The cruelties continue... but so does hope.

When we lost Keller, it felt like one cruelty after another. I had to deliver Keller even though I knew he had already died. I spent over 12 hours in labor just to deliver a baby whom I knew would never cry. Matt and I spent our first night in the hospital making decisions about the delivery of our son and deciding what to do with his body. Instead of bringing our baby home, we waited for friends to bring his ashes to us so that we could hold a memorial service for him. Keller did not have a baptism, he didn't accompany us to the new house, and he didn't open any gifts at Christmas. His glaring absence makes it feel like we lose him again every day.

This Christmas was difficult for me in a lot of ways. I was prepared to be overwhelmed by all the sights, sounds, and emotions. I knew that I would have a difficult time with all of the people, but I wasn't prepared for the emotions that I felt as Matt and I drove to his parents' house. I just couldn't believe that Keller was not in the backseat, on his way to his first big holiday at Grandma's. When I think about Christmas, the first image that pops into my mind is one of kids opening gifts with a big mountain of wrapping paper growing up around them. Kids are a big part of what makes Christmas fun and without them, it's really kind of lackluster. For me, Christmas felt cruel because we couldn't share it with the one person that truly mattered, our child.

One thing that really struck me at Christmas is that it is going to be a very long time until Matt and I have a living child. Even if I get pregnant in the next few months, Matt and I won't hold our baby until October at the earliest. I just can't believe that it will be nearly an entire year from now until Matt and I bring our own baby home. In the meantime, it feels like everyone we know is giving birth to their babies. Most of the people we know are having baby boys, which is even more difficult because we see what we are missing. We should be joining them in the joy and excitement of raising a son. Instead we are moving through grief and longing for the day that we will experience parenthood for ourselves.

In the midst of all of this, I am proud to say that Matt and I still have hope. Even though it seems like it will be forever until we have a living child of our own, we are sure that the day will come. I wouldn't say that we are necessarily trying to have a baby right now, but we have decided to stop trying to prevent a pregnancy. Trying to prevent me from getting pregnant was not helping my mental health at all and I truly believe that I will get pregnant when the time is right for us. While I struggle with the sheer length of time I will have to wait, and my impending 30th birthday coming in May doesn't help, I am confident that Matt and I will welcome a new baby into our home sometime in 2010.

However, being hopeful does have it's difficult days. To me, having hope requires a certain amount of faith and my faith has been repeatedly tested over the past few months. There are some days when I feel forsaken by God. Not targeted per se, but forgotten and overlooked. I will admit that I am somewhat afraid to place my full faith in Him because the last thing I put in His hands was my pregnancy with Keller. God and I definitely have some "trust issues" to work out and I am committed to working through my grief and confusion with the help of the same God that I struggle to trust. I think a lot of people can identify with me because most of us have had our own struggles with faith and trust at some point in our lives.

Part of the reason that I still have hope is because I know that I don't have all the answers. I don't know why Keller didn't survive and I probably will never know exactly what happened. I do know that I want to move forward with my life, as difficult as that is on most days. I trust God to provide me with the healing and strength to rise above my grief and live a life that is an honor to both God and my son.

As I move forward and examine my own feelings about hope and faith, I realize that I hate the phrase, "Don't get your hopes up." My answer to that is, "Why shouldn't you get your hopes up?" What real harm is there in having high hopes? And isn't it awesome that people in Matt and I's position still have hope at all? Sure, having high hopes means that if things don't work out, it will hurt a lot, maybe even more than if we didn't have hope at all. But wouldn't it be better to have some hope and risk losing it, than not having hope and still being disappointed? I, for one, like the feeling of being hopeful, even if things don't work out.

Time marches on for me and I wait with anticipation for the blessings that 2010 will bring. I have several goals for the upcoming year although I am hesitant to call them "resolutions." My main goal for 2010 is to focus more on myself and my husband. I realize that I can be somewhat externally focused and that can be exhausting. I plan to place more energy and effort into my marriage and the family that I am building with Matt. My second goal is to become more faithful and dedicated in my walk with God. I honestly believe that the energy I put into my second goal will improve my ability to achieve my primary goal. Beyond that, I want to improve my overall physical health, clean up my finances, and explore my creativity in new and exciting ways.

My prayer for 2010 is that it will be a time for continued healing for my bruised and battered family. I pray that I will conquer some of the difficulties that I have been facing and that my efforts to regain my emotional strength would be successful. My prayer for my family, friends, and community is that everyone would enjoy a 2010 that is filled with happiness, health, and HOPE.

On my way to acceptance... slowly

The literature on grief and loss is pretty clear on what the goal of grieving is, acceptance. As I move forward in my efforts to cope with the loss of my son, I wonder if I will ever truly accept what happened. For me, reaching acceptance would involve being okay with Keller's death and being okay with how everything changed in a moment. Honestly I'm not there, in fact, I'm far from anything that even resembles acceptance.

One reason why I think that acceptance is going to be difficult for me is the fact that I can't accept what happened to Keller and I in the weeks leading up to me giving birth. Starting at about 37 weeks, my skin became extremely itchy and uncomfortable. I didn't have dry skin or anything rather, it felt like the itchiness was coming from the underside of my skin, not the topside. When I told my doctor about it, she said that it was a normal thing that happened late in pregnancy. I brought it up again in my 38 week appointment and again during my 39 week appointment. As the weeks went on, my itching got worse and worse. People did their best to help me, but nothing I did to the outside of my skin helped. I started to wonder if the itching would drive me, and those around me, crazy.

During one of my appointments, my doctor did tell me that the itching was caused by my liver working overtime. She said that it sometimes happens to women late in their pregnancies and that the only cure for it was to give birth. She said that it wouldn't hurt my baby even if it made me miserable. While it was difficult for me to understand how something that caused me so much distress wouldn't harm Keller, I took her word for it and persevered through the last weeks of my pregnancy.

By the time I woke up on Friday, August 28, I couldn't stand it any more. I called my doctor's office and the nurse told me to take Benadryl and put oatmeal lotion on my skin. I was a little confused about the Benadryl, because it is makes people sleepy and I was trying to get my body to DO something, i.e. go into labor. I did as I was told and it didn't help. I felt like my big itchy body was telling me that it was done being pregnant and it was time to move on to something else. I was disappointed in the blah response that I got from my doctor's office, but I assured myself that I would be feeling better once I got to hold Keller in my arms.

The truth is, I wasn't very itchy at all on Monday, August 31. I thought that I was finally getting some relief and I was happy. I realize now that I was relieved but also very concerned because Keller hadn't moved very much that day. I chalked it up to the busy weekend he had and thought he was sleeping. When I went into labor that night, I was excited for my pregnancy to finally come to an end. It's amazing what a roller coaster of emotions I was on during that time.

From the moment I found out that Keller didn't have a heartbeat, I believed that my cholestasis had something to do with his death. Even when he was born, with the cord around his neck, I still believed that the problem with my liver had something to do with what happened to him. Maybe he was itchy too and that was why he was so active at the end (when a lot of babies slow down). Maybe his high activity level caused him to get tangled in the cord. And maybe when he dropped, to prepare for birth, the cord got pinched. Maybe his circulation was already affected by the Benadryl I took and he didn't get enough blood or oxygen through the tangled and/or pinched cord. Who knows? But those questions have plagued me since my days in the hospital.

I will forever wonder what would have happened if my call, when I was at the end of my rope, on that Friday, was taken more seriously. I'm sure the nurse who answered my call wonders that too. Maybe if they had just had me come in to check on things they would have noticed something amiss. Maybe if I had told them that I thought my blood pressure was high, to really get their attention, they might have given more thought to inducing me early. I feel that my concerns were sloughed off, likely because I wasn't a complainer and I had been so healthy up to that point. That's no excuse and I will forever wonder why my concerns were pushed aside so easily by my medical providers.

In my preparation for another pregnancy, I have been reading several books and Internet articles on a variety of topics. In one of my books, Trying Again: A Guide to Pregnancy After Miscarriage, Stillbirth, and Infant Loss, it talks about pregnancy complications and their effects on the mother and fetus. One of the complications it lists is, "jaundice (intrahepatic cholestasis), and states that the effect is, "You may be at increased risk of experiencing either a premature delivery or a stillbirth." I was shocked when I read that, in plain English, but I tried to play it off. I thought, "maybe that isn't what I had." So I Googled it and made sure that I spelled everything the way the book had it. (Douglas, A. & Sussman, J.R., M.D., 2000)

What I found startled me. My search turned up countless websites that described the exact symptoms I had and every single one of them stated that in rare and extreme cases, cholestasis increases the risk of pregnancy complications, including stillbirth. I was shocked, angered, confused, and overwhelmed by the information in every website. What hit me hardest was the fact that my instincts were right. While I can't say that the cholestasis definitely caused Keller's death, I was right about the fact that it very likely played a part in what happened to us.

One of the best websites that I found was http://www.itchymoms.com/. This website was, and continues to be, a blessing to me. Written clearly and in lay mans terms, with medical documents for support, the website paints a clear picture of what I and many other mothers have experienced. It both comforts and saddens me that there is an entire website dedicated to people who have had similar experiences as I have. Some of the women on itchymoms.com have had successful pregnancies in spite of cholestasis. Some of their pregnancies, unfortunately, have ended like mine did.

From my research, it appears that, while cholestasis is rare, it should be better known and understood by the medical community. There are specific tests for it, which I as not offered, and medical treatments, which I was also not offered, that could have prevented Keller's death. What do I do with this information now that I have it? Where do I go from here? These are the questions that now plague my thoughts. Do I sue my doctor? Do I sit back and let it happen to someone else? Do I rant and rave and allow my anger to take over my life? I honestly don't know.

As I continue my quest for acceptance, if that is really what would be classified as successful grieving, I know that my progress will be hampered by my belief that what happened to Keller and I was not a freak accident. Rare and unexpected? Yes. Freak accident, as in could not have been predicted or prevented? No. What Keller and I went through is not, and will never be, okay with me. I will have to find some way to live with it, but I don't have to accept it.

What I do know is that I want to have another baby. And when I get pregnant again, I will be up front and honest with my doctor about my past experiences and my expectations of him or her. I will be frank about my belief that cholestasis directly impacted, if not caused, me to lose Keller. A lot of the research states that women who have had cholestasis in a pregnancy have up to a 90% chance of developing it in subsequent pregnancies. I will make sure that my next provider is aware of this and is willing to take steps to prevent me, and my next baby, from experiencing anything even resembling what I went through before.

One thing that I have learned during this whole experience is that we are all responsible for our own health care. Doctors and nurses see a lot of patients and they aren't Gods. They work with the knowledge that they have and they rely on us to know our bodies and relay that information to them. I have learned a valuable lesson, albeit a difficult one: At the end of the day, I am ultimately responsible for my health and that of my children. My instincts are good, but they only work if I listen to them.

I know that acceptance is a far off, if not impossible, goal for me to reach. Honestly, I'm okay with that. There are a lot of things that I refuse to accept but I live with them anyway. However, I am committed to moving forward and leading a life that is not ruled by anger or resentment. I have a loving husband who is committed to increasing our family and giving me the children that I want so desperately. Now that is something that I can accept.

Thankful... with tough decisions ahead.

I have to admit, I have had a rough few weeks. My emotions have been all over the place and I am having a hard time keeping up with the extremes. I continue to experience moments of intense sadness and overwhelming pain, but I also know that I might be experiencing joy and excitement in the very next moment. I'm willing to take the good with the bad because all of my emotions represent movement through grief. They are evidence that I am moving through my pain and not getting stuck in bitterness and resentment.

We survived Thanksgiving, which wasn't as difficult as I thought it would be. My parents came to the new house and prepared an awesome dinner for us. Matt and I realized that, in spite of everything that has happened over this past year, we have so much to be thankful for. Our relationship is strong, we just moved into a beautiful home, and we have the love and support of family and friends. There are a lot of blessings around us and we are sincerely grateful for each and every one.

A lot of people struggle with their emotions around the Holidays. In the mental health field, I see my clients work through a variety of emotional stresses during the Christmas season. One reason why I think people struggle so much is simple; during the Holidays, we miss people. We look around our tables, with these big delicious meals, and we notice all of the people who are not there. We miss people around the Holidays and their absence is felt with more intensity than at other times of the year.

I miss Jack most at Thanksgiving. Anyone who knows my family knows the story of the craziest Thanksgiving that we ever had and it's a good story. It was the week before Thanksgiving and Jack was an 8th grader and I was a freshman in high school. Jack and I had both been sick earlier that week and he decided that he wanted to go to school even though I wasn't better yet. My parents weren't home because my dad was having surgery in Billings so I had to drive Jack to school. I didn't scrape my windows off very well and had to drive by looking through a little stripe in the windshield. After I dropped Jack off at school, I promptly ran my car into the broad side of a big yellow school bus. Ug. It was not one of my finer achievements, but it definitely wasn't surprising given my history of clumsiness and blonde moments.

When I called my mom to tell her about my accident, she informed me that she was so sick with an infected tooth, that she was unable to take my dad to his surgery. My aunt had to take care of both of them until they were well enough to come home to Malta and take care of me. When they got home, we sat around the house in our respective misery. Jack, who was feeling fine, prepared himself a beautiful Thanksgiving dinner of spaghetti and meatballs. He sat down to his feast and said to the three of us, "I freaking hate you people! You are pathetic!" I'm sure he meant it lovingly and we really were a pathetic bunch.

After that, Jack and I vowed to make that Christmas the best one ever because Thanksgiving had been such a disaster. That Christmas Eve morning we woke up to the news that our school had burned to the ground. Let's just say that my entire family's perspective on holidays changed after that!

As this Christmas gets closer, Matt and I continue to heal. Even though I know I am making progress, I still have a hard time with the fact that my friends are having their babies. I realize why it is so hard for me to accept my friends giving birth; they are my peers and they are moving forward with life events that I should already be having. I feel like I am being left behind and they are getting to have all of the joys and challenges that I can't experience yet. I was pregnant with my peers but their pregnancies will end much differently than mine did.

In a lot of ways, I feel like one of my friends from Malta who had to repeat the 7th grade. At the end of our 7th grade year, Brian's peers prepared for high school while he stayed back in junior high with us. He didn't completely fit with us, but he no longer fit with his peers either. He was stuck in limbo for awhile until he settled in to our class and was accepted. I now have a deeper understanding of what Brian went through even though my situation is very different from his.

This "left behind" feeling is somewhat unfamiliar to me because I have always been either on target or ahead of my peers. I find that I don't have a whole lot in common with people who haven't experienced pregnancy, but I also don't have a whole lot in common with people who have living children. I'm not really in a position to talk about morning sickness and ultrasounds, but I'm not in the mood to discuss diapers or pediatricians either. I'm in my own separate place in the lifespan and that separateness hurts a lot. It's like the worst kind of exclusion because it can't be overcome even with my best effort.

As Christmas gets closer, Matt and I have some tough decisions to make. We know for a fact that we want to continue our family and give Keller siblings. The question is not if we are going to have more children, the real question is when. Biologically I could be ready any time now. I have now had two cycles and my body feels like it is back to normal. Emotionally, I am torn. Part of me is ready, with the knowledge that I will still have 40 weeks to heal if I do get pregnant. Part of me is scared and not ready because I still miss Keller with an intensity that feels like an anvil is on my chest.

I know that getting pregnant again is not going to make me miss Keller any less. I realize that nothing is going to replace my son and I could have 10 healthy babies and still feel an emptiness in my heart when I think about Keller. I also don't think that getting pregnant again will make me hurt any MORE than I do now. Healing from everything I've experienced is just going to take time. Whether I'm pregnant or not, I just have to accept that I can't rush the healing process and I can't predict the future with any certainty.

As difficult as it is for me to think about going through another pregnancy, I have to remember that I would be facing another pregnancy even if Keller had lived. Keller was never meant to be an only child and Matt and I have always wanted several children in our family. Granted, we had hoped for a year or two between Keller and our next child, but we really have no set schedule for our children. We are willing to accept what the future holds for us and our family.

I sincerely hope that Matt and I are able to continue our family in 2010 and that my next pregnancy is a time of healing and hope. We definitely have a tough road ahead of us and there are no easy answers to the decisions that we have to make. I honestly believe that we are up to the challenge because we have a lot of blessings to take with us on our journey; our commitment to each other, our faith in God, and the support of wonderful people. The future definitely looks difficult... but worth it.

Too much of ... well everything.

I have been feeling exceptionally overwhelmed lately. It just feels like life itself is too much for me right now. Granted, I have a lot on my plate with the house, work, and my new Pampered Chef business, but that's really not a lot of chaos compared to what I'm used to. Six months ago, all of this "life stuff" would have not phased me a bit. Now it feels like more than I can handle even though it is all relatively simple and uncomplicated. I realize that a large part of my identity and sense of self worth centers around my ability to handle a lot of things and come through in a crunch. I am really missing the part of myself that was confident and could handle life's twists and turns with relative ease.

My tolerance for a lot of things is lower than normal for me. For instance, I love the house but it feels really overwhelming to be responsible for an entire building with all of it's quirks and unique characteristics. Matt has been awesome with all of his "honey do" lists but I feel like I can barely manage to keep up with the laundry let alone actually do home improvements. Arranging the dishes in the dishwasher so that they all get clean feels like way more daunting of a task than it should be.

I have also been more sensitive lately to sensory overload. All of my life I have been quite sensitive to sounds, visual stimulation, and touch. Lately, my ability to withstand even moderate levels of sensory experiences has been lower and more frustrating. The other night, Matt and I were shopping for paint at Wal-Mart and I almost had an anxiety attack because he left me alone in the grocery section. It didn't help that it seemed like every woman in the store was about 8 months pregnant. Wal-Mart has never been a good place for me, but that night it felt like I was drowning in sights, sounds, and people. I hate that feeling.

We recently finished most of our painting projects and I started hanging pictures on the walls. I almost had a breakdown when I found the box of picture frames that I have been storing since our wedding. I was planning to fill a lot of big collage frames with pictures of Keller and all of his "firsts." While we plan to frame and display some of Keller's pictures from the hospital, we likely won't wallpaper the walls with him the way we had intended to. Looking at empty picture frames, without baby pictures to fill them, makes me incredibly sad. It's even more difficult for me to look at my scrapbooking supplies because I think about how I had planned for Keller to be the most photographed and scrapbooked baby on the planet. Hopefully I will get to a point where I am ready to frame Keller's pictures, display them, and scrapbook the rest. I want to finish my pregnancy scrapbook that I started when I found out that I was pregnant with Keller, but I'm not ready yet.

One of the things that is overwhelming me the most is the fact that my friends are now having their baby showers and their babies. I was so lucky to be pregnant with a lot of awesome friends. It seemed like I had started a trend and it was wonderful to share my experiences with people who were pregnant but earlier in their pregnancies than I was. Now all of those people, including several family members, will give birth and bring their babies home. I can't believe that I am not part of their group anymore. I am a mother, but not in the same sense that they will be mothers. My friends will have babies who come home from the hospital, sleep in their cribs, and keep their moms up all night. I will have to wait at least a year to share those experiences with them.

The thought of facing another pregnancy is also overwhelming to me. One one hand, I can't begin to fathom the idea that I will get pregnant again and go through all of the ups and downs of pregnancy in the next few months. On the other hand, the thought of having a healthy baby, one who comes home from the hospital and sleeps in a crib, is all that I can think about. Contemplating another pregnancy both kills me and uplifts me at the same time and that contradiction of feelings overwhelms me too.

It is going to take a lot of strength, strength that I'm not 100% sure that I have, to get through the next few months. There are no easy fixes to my current feelings of being overwhelmed and I know that I have to be patient and give myself time to heal. I'm aware of the fact that my expectations of myself are high and that I may be trying too hard. As crazy as it sounds, it is somewhat comforting to recognize that I still have high expectations for myself because my high expectations are part of who I was before. Even though I am hard on myself sometimes, it's nice to see that I haven't completely given up and thrown in the proverbial towel.

As each one of my friends gives birth to her baby, I sincerely want to be there for her and her family. I want so badly to celebrate each blessing without drowning in my own sorrow. Right now I am so thankful for the understanding of my friends who know that I may be unable to attend their showers. They know that I support them completely and that I would be there in a moment if I could muster the emotional strength. As I continue my own journey to becoming the mother of a surviving baby, I will need the support of my family and friends probably more than ever. Life may be too much for me right now, but with enough love and support I can and will move through it like I always have.

Angry... but cautiously optimistic

"Let us not look back in anger, nor forward in fear, but around in awareness." ~James Thurber

Anger isn't something that comes naturally to me. For as much as I preach to my clients, "Anger is a normal emotion and you shouldn't feel bad about being angry," I haven't really given myself much of a license to be angry. I am constantly trying to talk myself out of being angry because I have long believed that there is something wrong with experiencing anger. Being the "people-pleaser" that I am, I haven't wanted to express anger because I didn't want to hurt any one's feelings or make them feel bad.

Right now I have a lot of anger and it's sort of a foreign emotion for me. Granted, I have felt anger in the past, but that was better described as irritation and frustration. The type of anger that I'm currently experiencing is very intense and somewhat irrational. I am angry about so many things and some of them don't even make sense. Going to therapy has helped me understand the importance of expressing and experiencing emotions without arguing with them, but I am still struggling to deal with my current level of anger.

I find myself being angry because so many of my friends are pregnant right now. They are all going to have their baby showers, give birth, and bring their babies home in the next few months. While I am jealous, I am also very angry, not at them but at the circumstances. I don't know if I will be able to get past my anger enough to attend their baby showers and share their joy. I feel like a terrible friend because they have all showered me with more love and support than I could have ever imagined and I want to repay that as much as I can. I also have to remember that my pregnant friends also lost Keller; they all expected that their child would grow up and have Keller to play with. Now they will not have that opportunity and it is very sad for them.

Matt and I are in the process of buying a home. While I am very excited at the prospect of purchasing my first house, I am hesitant to get too excited about it before the deal is completely done. I am reluctant to pack boxes and prepare for moving because I don't want to get too invested in something that may or may not happen. The last thing that I was really, really excited for ended in the worst tragedy of my life. Losing Keller has made me afraid to get too invested in anything until it happens and is for sure.

I am so angry because losing Keller has robbed me of my unbridled optimism. I am the kind of person who gets giddy about new pens on the first day of school. I enjoy the feeling of anticipation that you get before a new adventure and I love preparing for new opportunities and changes. It makes me sad that I am trying to prevent myself from getting giddy about the house because I am worried that something terrible is going to happen to take it away from me.

Matt asked me this morning if I wanted to go to Helena to start shopping for new bathroom stuff because we will have two bathrooms in the new house. My first instinct was to say, "Absolutely, let's go now." But my second instinct was to hold back because, how awful would I feel if we bought new bathroom stuff and the house deal fell through? It would be very similar, on a smaller scale, to coming home to a room literally filled with baby stuff with no baby to use it.

Six months ago, I would have been so unbelievably excited about buying a house. I would already have had everything packed, would have purchased paint for every room, and likely would have had a good start on decorating each bedroom with a unique and very "Jami" design. Now I am still optimistic, but cautiously optimistic. I have packed a few things and started on a few details, but I haven't ordered new address labels or notified the post office that we will be moving. Six months ago, I would have ordered a stamp with my new address on it. I may have even designed and purchased little "We've moved" postcards to send to our friends and family. Sadly I don't know if I will ever be THAT person again and I will miss that side of myself a lot.

I wasn't naive before, but I was more sure that things would work out for me if I just worked hard and prepared enough. I know that random things happen to everyone, even those who prepare and have optimism. But I also know that sometimes preparation does help ensure that negative things can be avoided. In my mind, I could not have been MORE prepared for Keller's birth and I am angry that that preparation was not enough to bring him home safely.

Like I said before, a lot of my anger is irrational. I know that my excitement and preparation for Keller's birth did not cause his death. I also know that failing to prepare for Keller's birth would not have made losing him any easier. It is just so hard for me to know that I may never be that fiercely optimistic again; part of that innocence is gone for me. Granted, I still fully plan to get excited and even giddy about good things happening in the future. However, my optimism will likely be somewhat more withdrawn and guarded, and to me, that is a loss in and of itself.

Maybe something good will come out of my present state of anger. In some ways, I think it is good for me to go through it because anger is evidence that I am healing and moving through the stages of grief. Perhaps my anger will even translate into motivation to DO something productive. Who knows? I may even pick up a paintbrush and show my new house how beautiful a little anger can be.

Rare and unexpected... either good or bad

This week has been tough. There's really no other way to put it. While my body continues to heal at a breakneck pace, my mental and emotional healing has been slower. I continue to move forward with the business of life while I struggle to make sense of the fact that my son is not at home in my arms. I feel like I have let go of a lot of the questions that were drowning me, but that has opened the door for other questions to take their place.

My question of the week is, "Why have I been involved in so many random situations that had a very low probability of occurring?" I realize that a lot of my life has been spent shaking my head at the sheer randomness of life. I feel like my life, in particular, has been filled with experiences that experts would have said had a low probability of ever occurring in the first place.

Not all of my random experiences have been bad, in fact, some have been awesome. For instance, I only applied to ONE graduate school and got into it. I had done poorly on my GRE, had low self-confidence, and found the only school in the Seattle area that didn't require the GRE for admission. When I sent in my application, I knew that I was putting all of my eggs in one basket and I was ready to spend the next year on my parents' couch wallowing and starting the application process over again. When I was accepted to Northwest, I knew that getting into the only school you applied to was as rare as getting struck by lightning. I didn't argue with it; I just packed my bags and started the next phase of my life.

That wasn't the only time that the randomness of the world worked to my benefit. When graduate school was drawing to a close, I started applying for jobs. In the big metropolis of Seattle, I interviewed for ONE job and was offered that job on the morning of my graduation. When I decided to move home to Montana, I interviewed for ONE job and was offered that job within 30 minutes of the interview. I later met my husband at a wedding, which was yet another example of the randomness of the world benefiting me in an unexpected way.

I don't think that I have lived a charmed life or that I am exempt from the normal forces of the world. I do have to marvel at how many times I have experienced those "one in a million chance of happening" things and how extreme those experiences have been. I realize that I don't take times when life is mellow for granted because I know that that can change in a moment - for good or for bad.

Because my pregnancy with Keller was so uncomplicated, I was assured that having something devastating happening after the first trimester was extremely rare. I was almost guaranteed that it was very likely that I would give birth to a healthy baby as long as I took care of myself and kept my prenatal appointments. All I had to do was wait for the time that I would meet my son.

Stillbirth is a relatively uncommon occurrence. Most pregnancies that go beyond the first trimester, and nearly all that go beyond 20 weeks, result in babies that survive. Some of those babies have complications that require medical intervention, but most of them eventually go home to their excited parents. Having a stillborn baby is highly unlikely, especially with medical technology where it is, and most obstetricians go their entire careers experiencing very few stillbirths.

Keller died of a cord accident, which is a common condition that rarely causes stillbirth. His death has made me afraid that something terrible will happen to my body. While I have been healing quickly, I have also been fearful that something will go wrong and that it could affect my ability to have children in the future. When I started bleeding this week, I was sure that there was something terribly wrong with me. The bleeding was extremely heavy and I did not feel well. My concern was that I had hurt myself by starting my exercise regimen too early and hitting the gym too hard. While it was very likely that I had returned to my normal menstrual cycle and was having a period, I wasn't completely sure.

To ease my fear about the bleeding, I called my doctor's office to discuss it with the nurse. I left a message in the morning and my call was not returned until after 3:00 pm. The nurse asked me to describe my symptoms, explained her understanding of the term "heavy bleeding" to me, and instructed me to use normal feminine products to deal with my issue. While I like my doctor and her nurse, and have defended them in a lot of this, I was frustrated with how my concerns were handled. I realize that "heavy bleeding" may mean different things to different people. I also understand that they probably get a lot of calls from postpartum mothers who are surprised when their periods return. My frustration comes from the fact that I feel like they treated my concern as just another complaint and sent me the message that I was somehow bothering them with my problem.

I am frustrated with the situation because I am not like every other postpartum mother. I do not have a crying baby at home and I am not going to function like every other person who has recently given birth. Up until my recent hospital stay, I had never stayed in the hospital overnight. I had never had an IV, nor had I ever had anaesthesia. That said, my reaction to future medical situations is going to be different because of my unique experiences and possibly the sight of my own blood may be more traumatic for me than it would be for a person with different experiences. I don't think that I should be treated like everyone else because my experiences are unique and different. In fact, everyone who seeks medical treatment should be treated with compassion and understanding for their unique situations.

Following the frustrating conversation with the nurse, my counselor helped me realize that my reactions to a lot of things are bound to be shaped by my past encounters with events that had a "one in a million chance of happening." I have had a lot of things happen to me that had a very low probability of occurring, so I am not comforted by statistics anymore. If I have a problem and someone tells me that it is very unlikely to be serious, what comfort is that to me? My life has repeatedly been permanently affected, in both good and bad ways, by things that no one could have predicted.

How do I find comfort in all of this? The first thing that I will do is to find a health care provider that understands my unique position. I wasn't sure about switching before, but I now realize that I need to find a doctor that will treat me with a high level of caring and sensitivity for my unique needs. I know that I am not the only person that my doctor will see, but I do need a provider who will field my questions with an understanding of my situation and the impact that my past experiences have had on my perception of bodily symptoms. I should not be treated like every other mother because I am not like every other mother. I have a baby but he is in my heart instead of in my arms.

I don't want to get into a trap where I am pessimistic because of my past experiences. Sure, I have had a lot of random, crazy, and unpredictable things happen to me. Only God knows why I have had the unique experiences that I have had and He knows where I should go from here. I find a lot of comfort in knowing that I am just as likely to have unpredictable awesome experiences as I am to have those rare and devastating ones. I am so thankful for the positive times that I have had and I wouldn't give those up for anything. It is my belief that experiencing the difficulties that I have had allows me to truly appreciate and value all the positive things in my life. I hope that, with continued healing, I will continue to embrace life with all of it's chaos and unexpected twists.

Sweetly broken... wholly surrendered.

At Keller's memorial service, we sang several of the worship songs that he loved. One of those songs was, "Sweetly Broken" by Jeremy Riddle. The song has powerful lyrics and those lyrics have given me a lot of comfort over the past six weeks. The chorus of the song goes,

"At the cross you beckon me,
You draw me gently to my knees and I am
Lost for words, so lost in love,
I'm sweetly broken, wholly surrendered."

I have been thinking a lot about what it means to be "broken" and I have come to terms with the fact that I am most definitely broken from everything that has happened. I would be lying if I said that I still feel like a complete person because I don't feel complete at all. My friends and family have all tried their best to put me back together, but unfortunately my feeling of "completeness" went away when I was told that my beautiful son no longer had a heartbeat. There is something about mothers and children that I now understand; mothers and children are truly part of each other. They are connected in ways that go beyond emotional ties and when one member of that bond is lost, the other is left broken and incomplete forever.

Losing Keller has left me broken and with a void that may never be filled. I don't know if I will ever truly feel that my brokenness is repaired until I am in Heaven with the opportunity to be reunited with my son and all the other people I have lost. One thing that I have to remember in all of this is that I am not the first person to lose someone that they loved; I'm not even the first person to lose a son. God himself lost his son and because of that, we are saved and able to have eternal life in Heaven. Thinking about God's sacrifice reminds me that I have not been forsaken by God and that he understands my pain more than I will ever comprehend.

A lot of people have told me that I am strong and that my strength has inspired them. I sincerely appreciate those compliments, even though I don't feel very strong yet. To be honest, my understanding of strength has been changed many times over the past 11 years and especially in recent weeks. For example, I used to view strong people as people who could handle things without help and without showing weakness. I now know that strength comes in a lot of forms and you never know what your strength is until you are put into a position where you need it. Strength isn't something that is seen on a day-to-day basis; we find our strength on our darkest days and in unexpected places.

I now see strength as being strong enough to accept help. In my eyes, strong people are those who go to doctors, keep their counseling appointments, and take their medication. Strong people admit when they are having tough days and they allow friends and family to pitch-in when needed. People who cry are not weak; they are strong enough to experience their emotions without arguing with them or justifying them. Strong people express their feelings without allowing pent-up emotions to take over their lives. What we have traditionally regarded as strength may actually be weakness that is shrouded in false bravado.

My recent experiences have taught me about strength, but they have also taught me something about surrender. I used to view surrender as giving up and cashing in. The word surrender is something that I always viewed as being equated with weakness and lack of power. Going to church and experiencing life as it is, has taught me a different meaning of the word, surrender.

Before I got pregnant with Keller, Matt and I had some decisions to make. We realized that we had always assumed that we would get married, both have good jobs, buy a house, and THEN have children. We honestly thought that that was how our lives would go. When things didn't line up in that perfect order, we decided that it was time to let go of some of our control and let God decide the schedule of our lives. Maybe God had other plans and we were just interfering by trying to control everything. Matt and I decided to pray for the things we wanted and allow God to decide the when and how. That choice paid off when I found out that I was pregnant with Keller in January. At that time, we still lived in an apartment and Matt was pretty much laid off from work. Even though it was stressful, it felt good to give up control and see what God's plan was for us.

When I went into labor with Keller on August 31, I learned another lesson about surrender. My contractions went from uncomfortable to extremely painful quickly and I had no control over what my body was doing. I realized early on that I was not in charge and that it was time for me to yield some of my control to God and members of the medical profession. When I learned that Keller did not have a heartbeat, I learned yet another lesson about surrender. I had no choice but to surrender to the circumstances and allow the medical staff to do what they were trained to do. As heartbreaking as it was, it was also comforting to not have to be in charge for once.

After our brief hospital stay, Matt and I returned home to yet another kind of surrender. Once we were home, we allowed our friends and family to take charge of our physical needs. Our moms went grocery shopping, some people sent us money, and our friends brought us meals. Our co-workers took charge of our jobs and kept things running as smoothly as they could. Matt and I were blessed with people who jumped in and kept us afloat and surrendering to their help actually felt good.

As I continue to move forward, I have faith that God will heal my broken spirit. Only He knows the depth of my wounded heart and He has the power to mend what is broken. Truly surrendering and allowing myself to receive His comfort and peace is the only way that I am going to survive. After all, surrender is not weakness or giving up. It is stepping back and allowing a more powerful force to place the broken pieces back together.

Overcoming my fears... again

Physically, this has definitely been a better week for me. I'm feeling stronger than I have in a long time. One thing that I did this week was start an exercise program. It's amazing what exercise does for the mental and emotional health, not just the physical. Because of the exercise, my body continues to heal at a rate that surprises even me. I am consistently amazed by the human body's ability to heal and respond to all the craziness that we put it through.

Writing about this whole experience has also helped build my strength. I can't express enough how good it feels to get the story out there. I have always wanted to be a writer, but I was so critical of myself and, I admit, uninspired, that I haven't seriously put pen to paper since graduate school. I realize now that I just needed something to inspire me and quiet my inner critics enough to start the ball rolling. I love the English language and have always felt that it had the power to heal. Hopefully this is the start of not only my writing for therapy, but a chance to use language to help other people with the chaos in their lives.

One thing that I have heard a lot of in various circles is that, "If you speak something aloud, you give it power and permission to affect you." I realize that I do not agree with that statement at all. By verbalizing something or writing it down, you place it outside of you ,and that is where you can see it clearly and hopefully deal with it. Last week, I wrote about all the impossible questions that I have been asking myself since my brother died and more recently when my son was stillborn. I realize now that I was literally drowning in those questions and that they were threatening to steal my joy. The moment I completed that post, I felt the grip loosen a little. I breathed a little easier. Somehow, placing those questions outside of me, and giving myself permission to leave them unanswered, reduced the amount of power that they had over me.

Recently, I have been thinking a lot about the car accident that I was in in September 2001. The accident happened on a gorgeous day when I was doing everything right: not speeding, wearing my seat belt, and paying attention to the road and driving conditions. It was a nice day and there were no factors that made driving difficult. On that day, a motorcyclist crashed into my car and I crashed into the side of a mountain while trying to avoid him. The motorcyclist died literally at my feet and my body was severely crunched. The accident, which happened just three years after my brother's fatal accident, has had a profound affect on me.

After my brother died, I made a promise to myself that I would never cause my parents to feel an ounce of pain on my behalf. I would never injure myself, never get sick, never get so much as a speeding ticket, or do anything else that would cause them to worry about me. My mom and dad went through so much pain when we lost my brother and I couldn't stand the thought that they would ever experience pain again. Even though the accident was not my fault, I felt so bad that my parents would find out about it and be upset. Following the accident, I had to accept that my efforts to be perfect were futile and that being the perfect daughter was not enough to protect me from the randomness of the world. The accident shook me to my very core and had a profound affect on my family.

Following my car accident, I lived in fear. I had always been an anxious and somewhat vigilant person, but I became someone who was truly ruled by fear. I had terrible nightmares and worried about the affect of the accident on my family. I was worried about my physical health and had concerns that my body would never be the same. I was afraid that the accident had somehow crushed my spirit and that I would never recover. I said to myself, "I survived the death of my brother and several other losses, only to be brought down by this? Is this what will actually do me in?" I had heard that people eventually get to their breaking point and I wondered if I had finally reached mine. My biggest fear was that the accident had somehow taken away the parts of myself that I liked; my optimism, my compassion, and my faith in a loving and compassionate God. I worried about loving people again because people seemed to be so temporary and vulnerable to being taken in an instant.

Recovering from my car accident was not easy but I did it. Over time I regained a lot of the things that I had lost. My body healed, my optimism was renewed, and I moved forward with strength and determination. I'm not really sure why the memories of my car accident have come back to me recently but I've learned to experience feelings without arguing with them. I realize that I have overcome a lot of things from that day, but the fears have stayed with me. Losing my son has brought those fears back into focus and I feel ready to deal with them again.

The ironic thing is that I was anxious during my pregnancy with Keller, but I was never afraid. I didn't fear the pain of labor and delivery, nor was I afraid of becoming a parent. I wanted Keller so much and fear was not something that I wrestled with at all. Looking back I wonder if part of my lack of fear was the fact that I had already survived my worst nightmares and lived to tell about them. What could I possibly be afraid of when I had already overcome so much in my life? In some ways, I had that attitude that I had somehow already reached my quota of chaos and that maybe I was exempt from loss and traumas at least for a little while.

Apparently, searching for a "chaos quota" is as futile as the quest for the "easy button." None of us are exempt from trauma, nor do we achieve a "chaos free status" once we have experienced enough pain in our lives. Over the past weekend, my family suffered another devastating loss with the death of my cousin, Austin. On the heels of my son's stillbirth and four days before the anniversary of his own brother's untimely death, Austin left us suddenly and without warning. As much as I am tempted to ask more "why me?" questions, I know that questions will get me nowhere. It's time for this broken family to set the questions aside, band together, and take steps to heal from our collective tragic experiences.

To be perfectly honest, I am reeling from everything that has happened to my family in recent months and years. I don't know why we have experienced these traumas and I can't fathom any reason or explanation to have tragedy of this magnitude. I am trying to be strong but my strength is definitely being tested right now. What I do know for sure is that I want to live my life without allowing fear to dominate my existence. Even under these circumstances, I know that I am no longer willing to allow fear to steal my joy and affect my relationships. I want to love people without constantly worrying that they will be taken from me.

As hard as it is to say right now, I know that I will move forward and love people for as long as I am lucky enough to know them. And when my loved ones do go to Heaven, I want them to know that I don't regret loving them even though losing them was so hard. I want my son, my brother, and all of the people I have lost to know that overcoming my fears and giving them my love was a choice. And I wouldn't change my decision, even if choosing not to love them would have made losing them easier. The future holds plenty more opportunities for me to know and love people and my sincere hope is that I can keep my fears in check and cherish every precious moment with them, even if those moments are brief.

We were both doing fine... until we weren't.

As October gets closer, I can't help but think about how different September has been from what I predicted. Most of the past year has been spent with me being excited about and anticipating the arrival of September. I had planned to spend this month getting to know my son; instead I have spent the past 4 weeks working my way through grief so intense that it threatens to drown me. My son, Keller, did not survive long enough to see the arrival of his birth month. He died on the last day of August and I delivered him on September 1. Keller is not crying in has bassinette. I am not sleep-deprived and Matt and I are not arguing over diaper duty. This September has not been at all like the way I envisioned.

What confuses me the most is the fact that Keller and I were both so completely healthy... until we weren't. Keller was such an active baby. From the first time I felt him kick, not long after my 29th birthday in May, Keller never stopped playing soccer with my internal organs. During worship songs at church, he would kick and punch so furiously it was a wonder that I didn't have permanent damage. Keller's movement made him seem so... present and vibrant and ALIVE that it never occurred to me that he wouldn't survive long enough to be born. I had just assumed that he would be born healthy and that his activity level would continue into the rest of his life.

I never had reason to believe that Keller and I would not be perfectly healthy. At every prenatal appointment, Keller and I's check-ups were excellent. My blood pressure never spiked, I gained weight at the right rate, and my bloodwork was always good. I even passed the gestational diabetes screening test in spite of my consistent diet of maple bars and Pepsi. My pregnancy was not complicated at all and a lot of pregnant people were jealous about my lack of morning sickness and the fact that I only gained weight in my belly. Keller's heartbeat checks were always good and he appeared to be growing at the correct rate. With the exception of finding out that he had an enlarged kidney at his 20 week ultrasound that later corrected itself, Keller's development was uncomplicated and did not raise any red flags.

I had absolutely no problems with my pregnancy until I developed cholestasis in week 38. Cholestasis is a liver condition where salts build up in the blood and cause the skin to itch uncontrollably. In my opinion, I dealt with the itchiness like a champion until 3 days before I went into labor. That Friday morning, I was so itchy that I could think of nothing else. I honestly tried everything I could, including oatmeal baths, various lotions, and Benadryl to get relief. Nothing worked. I was at the end of my rope when I called my doctor's office with the slim hope that they would tell me to come in and get induced. I knew that induction was a long-shot but I felt somewhat entitled to it because I had carried my son with few complaints for 39.5 weeks and I was DONE. The nurse told me to go home, take more Benadryl, and put lotion on my skin. I was frustrated, but I did what I was told.

Looking back, I can's blame the nurse or anyone else for what happened to Keller. He and I were the pictures of good health... until we weren't anymore. We did not show signs of any major problems, so how could anyone have predicted what happened to us? My frustrating question is, How do two people who are perfectly healthy go from good to bad so fast? How did Keller go from a perfectly healthy and active baby to stillborn without me or anyone else knowing that something was wrong? How did I go from a perfectly healthy mom-to-be to being pumped full of drugs so that I would be "comfortable" as I delivered my baby who would never open his eyes? It boggles my mind and I can't seem to stop wrestling with these questions.

As I have pondered all of this, I have realized that this isn't the first time I have asked these types of questions and not found any answers. When my brother died, I asked myself, "How did Jack go from being a happy and healthy teenager to gone in such a short time?" My final memory of my brother is a good one. I was reminding him to take a pillow on his camping trip and he was laughing and happy. He was so excited about going on that trip and I could not have imagined that he would not return. He was so present and vibrant and ALIVE, just like Keller, until he wasn't anymore. I still have trouble understanding how things changed so fast and how my entire life changed in a moment. In some of my darkest hours, I feel sorry for myself because I have lost them BOTH. My mind cannot comprehend why the people I loved went from earth to Heaven with no indication that their time with me on earth was almost over.

Honestly, I think a lot of people can relate to me as I wrestle with these difficult questions. How many people have experienced times where life changes in a moment? How many people have wondered, "How did it go from good to bad so quickly?" Granted, some losses are predictable, where people appear to fade away from us slowly. Their health declines or they withdraw emotionally and eventually they are gone. More often than not, our lives change in an instant and that is the hallmark of a true crisis. In all kinds of crisis situations we ask, "How did it go from good to bad so fast?"

I don't know if the answers to these difficult questions will ever be found. And really, would knowing "why" actually help? Would understanding "why" bring my son and my brother back to me? I know that answers will not change the way things are, and as difficult as it is, I am charged with the task of accepting my lack of answers to these impossible questions. I am charged with moving forward with my life and allowing some questions to simply go unanswered.

We can torture ourselves with "why me?" until we have missed out on all the goodness and love that life has to offer. It's easy to get trapped in being the victim of the crisis and lose ourselves in our confusion and frustration about what has happened. At some point, we have to realize that continuing to be a victim is a choice. We can decide to be defined by our crises and unanswered questions, or we can accept that our answer may never be found until we are united with God in Heaven. We can decide to accept life's unanswered questions and move forward with a deeper appreciation for our own strength and resilience.

Right now my own strength and resilience aren't as high as I would like them to be. Keller is gone and I am still longing to hold my precious baby. Letting go of all the unanswered questions isn't going to be easy for me, but I am committed to working through my confusion and grief until I get to a point where I am strong and able to move forward. I honestly believe that living a life that is full and free from the restraints of being the "victim" is the best way that I can honor my son, my brother, and all of the people who left us way too soon.

Nothing about this is easy... and that's okay.

It has been nearly three weeks since I gave birth to my beautiful baby, Keller. In a lot of ways, I still can't believe that he did not survive. I find myself looking for him, either down at my belly or in our house. I am looking for proof that I didn't just imagine him and it is during those times that I look at his pictures and things from the hospital and I remember that he is in Heaven and it is now my task to go on living without him.


For some reason, I keep looking for some aspect of all of this to be easy. It's like I have a sense of entitlement for SOMETHING in this whole mess to be simple and not too difficult. I keep thinking about what has happened and I realize that everything about this is difficult; there is no "easy button" as the CEO of Staples would like us to believe. Once I remind myself how futile the search for the mythical "easy button" is, the more I am resolved to live the best life that I can even though it is hard.


That said, would it be too much to ask, really, for some part of this whole situation to come easily? I am committed to living each day and putting one foot in front of the other, but does it really have to be so difficult? It seems like every day involves some-sort of difficult task or event that must be overcome so that I can make it to the next day and task. It makes me wonder how I am going to make it through more days and more tasks if everything is so difficult to manage.


In the past week, I have done several difficult things. I attended a barbeque with my church friends and even managed to enjoy myself. I went to the local grocery store for the first time, with Matt's help, and managed to get everything on my list without crying and leaving the store. I went back to work, and with the help of my awesome co-worker, was able to make it through the day. I was even able to help with and attend the wedding of one of my best friends. All of these tasks seem to be relatively simple, but they were difficult for me because they involved being with people and focusing on something other than myself and the pain of losing my son.


This week also marked the first time I had to explain to someone, in person, what had happened. I was out to dinner with a friend when the waitress said, "Wow, you don't even look pregnant when you are sitting down." I had to explain to her that I am no longer pregnant and that my son was stillborn. She felt bad for asking, but I assured her that I am so happy to live in a small town where people actually care enough to ask about your family. It reminded me just how much Keller was anticipated and wanted by people all over the state and especially in my little town of Deer Lodge.



One of the most difficult things that I did this week was attend my follow-up doctor's appointment. I walked in to the office and went through the routine that I had become so accustomed to over the past 9 months. When I met with my doctor, she was very kind and gentle with me. She explained that my blood work had come back perfect and so had Keller's. She said that we were both in perfect health and that Keller's death was being officially named as a cord accident. She asked about my physical, mental, and emotional health. I told her that physically I am healing fast and that I am actually doing okay mentally. I then told her that I am still very raw emotionally, but that I am seeing a counselor and writing about my experience. Then we talked about Matt and I's desire to have more children in the future. She asked that we wait a year, but said that she would be supportive if we decided to try sooner. She said that physically I would be pretty ready to get pregnant in about 6 months, but that I should make sure that I am healed completely both mentally and emotionally before trying to conceive. We then talked about steps that would be taken to ensure my health and the health of our baby the next time I get pregnant.


Following my doctor's appointment, Matt and I had a serious discussion about having more children. We decided that we are both still committed to going through the whole process again and becomming the parents that I know we can be. We decided that we would consider the doctor's advice, but that we would not put arbitrary time limits or constraints on when we would start trying again. I told Matt that I would know when I was emotionally ready to have another child when I could honestly say that I want to love a completely different and separate baby. At the moment, I just want Keller. When I think "I want to have a baby" what I am really thinking is, "I want MY baby, the one that I carried for 9 months and gave birth to." Thinking about a baby, without picturing Keller's beautiful face, is not something I'm capable of right now. I am optimistic that I will heal to a point where I am ready to move forward and love my future children with the same earnestness and devotion that I now focus on Keller.


When I think about going through another pregnancy, with all of its physical and emotional ups and downs, it gives me severe anxiety. I think about all of the prenatal appointments, the preparations, and the anticipation and I can feel my chest get tight. When I am able to get a handle on myself, I remember that nothing about this is easy, so why would thinking about getting pregnant again be easy? Maybe I need to continue to work on accepting the difficulty of this situation and remember that very few things, that are truly worth it, ever come easily. As Matt says, "Maybe things that you don't have to work for, that come easily, are things that you probably shouldn't have in the first place."


Perhaps it is time to give up the quest for the "easy button," accept the situation for what it is, and look at the future knowing that it will be the most difficult battle that I have ever faced. Perhaps it is time to look at those things that are difficult and realize that difficulty isn't necessarily a bad thing. It's our difficulties in life that give us our strength, our character, and our resolve to improve things in the future.

Keller's Story

I orginally posted this on my Facebook page and it inspired me to start blogging. It is my hope that Keller's Story may inspire and help others heal from similar experiences.

This story is very long and may be difficult to read. I wish I could say that it has a happy ending, but the truth is that it doesn't really end. Keller's Story is just a single chapter of "Jami's Story" and I hope that my story is not complete yet. Maybe I will have a happy ending, maybe I won't. I do know that, while I have known great pain and sorrow, I have also known intense joy and times of extreme happiness. My story is not so unique or odd; it is a human story, just like everyone else's. So, that said, this is a story not unlike many others. It has humor, joy, pain, and should probably be read with the Kleenex box close by. It is the story of Keller, a wonderful baby who left us way too soon.

I found out that I was pregnant with Keller on January 1, 2009. I did not believe the first test because I had thrown the directions away and wasn't sure what "+" meant (duh), so I tried a digital test. When it instantly came up "pregnant" I was so excited and so scared. I took another digital test the next day (just to make sure that I wasn't dreaming or delusional) and it said "pregnant" as well.

The next 9 months are a blur of doctor's appointments, baby showers, and anxiety attacks. At Keller's 20 week ultrasound, we were informed that he was a boy and that he had an enlarged kidney. I was devastated at the news, but relieved to find out at the 28 week ultrasound that the problem had corrected itself. Other than that scare, it was an easy pregnancy with no major complications until I developed cholestasis (a minor liver condition that causes the skin to itch uncontrollably) in the 38th week. I loved being pregnant - my basketball-sized belly became my identity and I never tired of Keller practicing Karate on my internal organs. I loved having him all to myself and sharing him with people who asked about him constantly. I loved Matt's face when he would feel or see him move. I loved that I was providing Matt with the chance to be a father and that we were giving our parents a grandchild.

One thing that made the whole pregnancy exciting and fun was my husband's reaction to it. Matt loved being an expectant dad. He would tell anyone and everyone who would listen that he was going to have a baby boy in September. He never tired of putting together baby furniture, shopping for baby stuff, and talking about his son. In my third trimester, it became apparent that Keller was completely "Daddy's Boy." He would respond to Matt's voice and touch instantly, like he knew who his daddy was and wanted to connect with him. The look on Matt's face when Keller would push on his hand through my belly is one of my fondest memories of being pregnant.

I was probably the most neurotic expectant mom that you would ever meet. I meticulously prepared for Keller's birth by organizing, cleaning, and getting the house and car ready for him. I insisted that Matt put the car seat in the car 5 weeks before my due date because I wanted to bring him home if I went into labor early. I packed all of our hospital bags, including the diaper bag, and made Matt put them in the car before every appointment in the last 4 weeks of my pregnancy. I washed Keller's laundry, did his dishes, and made his bed long before I felt the first contraction.

As much as I liked being pregnant, I was eager to give birth and meet my little boy. By week 38 he was so heavy and I was itching so bad that I could think of nothing besides giving birth and meeting my son. I was truly ready to be done being pregnant and start being a mother. When I felt contractions on the day of August 31, 2009, I was so excited and so scared. I dealt with the pain for an hour before calling Matt to come home from work. I called my doctor and she said to come to Missoula. I dealt with contractions all the way and was relieved to make it to the hospital.

When we checked in to the labor and delivery ward, they gave me a gown and a belly band. Then they got the monitors going. The nurse tried to find a heartbeat with one of the monitors and when she couldn't, she went and got the charge nurse. She changed monitors but still couldn't find a heartbeat. They called my doctor and started the ultrasound machine. When my doctor got there, she coulldn't find a heartbeat on the ultrasound, so she tried a cord that she attached to Keller's head. She then told me the news, "Jami, your baby is no longer alive. I am so sorry." Then she informed me that I would have to give birth vaginally, like normal, but that they would try to make it as comfortable for me as possible.

What happened next still feels like an out-of-body experience, like I watched it happening to someone else. The anasthesiologist came in and gave me an epidural. It took him 4 tries to get the needle in because my spine was damaged in a car accident 8 years ago. It was incredibly painful and I still have bruises from 4 large needle sticks in the back. After that, I spent the next 8 hours in labor even though I could not feel the contractions. Our parents arrived at the hospital and our moms came in to check on us. They were so sad but glad that Matt and I were holding up ok. I continued to itch from the epidural and residual effects of the cholestasis and spiked fevers and got chilled. There was some concern that I had a virus of some-sort, so I was treated with IV antibiotics.

During the night, we met with a team of incredibly sensitive and caring nurses. One nurse in particular, had secific training on helping parents cope with stillborn and high-risk births. She talked to us about what we wanted for the birth. Did we want to see him be born? Did we want to hold him before or after his bath? Would we want pictures to be taken of him? These questions were difficult to answer, but we made some tough decisions as my labor continued into the morning.

At about 6:30 I was instructed to push. At that moment, I decided that I could not and would not push Keller out. I was not strong or inspired enough to push out my baby who would never cry or breathe a breath of air. In the fog of all of it, I heard Matt's voice saying, "you have to do this Jami. You can do this and you will." Where the strength actually came from, I don't know, but at 7:30 am on September 1, 2009, Keller was literally torn from my body and I became the mother of a stillborn son.

When Keller came out, his umbilical cord was wrapped very tightly around his neck. It was apparent that he likely died from some-sort of cord accident, whether it was pinched or just too tight. The possibility of me having a virus that got into my placenta (as evidenced by my chills and fevers during labor) was discussed as a secondary cause of Keller's death. Matt and I decided to forgo an autopsy because the cause of death was so apparent and we don't have a lot of history of genetic problems in our families. Ultimately we decided that Keller had been through enough and deserved to rest.

The next few hours are a blur. I know that my epidural was removed and I slowly regained use of my legs. We met with a hospital social worker and discussed funeral arrangements and grief counseling. Then Matt and I made a difficult decision. We wanted to see and hold our son, even if it was only for a few moments. We also allowed a photographer from an organization called, Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep, to take some photos of us with our son. Holding Keller was the single most difficult thing I have ever done. It was also the best moment of my life and something that I will remember forever.

Keller was a beautiful baby. He had my hands and feet, but every other feature was Matt. It was like looking into the face of a miniature version of my husband. I can only imagine how it must have felt for Matt to see himself in the face of a baby that he will never feed or rock to sleep.

Following our time with Keller, I was moved to the medical/surgical floor to recover without the sound of mothers pushing and babies crying. On my new floor, I was treated by another team of compassionate and caring nurses who helped me with my basic post-partum needs. Matt and I received visits from several friends and family and answered some phone calls. I received IV medication for a virus and we stayed over night in the hospital. We met with the social worker again to finalize the arrangements and I met with my doctor. She said that she was very sorry, encouraged me to get counseling, and scheduled a follow-uo appointment for 2 weeks later. Then we were discharged from the hospital.

Going home was tough. As I was wheeled out of the hospital, it felt like I was missing something. Somehow I was leaving without my big basketball belly and without my baby. I sobbed uncontrollably all the way home because I couldn't believe that Keller would never be home with us. He would never sleep in the room that I so carefully decorated for him. He would remain in our hearts, but not in our home. Luckily our generous and caring friends, Dan and Becky, went to our home and put all of the baby stuff in Keller's room and shut the door. While it felt somewhat like we had erased him, it made it better to come home and not see his things in every room of the house.

The days that followed were a mixture of intense sadness, moments of joy and remembering, and episodes of mental and emotional numbness. I started to heal physically and took care of myself. One thing that was extremely difficult was 3 days after Keller's birth when my milk came in. I was waiting for Matt to finish his shower when I noticed that I was dripping. While the nurses had warned me that it would happen, I could not believe that God would be so cruel as to make me endure the discomforts of lactation when I didn't have a baby to feed. It is my hope that getting past the physical effects of giving birth will allow my spirit and my emotions to heal faster. Time will tell on that one.

On September 10, just 10 days after his birth, we held a memorial service for Keller. It was a beautiful service, filled with the worship music that he loved and attended by over 150 people who already loved him. Getting through the service was difficult for Matt and I, but we are so glad that we held a public service to remember Keller and to formally say "see you later" to our precious baby. One of the hardest parts of the service was when our friends read letters that we had written to Keller. We poured our hearts into those letters and it was somehow cathartic to share our inner feelings with our friends and family in that way.

On September 12, Matt and I decided that we wanted to look at Keller's pictures that were taken in the hospital. Looking at the photos was extremely difficult for me because in some ways, those photos are really the only tangible evidence I have that Keller was here. My big belly is already going away, people are going back to their everyday lives, and Matt and I are getting stronger every day. Someday we will be able to look at those pictures and feel joy instead of intense pain. It is our hope that someday we may even frame some of the pictures so our friends, family, and future children can look at them anytime they want.

Keller Daniel Eads weighed 7 lbs, 7 oz and was 21 inches long. He will be remembered as an active baby who loved church music and his father's voice. His most active time of day was 11:30 pm and he always seemed to know when I needed a reassuring kick to know that he was okay.

In his short 9 months on earth Keller touched so many lives. So many people were eagerly awaiting his arrival and are brokenhearted that they will never know him. I am so thankful that I had as much time with him as I did. I still can't believe that my precious baby is in Heaven instead of home in my arms. I ache to hold him and feel like I will never be complete again.

People often ask me, because I have known a lot of trauma and pain in my life, if I still believe in God after all that has happened. The truth is yes, I do still believe in God. I believe that God is compassionate and merciful. I believe that God is in control and that we should praise him even in our darkest hours. I do not feel like God has targeted me and given me more pain than an average person. Sometimes I can't help but feel like God has taken a few vacation days where I am concerned, but then I remember that God never promised that we would be free from pain. He does say that he will comfort us in our pain and I believe that he gives us strength to get through even the worst situations.

As Matt and I look to the future, we are certain that we will have more children. We have so much love to give and we want Keller to have siblings. We can never replace our precious Keller, but we can move forward and live lives that would make him proud to call us his parents.

In all of this, I feel the presence of my brother, Jack Daniel Brogan, who died in 1998 at age 16. Jack has alwayys been with me, but I feel his presence most when I am being strong. I hope that Jack is proud of me as well and that he takes good care of his nephew. I will miss both Keller and Jack every day until we are all reunited in Heaven. Between now and then I want to remember them, respect them, and honor them with my actions and words. I know that they are together and watching over all of us.

To my precious baby Keller, I want you to know that being your mom is my greatest joy in life. I loved every minute of our short time together. I will remember you and love you every single day for the rest of my life. I pray that you will always know how much you were loved and wanted. Know that you will never be replaced or forgotten. I love you so much.