Little Girl in the Watermelon Bathing Suit

While sitting on the beach with a few friends, a little girl in a watermelon bathing suit caught my eye. She was dancing around the beach, completely carefree. Her bright, blonde hair was blowing in the breeze. I could see her smile in the distance. At first I laughed along with my friends, (we all thought she was super cute), but I stopped. A feeling overcame me. It's been a while since a child has reminded me of her, but sometimes it happens. It's part of this little journey I'm on. My mind wandered...

Maggie. 

It's hard to explain how I picture Maggie now. I remember her. I look at her pictures often. I can still feel her hand in mine and the way her soft skin felt on my lips when I kissed her tiny forehead. Over the past year and a half she's taken on many images in my mind. Sometimes she's that precious baby I held on that fateful day in January of 2015, or that beautiful red cardinal that I've held in my dreams. Sometimes I picture a little cherub sitting on a cloud-similar to what you'd see in a movie or a cartoon. I have visions of Maggie painting those breathtaking sunsets, or skipping through the snow- creating a glistening path behind her. Maybe she's that tiny baby in Ma's arms, with my grandmothers and Auntie Mary patiently waiting for their turn to hold her.

On this warm day in July, she was the little girl in the watermelon bathing suit.

Would she have had the same bleach blonde hair? I know her eyelashes were practically white. Blonde hair does run in Andy's family. She most certainly would have had the same pot belly like her brothers. I know for sure she would have had a song in her soul-similar to the ones the boys have. It's the song that puts a skip in their step and a rhythm to everything they do. Without a doubt she would have had a smile on her face at all times-she was my daughter after all. Her giggles would have been contagious too-I just know it. To top it off, I have a strong weakness for fruit themed clothes, (ask Aileen), so I know my little 1.5 year old would have rocked that watermelon bathing suit.

I met eyes with her mom. She caught me smiling. I'm sure she's used to it. Her daughter was absolutely adorable. I'm sure before she noticed me admiring her, she was telling her to stay close and not to wander to far. Maybe to relax and sit down, so she could in turn get some rest herself. I hope that my smile was a quick reminder to her-to admire the beauty that is her little girl and to just let her "be" for a bit.

It was also a reminder to me that although Maggie is somehow frozen in time to so many, she will continue to grow with me-whether it may be visions of what she would look like now, who she would be, or just the beauty of nature promising me that someday-I will hold my little girl again.

"She knew she loved him when 'home' went from being a place to being a person"-E. Leventhal

Typically I blog about the kids, but with Father's Day being this weekend, I wanted to put together some thoughts I've been having lately about my husband-the father of my children-because sometimes in life you get really lucky with something, and for me it's who I married. 

Life has come pretty far since my earliest memories of you in your sweatpants and basketball jersey's back in junior high, the school dances where somehow our eyes would always meet, or from that first day of school junior year when I wheeled into the high school hallways in my wheelchair and neck brace and you ran over to tell me how beautiful my smile was.  I knew then you were different, but never knew how much of my life you'd become. All of these small details led us to where we are now.

It seems like we are lifetimes away from that night we IM'd each other and made a pact to get married 30 if not married already, or that first night that you came to UMASS and maybe I had a little too much "box-o-wine" and got myself sick. The night that you didn't run away, but instead popped The Wizard of Oz into the VCR player and watched it with me-never making a move because you knew I wasn't in a clear state of mind. Yet it feels like yesterday I was wearing your Silver Lake baseball sweatshirt to classes where I'd daydream about someday marrying you.

It felt like a fairytale that night you held my hand as we walked around Boston Common. I knew you were acting a little nervous that night-and it all made sense when you got down on one knee and asked if you could be the one to make all of my dreams come true. Over 10 years later and I can tell you that you already had. The time that passed from when you asked for my hand in marriage until that moment I was walking down the aisle-with my eyes locked on yours-was a whirlwind of fun. We'd share our young hopes and dreams and just couldn't wait to say "I do." July 7, 2007-Lucky in Love-we sure were.

I can't help but get emotional when I think about the moment you became a dad. That moment that you came walking over to me with James in your arms-your eyes filled with tears, that smile on your face, when you said "He's perfect, Elizabeth," I'll always remember that. The big transformation. The moment I'll share with James over and over again until someday, God willing, he becomes a father and understands why it was such a pivotal time in our lives.

I smile when I remember finding out that we were having a second boy-a mini dream team for you. No longer a rookie dad, you walked over to me like a pro with Thomas in your arms. You weren't nervous, you weren't hesitant, you were ready for the challenge. Two little boys under two. Couldn't get better than that, right?

As hard as it is to remember the happier memories with Maggie, that look of pure terror on your face when they told us we were expecting a girl was priceless. A softy at heart, you knew you were doomed. You weren't sure how life would change with a girl added to the mix. Life got a little harder-or a lot harder that year. We had been floating along without many cares in the world because our love and our children came easy for us. The challenges, however, brought us to a new level in life. "Through sickness and health"-we get it now. The timing couldn't have been worse-we had just moved and our life was in boxes. I was on strict bedrest which meant you had to be mom and dad and take on double if not triple the work around the house. You had to be strong for me because I was falling apart. You held our little family together like glue.

I can still feel your forehead pressed on mine as Maggie entered the world. She was our beautiful tragedy. I knew it was as heartbreaking for you as it was for me, but again-you faced the challenges. You stepped up when I couldn't. You kept the boys happy and entertained, but then would make time for me to hold me and cry while we tried to piece things back together. A time when we could have easily fallen apart, we found ourselves closer than ever. We worked very hard to get to a place where we could remember our angel with smiles-through music that once connected us as teens, to little signs of hope, to blogs-we'd share what we could to help each other through.

Before we really even got our footing we got the call. Aileen needed us. Without hesitation, without skipping a beat or asking any questions, you were by my side ready to take on this completely unexpected new chapter. Do you know what that meant to my family and me? I'll never forget stopping outside of the maternity ward and taking a deep breath. A place that was once so happy for us, was extremely intimidating. You panicked-not over Aileen or your role as a new foster dad, but over the thought of hearing a newborn cry. We composed ourselves and walked in. You got to her first, scooped her up, and held her so tight. Your smile returned and it was more beautiful than ever. I don't even know if you, in that moment, realized how significant those early moments with her would be.

Watching your relationship with Aileen blossom in the past 11 months has been a gift. You are the definition of selflessness. You have helped give her a safe and secure home, strong arms to hold her, a gentle heart to love her, eyes that smile and let her know that all will be alright, and a father figure that any child would be lucky to have. You've set such an example for our boys that they stepped right up with no questions asked. You are constantly rolling with the punches and have taken on more than most ever could without ever complaining. 

So as you celebrate your 7th Father's Day being a dad, a bereaved dad, a foster dad, a pre-adoptive dad, and even a loving fur dad-just the overall definition of a father-I hope you can sit back and soak up the love, respect, and admiration we have for you. I hope you realize how appreciated you are and how when I look back on my life-I know that I did something so right when I fell in love with you, married you, got to spend my life with you, and had the honor of watching you conquer your best title-"DAD." 

Happy Father's Day!