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Dear World: Please Remember My Son

October 4, 2018 · by Ari · Leave a Comment

And just like that I find myself at 35 weeks pregnant. Five weeks away from my due date, but if Baby Mac & Cheese is anything like Maddox, probably a little less until we actually meet them.

I’ve spent a lot of this pregnancy feeling overwhelming anxiety. Every appointment has gone perfectly, but I’ve been there before. I know first hand how everything can look perfect and you can still leave the hospital without your baby.

But, as we get closer, I have started to finally feel some excitement, allowing myself to believe we might actually take this baby home. And the excitement of everyone in our lives is incredible. I love how our people love this baby so hard. And how excited they are to meet them.

That brings a whole new fear: that once our new baby arrives, Maddox will be forgotten. I know that all parents with multiple children have to learn to share their love, to grow their heart and create space for a new love. And that doesn’t mean pushing aside the space one occupies. They both exist simultaneously.

The difference is, Maddox lives on this earth for 13 days. Baby Mac & Cheese will, hopefully, live long beyond my time here. There will be more memories. They will do fun, silly, cute and obnoxious things literally every day. They will meet more people and have a real chance to make their mark on the world.

And the truth is, most people don’t understand infant loss. And many people will think that having this second child fills the hole in our hearts that Maddox left behind. They don’t understand that you can know someone so fully before you ever officially meet them. I knew Maddox to the core, more than I have ever known another human.

One human life can never be replaced by another. No matter how thrilled we are to welcome this tiny human into our lives, we will never stop remembering, missing and loving Maddox. His presence will be a constant in our hearts and the core of everything we do.

My fear is that the world will forget. That they will think this birth ties everything up into a nice, neat little package and suddenly we will be okay. They will stop talking about Maddox, stop remembering him and go on living their lives as if he never existed.

We are so, insanely grateful for the love, empathy and excitement our people have shared with us over the last 2 years through 2 pregnancies, 1 birth and a monumental loss. It is not something everyone in our lives was up for, and that’s okay, because the people who have stuck around and been there for us are the only people we need. They are the very best.

As you watch this new perfect human enter the world and grow up into a stubborn, emotional, bold adult with a kickass back squat, we ask you to please remember the beautiful, perfect human that came before. And please, let him still matter.

My sweet Maddox, no one could ever take your place. We will never forget you. And, no matter how much we love your little sibling, the absence you have left in our world will never be filled. It is your space to take in this world where you deserve so much more.

Filed Under: Maddox ·

Life Without Maddox: 5 Months

October 15, 2017 · by Ari · Leave a Comment

This morning I woke up like I have on the 15th of every month for the past 5 months. Before I opened my eyes, I felt a heaviness, a weight on my chest. My heart hurt long before my brain was fully awake.

It’s weird. Our bodies know things before our brains can even register.

And then my brain caught up. And I knew immediately why I woke up feeling that pain in my chest.

In the beginning, all I wanted was to feel normal, for everyone to treat me like I was normal. I felt like my pain was on display and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t hide it.

Now, it’s been 5 months. The world has continued to spin (imagine that…) and everyone other than our closest circle has moved on.

Although people once had lowered expectations of me, understanding that I was going through this overwhelming loss, that is no longer the case. I worked so hard to show everyone that I could be okay, that I could handle this and whatever else they wanted to throw at me.

And now, I struggle with the feeling of resentment over these new, higher expectations. I feel totally misunderstood and hurt that the act I’ve put on seems to have worked.

It’s fucking ridiculous.

I wasn’t happy being treated like I was different. And now, I’m not happy being treated like I’m normal.

I guess what it comes down to is: I’m just….not happy. Either way. Any way.

And, I suppose that’s normal. Whatever that word means these days.

I feel like the moment you lose your child, the world inherently gets that it is a huge deal, an indescribable loss. But what most people don’t understand is how the loss doesn’t go away, doesn’t even lessen. At least, not in the first several months, and probably, the first several years.

Feeling that loss every day while the rest of the world seems to go on as if nothing happened feels isolating. Knowing people expect things from you when you still struggle every morning to get out of bed and put one foot in front of the other….it’s overwhelming.

Every bit of pressure seems magnified and every mistake I make feels monumental.

I thought I wanted to make all of these commitments, to busy my schedule and keep my mind occupied, focused on anything other than what is actually going on in my life. That’s how I usually deal with things, the way I’ve always known how to cope.

It’s scary. Knowing there is no answer, that, no matter what I choose, I will probably still feel the same amount of sadness.

And, as someone with a strong need to be seen and understood for who I am, it is insanely hard to know that 99% of the world can never truly understand where I am right now.

It’s clear in the things people say when they think they’re being kind. When people tell me they need me to be okay or that they miss the person I was. As if I don’t miss that person, too.

I feel as though I’m simultaneously mourning the loss of Maddox, all of Maddox’s potential as a human being, the person I thought I was and the way I thought the world worked, all at once. It’s overwhelming. And it feels….impossible.

Every day is an exercise with learning to be okay with not being okay. And trying to teach those around me that it’s okay, too. That I don’t need fixing and that the pieces they would need to put me back together are burried with Maddox.

Because he is the piece that is missing.

Filed Under: Uncategorized ·

Dear Maddox: 5 Months

October 7, 2017 · by Ari · Leave a Comment

I’m a little late this month. But I think Maddox would forgive me.

Dear Maddox,

By now, you would be 5 months old, almost half a year. Time no longer feels like something measurable, but rather as this odd numerical value to the time I have been without you.

You would have loved today. Your dad and I, along with a bunch of your extended family, did the Phoenix Children’s Hospital 5k as team MJ Beefcake. If you were here, you would have gotten a free ride in that fancy running stroller we got from everyone in BTB.

Your probably would have slept the whole time. But everyone would have been coming up to the stroller to tell us how handsome you are.

Today was a good day. But even good days are hard.

We spent the morning with so many amazing people that came out just to honor you, which felt amazing. Until I stopped to think about why everyone needed to come honor you in the first place.

I still feel so cheated. Only getting 13 days with the most perfect person I have ever known. I still feel like I don’t understand, like my life isn’t really mine, but instead, some bad dream I can’t wake up from.

And I feel so sad that you can’t be here to see how many people love you. It’s insane.

The people who met you are different because of you. Every. Single. One. You are more powerful than you could ever know.

By now you would be rolling over, sitting up, getting ready to call and talking nonstop. Although none of it would probably make any sense yet. But you’re my kid so the babbling would definitely be happening.

I would tell your dad that everything you say means “mom is my favorite”. And I’d probably be right.

You’d have lots of friends at school and you’d probably be excited to get rid of us and hang out with the other babies when we dropped you off every day. I imagine I would still cry every time I had to leave you.

Because being without you is the worst thing that has ever happened in my life.

I imagine by now, I would be looking for every opportunity to use you as a baby model at work so you could be famous. Because we love attention in this family. Plus, you were so frickin cute.

You would meet more people that were infatuated with you than you’d know what to do with. And you would be asking me (eventually) why you have like 100 aunts and uncles and when you can have 100 siblings, too.

I’d tell you, hell no, kid. Ain’t happening.

One day, I would explain to you that there are two types of family: the family you are born into and the family you create. And that, if you’re really lucky, you end up with an entire extended family you could never live without.

This year on your 5 month birthday, your aunt Andi would have turned 40. Although you will always be my greatest loss, Andi was my first great loss.

I would tell you stories about how we were so similar, both kids at heart and both with big hearts we wore on our sleeves. I would tell you that losing your best friend is hard and that I will miss her until the day I die.

I’d tell you to hug your aunt Bethy extra tight because losing a sister is even harder than losing a friend. And I would tell you how grateful I was that we got to take you home because I could never get through losing you.

But life is ironic that way. We say we could never do something when, in reality, we don’t get the luxury of deciding. Life decides for us and we can either give up or put one foot in front of the other.

You opened my heart in a way I never knew was possible. And because of you, I can’t give up so my only option is to keep going.

I would give you an extra squeeze and soak in how lucky I am to be your mom. And even though I can’t give you that extra squeeze, there feeling of gratitude for being your mom stays true.

You are still my world, Maddox. Here or not.

I haven’t truly believed in heaven for a long time. But I know if I’m wrong and it does exist, your aunt Andi is taking the most amazing care of you up there.

I miss you both every day.

Filed Under: Infant Loss, Maddox ·

Life Without Maddox: 4 Months {how we’re coping}

September 15, 2017 · by Ari · 1 Comment

Sometimes I’m just sitting there and all of the sudden I miss Maddox so much it feels like my heart stops and the world freezes. I will go from feeling my new normal (which is still weird AF) to the overwhelming aching of missing him in the blink of an eye.

Today I was sitting in a waiting room and one second I was fine. The next I was wiping back tears, wondering if I’m going to be able to pull myself together or if I’ll have to leave. It’s all so unpredictable.

It’s as though for years I’ve taken the same roads every day like clockwork and then, suddenly, all of them are closed and I have to discover a new route, a new way to do everything in my life that once felt normal and easy.

Nothing feels easy now. Four months have passed since Maddox was here with us and I still wake up every single day feeling like my heart is no longer whole.

Anyway, I’ve talked a lot lately about how I’m feeling. And that’s cool, but it’s time for something (only slightly) different.

Today, I wanted to share what Steve and I are doing to cope. I know we’re not the only ones who have been in this situation or any insanely tough, life-changing situation. When we first lost Maddox, all I could think is

How does anyone go on after this? How am I going to do this?

 

I lean on my people.

At Maddox’s celebration of life, my mom spoke. She reiterated that question I had asked her no less than 20 times. She said, “You are going to continue to put one foot in front of the other and lean on your community.” And she was right.

For the first time in my life, I’ve let go of worrying about being a burden and started being honest about how I’m feeling. Maybe not with everyone, but I have a really great group of people I know I can share with anytime. And I unapologetically let them be there for me.

Because I definitely do not have everything together right now. And that’s okay.

I lift heavy things.

I get up every day and go to the gym. Sometimes I have a terrible night and I go in the next morning on 4 hours of sleep with my eyes still red and puffy feeling too weak to lift the bar, let alone workout.

But I show up and I see my people and I do the best I can. And ya know what? By the end of the workout, I always feel better than when I came in. Even if it’s just a little bit.

For me, physical strength translates into emotional and mental strength. The more I can achieve physically, the more I feel like I can take on whatever life gives me.

Right now, it’s hard to see any real progress in my life. Honestly, I feel like I’m in a constant state of reverse, waking up every day as a less awesome version of myself.

But in my workouts? I am the strongest I’ve ever been. Like, seriously, ever.

And I had major surgery just 4 1/2 months ago. And before that, I gave Maddox a free ride for almost a year. The fact that I am already not just back to where I was before but better – it’s pretty damn amazing.

Now my endurance and cardio are another story… But, one thing at a time.

I’ve got a good thing going at work.

Seriously. I have the most incredible support system there.

I have 3 amazing friends that I know will drop everything in their work day to go for a walk and listen when I’m down or send me dachshund videos or knock on the bathroom door and follow me in if I go in there to cry.

Getting out of the house and going into the office every morning gives me purpose. It keeps me busy and gives me something tangible to focus on rather than dwelling on how I’m feeling.

I 100% would not be able to do it without my girls, but going in and seeing them every day and being able to be productive makes an incredible difference in how I’m feeling.

I’m not messin’ around with this whole mental health thing.

I’m seeing an amazing psychologist.

Listen, I am not above admitting when I’m out of my element and I need help. I am literally in the middle of what has to be the hardest thing I will ever go through in my life. I have no fucking clue what I’m doing here.

Having a place to talk it out is great, but more importantly, I have someone to give my achievable goals and things I can work on to help me get through my grief. It’s not like if I just sit here and don’t put in the work I will magically feel better one day. Healing is hard work and I have to put in the effort every single day if I want to see a difference.

We’re prioritizing our marriage.

Remember when I said I was going to talk about both me and Steve and then talked only about myself for paragraphs on end? Yeah….clearly I’m excellent at this whole being a couple thing.

Anyway.

One of my biggest fears after we lost Maddox is that I would lose Steve, too. The statistics don’t look so good for couples who go through such a profound loss. I knew immediately that if we were going to make it, we’d have to fight every single day.

When I got pregnant with Maddox, Steve and I were in the absolute best place we had ever been in our relationship. Throughout my pregnancy, our relationship only got better and better. And the moment I saw Steve fully become Maddox’s dad, I felt my love for him more deeply than I even knew was possible.

Real talk:

We went through a time after we lost Maddox that our relationship felt kind of shitty. We were both irritable all the time and often took it out on each other. We were each probably the worst versions of ourselves, which made us both less than awesome partners.

But we just continued to talk about it. To touch base and assess where we were and if we thought we needed additional help for our marriage. We agreed that if things didn’t improve, we would find a couples counselor in addition to our personal ones.

And ya know what? We got through it and figured out how to be there for each other. We’re constantly working on how to listen and help each other when we have completely opposite coping strategies.

I spend my time doing as much as I can, trying to stay as busy as possible and, probably, avoiding. He takes time when he needs it but sometimes disconnects so much that it’s not healthy either.

We continue to challenge each other and push each other to slow down (me) or get the fuck out of the house (Steve). Sometimes it’s annoying (like when I’m not the one doing the pushing), but honestly, I would not be anywhere near okay if I didn’t have him.

Then there’s that whole writing thing.

Having this space to share my feelings has been incredibly therapeutic. I kinda figured after the initial week or so anyone reading would get bored and go back to their normal life.

I mean, how much grief can one person read about?

And honestly, I didn’t expect anyone to read these anyway. I haven’t kept up on this blog for over a year. And, really, anyone reading wasn’t the point. The writing was just something I felt the need to do for myself.

But I have to say, as a person who loves feeling loved, it’s felt pretty damn amazing to not only share the darkest pieces of my heart but to receive so much love and kindness.

There is good in the world. And you people are it.

Filed Under: Infant Loss, Maddox ·

Dear Maddox: 4 Months

September 3, 2017 · by Ari · 3 Comments

Dear Maddox,

Yesterday you would have turned 4 months old. You would be smiling at people, holding your head up on your own, putting everything you touch into your mouth and starting to babble. You would start to recognize people and respond to affection. You would be receiving so much love from all the people who wanted you here with us so badly.

It’s hard to believe a third of a year has passed. Soon, it will be fall – well not really in Phoenix, but in some parts of the world – and your dad and I will have gone an entire season without you here. Sometimes it’s still so hard to believe that this is our life now.

I’d been dreaming of you and waiting for you for a very long time. I never imagined I’d be left in this world without you. It feels like it can’t be real, like one day I will wake up and this will all have been a bad dream. It feels like the pain is too big to be real.

They say that time is what heals us. Not the specific us but the universal us.

I keep waiting for that to be true. I try so hard to keep up the appearance of being “okay” (whatever the fuck that means right now), but the truth is being here without you only seems to get harder.

This month has been particularly hard. I’m feeling so much anger, an emotion I’m not used to. At all. My version of angry usually lasts about 10 minutes and then I just end up crying because, in reality, my feelings were just hurt.

This is different.

A lot of it is directed toward our circumstance, the fact that shit like this can even happen. And that it happened to us. But then there is the rest of the world. I watch myself losing it over things I would normally be able to ignore.

I’ve come to realize that not all of the attention we’ve received in your absence has been authentic. At first, hundreds of Facebook “likes” and dozens of comments made me feel less alone, like the world cared what was going on in our family. But I’ve realized that, so much of it is genuine, some of it is not.

I’ve started to feel like a reality TV show. Like one of those dramatic programs you watch, not wanting the person to fall apart, but waiting to find out what comes next. What will the broken mother who lost her baby do next?

This part I understand. I kind of knew this would happen. But what has shaken me to my core is seeing people go from watching what comes next to scrutinizing our every move, questioning our character and making assumptions they have no business making.

It’s as if some people expect you to sit in your house mourning for…I don’t know how long. When is it acceptable for me to go on a trip? To get a tattoo? To try to appear normal?

I’m angry that people would rather watch us be miserable than support us as we attempt to rebuild our lives. I’m angry that some people don’t stop being assholes just because your life falls apart.

And I’m really fucking angry that my dad hasn’t spoken to me since we lost you. But that is a bigger story for another day.

The anger feels overwhelming. Like that quick sand that kills Atreyu in The Neverending Story, sucking me in and taking over until it’s consumed everything that I am.

I know this is a stage of the grieving process and that it will pass. But that doesn’t make it any easier.

Sometimes I wonder what I would be doing in this exact moment if things had turned out differently. If we had brought you home.

I was so ready for my life to change and no longer be about me. I was ready for vomit in my hair, sleepless nights, a very scant social life. I don’t know what we’d be doing right now if you were here. Maybe you’d be having a terrible day and having an insane screaming crying fit.

You know what? That would be fucking awesome.

I mean, I know it wouldn’t. Not in the moment. But it would be so worth it to have had these 4 months with you.

It breaks my heart that I will never know what life with you really would have been like. Because no one else will ever be you.

I like to imagine what our life would have been like as if you were perfect. Because you were. You never had the opportunity to make a mistake or hurt anyone else. And because you were robbed of those opportunities, I will always get to remember you perfectly.

Before meeting you, I never fully understood the idea of that kind of purity and perfection. But you have changed everything I thought I knew about the world. In more ways than I could ever express.

 

Filed Under: Infant Loss, Maddox ·

I Used to Be Happy

August 26, 2017 · by Ari · 1 Comment

How’s that for an uplifting title, eh?

Most of my adult life has been spent moving forward, upward. I always felt like I was the best I had ever been. The best shape of my life, the most grounded, the best place in my career, my marriage, you name it.

Especially as someone who went through a pretty significant weight loss and lifestyle transformation, I always looked at old pictures of myself and thought about how much better I’m doing now. I’m unaccustomed to the feeling of moving backwards.

I am not in the best place of my life. Or the best shape (no matter how many hours I spend trying to get back there). In fact, I am at the lowest low I have ever known.

In March, when I was, like, really freaking pregnant, I went to one of my best friend’s weddings. It was an amazing weekend seeing her marry the love of her life (and he is so good!), seeing a few of my favorite people and, honestly, just being alive. I was so fucking happy. That whole “pregnancy glow” thing people talk about it? I was like one of those lights that practically blinds you with its glow.

Today, I saw the photos from the wedding. And they are so beautiful. We all look so happy.

I can see it in my eyes, in my whole being. I used to be so damn happy. It was this huge part of my identity. If you were to ask people I knew to describe me they would tell you I was loud and bubbly and happy.

I wish it didn’t break my heart. I just want to go and look at these pictures from the happiest times of my life and celebrate that joy, that time I spent with Maddox before I knew anything was wrong. When my biggest concern was whether I would be able to be the best version of myself for him without sleeping for the first 6 months of his life.

Now, every picture, every moment before the last 4 months of my life is like looking into a museum of the person I used to be and the happiness that used to resonate so effortlessly from my soul.

I don’t really know what to do with that. With the feeling that my life will never be as good as it was before, that I will never be that happy ever again. Feeling as though the best days of my life are behind me and I am staring into the darkness of a future where I will never be who I was before.

It is terrifying. And isolating. And confusing.

I am a person who makes plans, sets goals. So now my goal is to try to be as close to happy as I used to be? Or what? My goal is to move forward one step at a time, which I know is the perfect goal for someone in my situation, but it is not the perfect goal for me.

It makes my entire existence feel…wasteful, insignificant.

And then there is the guilt. The guilt that I am looking at photos from the happiest day of my friend’s life and all I feel is heartache. The guilt that every time she looks at these pictures she, too, will be reminded that Maddox isn’t here. I feel like I stole some piece of her happiness that I can’t give back.

It shouldn’t be about me. But, lately, everything feels like it’s about me. Even when it’s not.

Part of me keeps waiting for the day when I will stop discovering new ways to miss Maddox, new ways to feel this loss. But, as a parent, you never stop discovering new ways to love your child and, if your child is gone, you never stop finding new ways to miss them.

Filed Under: Infant Loss, Maddox ·

Maddox’s Unveiling

August 19, 2017 · by Ari · 1 Comment

In the Jewish tradition, within the first year after losing a loved one, there is typically a ceremony where the headstone is placed called an unveiling. Now, I am not a religious person. However, the I have always loved celebrating my culture and customs.

On Maddox’s 3 month birthday, Steve and I went to visit him. His headstone wasn’t supposed to arrive for another week so it was a nice(?) surprise to show up and see his spot finally complete. Visiting him and seeing the bare patch of ground that had so recently been dug up for him…it was just too much for me. I needed him to have a real spot that is only his. A home.

My mom had mentioned wanting to do an unveiling once his headstone arrived. I was worried we wouldn’t be able to do it before my brother left for school, but everything worked out and, two weeks ago, we had a very small, non-religious unveiling for Maddox.

Another Jewish tradition is bringing a rock to leave on the headstone. You’re supposed to set the rock down with your left hand (not sure why the left – I’m actually pretty terrible about knowing most of these customs) to let your loved one know you were there. My mom brought extra rocks so that everyone who came to be with us on this day could leave one.

If I believed in any sort of life after death, I know that Maddox would be feeling so much love. I truly believe that there has never been a human alive more loved than that kid. And even though I don’t truly believe he can feel the love that continues to surround him (I wish I believed in that so badly, but that is a topic for another time), Steve and I feel it. And right now, we need it so, so badly.

There’s no way to sugar coat it: this was a hard day. I felt a particularly sharp, unconsolable type of broken, worse than how I remember feeling when Maddox first passed. I couldn’t figure out why until Steve mentioned that this whole chapter is now kind of…finished. Everything is finalized. The rest of the world keeps moving. But my world still feels stopped, as if my car broke down in the middle of the freeway and everyone continues to zoom by around me, unable to see that I’m stuck there, broken.

But! It was also an incredible day. In the moments of the deepest sadness, I am continuously reminded of the love surround Maddox, Steve and me. How insanely lucky to have so many people who will drop everything to be there to do something no one really wants to do. Nobody wakes up in the morning and thinks I want to go to the cemetery today! But still, the people I love have faced the fear and darkness that comes with this process and shown unconditional love and support.

I am overwhelmed by feelings on both ends of the spectrum of what did I do to deserve this? To deserve losing my son, to deserve such an incredible support system. I don’t know. I feel humbled by the incredible outpouring of kindness my family has received, while simultaneously stunned by how truly unfair life can be.

Since this day, I’ve taken a couple more of my closest friends to visit Maddox. Having the people I love want to continue to be a part of his life even though he’s gone is a feeling I will never be able to describe. Seeing people truly love your baby instinctively strengthens you love for them. Seeing people love your baby who is no longer with you…there are no words for that type of love and gratitude.

Filed Under: Infant Loss, Maddox ·

Life Without Maddox: 3 Months

August 15, 2017 · by Ari · 2 Comments

Three months have gone by. The length of an entire season. The time covered in each of those new episodes of Gilmore Girls.

It feels like years. It feels like yesterday.

When Maddox was in the NICU, someone said to me “Having a child is like having your heart walking around outside your body.” It felt accurate. I was, for the first time, completely out of control of everything that mattered to me. This is always the case once you become a mother, but when you’re a mother to a sick baby, you feel it times 10.

Losing your child feels like having your heart walk around outside your body, get trampled on, torn to pieces, then stuck back on your outside where the whole world can see your pain. But most of them can never understand it. It is having every challenge, tough moment, tragedy on display. It’s a pain like none I’ve ever experienced.

But. As you walk around with your ripped and tattered heart barely hanging off your sleeve, you discover that the world may be cruel but most people are not. You realize (or re-realize) the overwhelming support of the community you don’t feel you deserve. And you see that, even if you never wanted to push through anything this massive, in time, you will.

During marathon training, one of my mantras that got me through tough workouts was you can do anything. Simple. Cheesy but effective.It got me through tough hill repeats, 20 mile runs and the foolishness of training for a marathon through the Phoenix summer (seriously, why did I do that?). I felt so empowered, as if there were truly nothing I couldn’t do.

I never wanted to truly test that sentiment. Obviously. I never imagined I would find myself struggling to keep my head above water in the most heartbreaking circumstances. But, I can do anything. Even if it fucking sucks.

My sweet Maddox, I miss you more every single day. That will never change. But if I believed in heaven, I would know you were up there and I would want you to know that I will be okay. Because I can do anything, even living in a world where you do not.

Nothing about this will ever feel right or okay. Learning to be “okay” means learning to live in this new, sub-par version of okay. Wondering every day what my life would be like if you were here. If things had turned out differently.

Attempting to “persevere” or whatever you would call this feels wrong, too. Like, I don’t get to praise myself for putting one foot in front of the other when Maddox didn’t get that opportunity. It’s an almost impossible place where every step feels wrong. All I know is I should never have to live in a world where my son does not. But that is the world I live in.

Today, I got out of bed, put one foot in front of the other and made it through a seemingly normal day. And sometimes, that is the best you can do.

 

Filed Under: Infant Loss, Maddox ·

Maddox’s Birth Story

August 14, 2017 · by Ari · 2 Comments

A couple of weeks ago, I had coffee with a friend of mine. We sat down to chat and she said “Will you tell me Maddox’s birth story?”

I stopped for a moment and realized, not a single person has asked me that until now. I mean, I know not everyone in the world cares about your birth story, but I realized in that moment that if your baby also has a death story, no one asks for their birth story.

That question made my eyes light up, remembering those moments before Maddox was born, before we knew anything was wrong when our biggest question was will it be a boy or a girl?


Throughout my pregnancy, I always had this feeling that when it was time for Maddox to come, I would just know. I’d feel it or sense it or something. People told me I was nuts, but I still had a feeling.

I also told everyone that I was going to go a week overdue. I was a week late and I know first-time moms often go closer to 41 weeks so I just kind of assumed. Although, my friend Holly kept telling me “This is your baby. He’s going to be on time.” Touche.

Maddox was due on May 2nd. On Sunday, April 30th that feeling that I knew would happen started happening. I started to feel a couple things that were a little different and I knew that he wasn’t coming that day, but he was at least coming that week.

The next morning, I woke up and went to CrossFit like normal. Everything was pretty normal except that I had a sneaking suspicion that might be the last workout Maddox and I did together for a while. On my way home, he was acting so different! He would usually be sound asleep after being tossed around at the gym, but he was up and having a dance party in there.

On my drive home I started feeling very mild contractions. They continued as I showered, got ready and went to work. Once I sat at my desk and they continued, I figured I should probably time them since they’d been regular for a good hour now. They were all right around 5 min apart, but still super mild.

I called my midwife and they told me to go in to get checked out. So I left the office and told everyone “I think I might have a baby today!” Everything was still so mild, I was in great spirits and super excited to meet MJ.

Well, as you may guess, I was quickly sent home from the hospital. Turns out when you’re still smiling and giggling through contractions, you’re not 100% ready to deliver a baby yet. Shocking, right?

I went home to lounge on the couch. The contractions continued pretty regularly and started to get more intense as the afternoon went on. I was told not to come back to the hospital until they were 2 minutes apart so I ended up going to bed pretty early, hoping for a little sleep.

Well, of course, as soon as I laid down, everything got way more intense! I was not smiling or giggling through contractions anymore – OMG I thought I had a good pain tolerance, but no! I tried getting into the shower to see if it would help but it didn’t do a whole lot. And when the contractions got so bad that I started throwing up, I told Steve I didn’t care how far apart they were, we’re going back to the hospital.

We picked up my mom and headed back to the hospital around midnight. Once I got there, they checked me and said I needed to walk around for an hour before they would admit me. Well, then there was more throwing up and less being able to actually walk. It finally got so bad that I lied and told my mom and Steve that I needed to go to the bathroom but I really just went in, locked the door and laid on the bathroom floor! It was probably my classiest life moment to date.

After Steve told the nurse I was laying on the ground, they decided to let me lay in a bed. I was admitted and quickly changed my plan of  going au naturale and asked about 600 times when I could get an epidural. OMG the anesthesiologist was my BFF. I would have married him.

So at this point, it was like 4am. Steve and my mom fell asleep. I tried but I was just too wound up. Around noon, my midwife came in and told me my contractions had actually slowed down. Cool. She said I could either go back home (which means no more epidural so, um, no.) or they could give me petosin to try to get things going again.

So yeah, I took the keeping the epidural in option. Then it was many more hours of waiting and waiting and poor Maddox never fully descending. Of course, I really wanted to do things as naturally as possible so I was a little bummed when my midwife came in and told me I needed to have a c section. But I was surprisingly calm, too. At the end of the day, I just wanted to meet my baby already!

They moved us pretty quickly into the surgical room, gave me more drugs – OMG the epidural jitters are theeee worst – and got this whole party started.

Honestly, it was weird AF. As soon as they gave me more drugs, it felt like there was a weight blanket over my entire body, like I couldn’t move even my arms. I felt super out of it, which is honestly probably my biggest complaint. I hated not feeling like I was fully present to experience Maddox’s birth.

Now at this point, the one small thing that was left in my birth plan that could actually happen was Steve announcing the sex of the baby. I was adamant about it: Steve would announce it, no one else.

Well, as soon as he came out, I heard one of the nurses say “It’s a boy!” and I tried to ignore it and pretend it hadn’t happened so Steve could tell me himself. He looked down in my eyes and said “We’re having a little boy!” I immediately started to cry, but even that was muted with how out of it and heavy my mind and body felt.

They quickly showed him to me before taking him over to the table to do whatever it is they do there after a c section – why does that affect when you can get your baby in your arms?! That still confuses me.

Almost immediately, I noticed that he wasn’t crying. I asked a bunch of questions and heard them talking about how he was okay. Then, suddenly, I heard the most incredible sound in the entire world as Maddox cried for the first time. I always imagined the whole baby crying thing would be hard to deal with, but it was truly the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard.

Maddox Jude was born May 2nd at 8:02pm, weighing 6lb, 11oz. And before they took him away to the nursery, he made sure to leave his mark by peeing all over one of the nurses. Good job, Maddox.

Filed Under: Maddox, Pregnancy ·

On Starting Over

August 12, 2017 · by Ari · 1 Comment

I always heard that being in your thirties is the best. You come into your own and stop giving a shit about what people think. You learn to embrace who you are and stop trying to be who you think everyone wants you to be.

And it’s eerily true. As I entered my thirties, it was like a light switch went on inside my head and I realized that it wasn’t that I stopped trying to be this idea of who I thought I needed to be, but I had become who I wanted to be. Or, maybe I had been that person for years and I was finally, cliche as it sounds, learning to love myself. Or at least like myself.

As someone who has spent many, many years feeling, for lack of a better term, unworthy, that was a huge fucking deal. This is going to sound super cheesy, but I legit spent every day feeling as though I was living as my true self, rather than hiding my flaws and insecurities. I was learning to be unapologetically me. Emotional, sensitive, loud, often overwhelming me. And that was okay. In fact, it was pretty great.

Something changes when you go through trauma. Or, I guess I should say, something happened to me as I’ve gone through the trauma of losing Maddox.

You never stop to think what will happen to me if I lose my child? And once your inside a circumstance that on the outside felt impossible, there is no way to even imagine what the next minute of your life will hold, let alone the next chapter.

It’s one of those moments that creates a defining break in your life, cuts it into two vastly different pieces. My life before Maddox. And my life as his mom.

I get that. And I think my people get it, even if they don’t get it.

Recently, I asked a good friend who also lost her child if I will ever feel like myself again. She bluntly told me no. In the most loving and honest way possible – no sugar coating, no false expectations. Once you lose your child, you will never be the same again.

So okay, that is something I have to learn to live with. I have to discover this new version of myself and, although that’s not okay, it’s okay. It’s expected? It makes sense.

But now I find myself in this position of meeting new people at this very weird, in-between stage of my life. A stage where I don’t like myself anymore because I’m not the person I was before and I’m not the person I want to become. I’m, truthfully, the worst version of myself. And I don’t know how to interact in the world like a normal adult. It’s like I have to literally learn to adult all over again.

Today, I stopped to look at myself for a moment. And I thought: If I met me now, for the first time, what would I see? And, honestly, I hated the answer.

I’m not entirely sure how to say what I want to say next. I’ve written and erased it about 700 times by now. I guess it comes down to seeing more and more every day how much of myself I’ve lost. How I’ve become someone cold, closed and disingenuous.

I spend enormous amounts of energy trying to slap on a happy face, which is silly because no one expects that. But it’s like I’m terrified to really be me.

Honestly, it’s really frustrating. And embarrassing. Knowing who you thought you were, but not knowing who you are now. It’s a feeling I can’t really explain.

So, now, at 32 years old, I find myself starting from scratch. Except, not really from scratch. It’s like, if sea level is where most people begin as they start creating themselves, I am at the bottom of the fucking ocean trying like hell just to get to square one.

But, somehow I haven’t completely drowned. So I guess that’s something.

Filed Under: Infant Loss, Maddox ·

What’s Next

August 5, 2017 · by Ari · 3 Comments

I guess I never really said much on here before I jumped into writing about Maddox. I mean, it’s been almost 2 years since I’ve done anything over here so I kinda assumed anyone reading would just be people I knew that already had the gist of what’s happened. But it was a nice surprise to see a few others still hangin’ out in my corner of the internet.

There are still so many stories I want to share, including Maddox’s birth story and some things from his short time in this world. But today I want to talk a little about what’s next. For me, for the blog, for my life.

Honestly, life after losing a baby is a little like running a marathon with no finish line. And no runner’s high. I just keep trying my best to put one foot in front of the other. And every time I take one small step forward, ya know, rather than giving up and crumpling on the ground, I tell myself that I am succeeding in whatever this next phase is.

The other day, it happened. The moment I’ve been dreading since Maddox’s death. I was talking to a girl at the gym who didn’t know me. She mentioned her kid starting kindergarten and asked if I had kids. Immediately, my heart stopped and I felt a knot rise in the pit of my stomach. I’ve asked so many times what do I do when this happens? But still, somehow, it caught me off guard.

I made a decision in that moment, one I hope to stick to forever. I decided to honor Maddox. I chose not to deny his existence because it could make someone else uncomfortable. I told her the truth: I have a son that passed when he was 13 days old. The truth I wish so badly wasn’t the truth and, instead, was something I read in a fiction novel once because those things don’t actually happen.

She looked at me and immediately started to cry. But you know what? It was okay. It felt….honest. And I was shocked at the compassion I received. I guess I expected people to run away (not literally) and die of embarrassment if I ever answered that question honestly. But instead, I was met with compassion and grace. And I thought, okay. I can do this. I can be true to myself, to Maddox, and it will be okay.

There is one question about the future, though, that tears me up every time. And it’s something almost everyone has asked me and I just don’t know how to explain myself without making them feel bad. The thing is, I appreciate anyone taking the time to ask honestly about my life right now. And to listen to my response.

Are you going to try again?

And it’s not that I feel particularly protective about whether or not our plans include to have more children in the future. Although, I do feel oddly private and protective of that right now. It’s not the idea of looking forward to the idea of another baby when Maddox was just here 3 months ago. It’s what the question implies.

Are you going to try again.

As if Maddox were a mistake, a failure that we need to fix. No. I’m not going to try to have Maddox again. Because Maddox is Maddox and you cannot try again with the life of a human being. It’s not like having a second child will make the hole Maddox has left disappear.

There is no solution. There is no “trying again”.

Yes, I want to have a second baby. Someday. But no, that will not be trying again. That will be expanding our family of 3 into a family of 4. You don’t ask someone with an only child is they plan to try again. You ask if they plan to have more children. And yes, eventually, I would like to have more children.

So I guess what’s next isn’t really different than it was when we lost Maddox almost 3 months ago. It’s simply continuing every day to put one foot in front of the other. And having grace for myself in the moments where I cannot and lie down on the ground.

Filed Under: Infant Loss, Maddox ·

Dear Maddox: 3 Months

August 2, 2017 · by Ari · 5 Comments

Dear Maddox,

You would be 3 months old today. According to, well, the internet, that means you would be staring at my face intently (you shouldn’t do that…sometimes I look weird), swiping at objects and smiling. Man, I really wish I would have been able to see you smile. It would have been the absolute best thing in the entire world.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about the ways my life has changed these last 3 months. Three months is a long time. I completed Couch 2 5K, threw myself back into my work, worked a lot on rebuilding my physical strength hoping it will help me be emotionally strong, and tried to give the illusion of a living a normal life.

I worry that people will start to forget you. That it will become (even more) socially unacceptable to talk about you, your life and my time with you. That’s one of the most heartbreaking things about losing your child. They are still your world and you want to talk about only them 24/7. But when you look into someone’s eyes as you talk about your baby that is no longer here, you can sense the immediate discomfort. You know they feel like they don’t know what to say, that they wish you would change the subject because they feel too uncomfortable to change the subject themselves.

I want to live in a world where I can talk (and brag!) about you with reckless abandon. I want to climb on the rooftop and scream to the world about your life, the difference you’ve made and how much you matter.

On the 2nd of each month, I try to think of ways I can honor you. Your life, what you’ve given me.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about making myself the best possible version of myself. You deserve only the very best and, as your mom, I should be the best version of me.

So I promise to keep fighting, no matter how badly I want to give up. I promise to keep working on humility, checking my ego and always striving for more. And I promise to (try to) only compare myself to, well, me. Because that’s something I totally suck at.

Also, I promise to keep talking about you. No matter how people react. Because you are more important than every other human in my life combined and nothing has brought me more joy than being your mother.

Filed Under: Infant Loss, Maddox ·

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