It's been 3 days since I delivered my first child, Robert Eric. I went in for a routine appt at 34 weeks 6 days to find no heartbeat. I will never forget the sound of those words "fetal demise." I was induced and labored for 29 hours before he was born at 10:09pm on December 19th. He weighed 4lbs 15ozs. He was a beautiful 17.5 inches long. I regret that i did not keep him next to me overnight. I feel like if I held onto him too long, I would've never let him go. I feel like I should've died with him because he was everything I have ever dreamed of. I have spent 2 days in a fog on my couch, seeking out every website I can for support. I can't get my mind off of the idea of getting pregnant again, not to replace him, but to fill my house with hope again. My husband has been left to do everything in the house, something he has never had to do. I feel like I have failed him and my son. I despise looking in mirrors being reminded of how ugly I look and how I have nothing to show for it. I resent my body for thinking I have a newborn to feed. I don't know how to deal with this and I can only hope this website truly is my refuge from what i feel. I just wish Christmas and all of January would disappear.

I am so incredibly sorry for your loss - it is all so fresh and terrible for you right now. Christmas will be hard for you, and will be hard to know that your breasts are producing milk for a baby that's not there, and it will be hard to look in a mirror for a while. But know that YOU did not fail your son or your husband. That will likely be the hardest thing of all believe. My daughter died a year ago, and I still feel responsible sometimes. But in my best moments, I know in my head it was not my fault - even if I still FEEL it was. I hope you hear that and cling to it. Not your fault. It is a terrible thing, but you loved him, and wanted him, and would have done ANYTHING for him. Right? You are a good mother in a really crappy situation.

And as far as spending the night with him: That is also one of my major regrets. When the nurse came to take her, I handed her over because I thought if I didn't, I would never be able to do it. But you do what you think is best at the moment, and that's all you can do.

I have found GITW to be an oasis from the sorrow that sometimes threatens to swallow me whole. I am sorry you have had to come here, but I hope it is a place that helps.

Jessica I'm so sorry to read your story about Robert. I lost my first baby at 40 weeks 5 days in August this year. It is truly devastating. I had exactly the same feelings you do now, to be pregnant again right away. We are trying now and hope to fall pregnant, very, very soon. I hope the same happens for you, too. Losing a child is devastating, but there is an added intensity when you lose your parenthood as well.
Love Sally xo

Oh, honey. I'm so terribly sorry to hear that this hellish experience has brought another person to us. Just know that you'll get love and understanding here--we've been there and truly can feel your pain.

It's been 12 weeks since we lost our little boy at 22 weeks, and SO much healing has taken place since then. However, reading your post took me right to the time when I was right were you are now. I'm so sorry. My only piece of advice is to keep talking with your husband--don't let silence fill the space. There are times when my husband and I can't even talk, we just cry and hold one another, but other times we can talk about Beckett, our lives now and the future. Just be open and honest with each other so you can help each other along.

Oh Jessica,

I am so sorry to read your story. Please know this place is a safe one for you to share your heart. You can be honest here and there are some truly wonderful woman that you will become to know. Praying for peace to consume your hard at the terrible time of your life.

Many warm wishes to you

Love Carly x

Jessica, I'm just so damned sorry that you have to go through this. I'm glad you've found this place, and hope you find a bit of warmth and light here.

Thinking of you and your Robert Eric.

I know that fog you're talking about.

When I lost my first child, that was exactly it. I would sit down "for a minute" and suddenly it would be two or three hours later. I was prescribed antidepressants, but they didn't help me, just made things numb and even a little worse. I went to work and could sort of function there because it was all stuff in sequence - cook potatoes, cook meat, set service line, open doors, wash dishes, rinse & repeat - but I'd get home and nothing. My husband didn't know what to do because he was in his own pain and didn't know how to help me.

What did help was this crazy yellow and white spotted stray mutt puppy that wandered into my garage and wouldn't leave. He made me get up and take care of him when nothing else was working. He would come stick his nose under my arm and make me get off the couch. I'm forever grateful to our stupid mutt and I wish to heck he was here now.

I wish I could do more than offer you words. I want to reach out and give everyone a hug, and all share our tears, because you do go on whether you want to or not, and eventually life becomes first bearable, then somewhat enjoyable, and then you can kind of breathe again. But the pain changes you, there's a part of you that will never be the same again. I'm so sorry, I don't know what else I can say that might help, because sometimes there is nothing to say even when we all know what the pain feels like.

Jessica
I too know all to fresh the pain you feel. I lost my first child Tristan 3 weeks ago on December 10, 2008. He lived for 25 hours. He was loved. He was loved in a day and he was loved in the 9 months we waited for him to arrive. I will love him for the rest of my life. I will look at my husband and see my son in glimpses of what he was and what he would have grown up to be. In looks, in stature, in character. I will look at myself and see the mark of his brief existence in my scar, left to mark his place...his scar...I will see the mother who loved her child but was never given the chance to mother him in the way I had imagined. Through the cheeky laughter and tears of daily trials. The achievements and disappointments. I was ready for them all.

It is a cruel, cruel thing to have our innocents taken from us. The anticipation, the love and excitement. The perfection that they are. Infinite sadness. Heartbreak. Wanting to skip it all and knowing that I can’t. Alone. Alone. In my head. In my heart. Melancholy. It has only been a few weeks. And yet it will be a lifetime.

Nothing constructive can come from the hurt I feel, because it will not bring him back to me. But the heartbreak feels inconsolable. It is isolating, wondering how to break through. I too look for hope and think about being pregnant again.

I seek refuge in this place and read comments and thoughts to desperately find that hope - I read along and in my head nod in understanding. I come here to understand, support and in turn to be silently embraced in my suffering as we all are.

I'm coming back to this after a time, but Jacqueline, that was such a poignant and lovely comment. thank you.

I think we *can* receive something constructive from the hurt we feel, even if it can't bring our babies back. To me, it is an unexpected opening in our hearts, the hearts that feel so broken now, but which further along we will realize are also more open to compassion for ourselves and others. I don't know that I would want to avoid this hurt, because already in 6 months since losing Tikva I have changed for the better for allowing myself to feel it. It's hard to say exactly what that constructive, positive thing is, but my recommendation is this: Be patient and gentle with yourself and let yourself feel the huge well of feelings, of hurt, of pain, of sorrow, of grief that is there needing to be felt and held with gentleness and love.

Jessica and Jacqueline, I'm so sorry you're here, so sorry. And I am glad you found Glow in the Woods. It is a very special and supportive place. And it means that our babies have two more angel friends. I know that's not much of a comfort, but there is something sweet to me about imagining them all together too. Likely doing much better than the rest of us who miss them.

Love, Gal