In my non – professional opinion, the way to deal with immense loss, trauma, heartbreak or disappointment is to keep moving through it. You never ever lose the heavy emotions of burying your child. But if you let yourself stay down for too long, it’s nearly impossible to get back up.
Many people have asked me who my therapist is or what kind of counseling I’ve done. The truth is, I haven’t gone. I’m in no way above it and in fact I’m a very strong supporter and encourager of therapy. I have my own coping mechanisms and self-care rituals that work for me. I’m blessed to have an amazing support system of family and close friends that I can cry, yell, curse or laugh to. I’ve joined a handful of support group meetings, some more helpful than others, but I never really felt like I connected. Each person has their own pain and one major lesson I’ve learned through all this is that you can never compare your story or feelings to others'. You also don't know what anyone else is going through. My mind often goes back to a time I was in the UPS store and asked the woman behind the counter for help with the printer. She gave me such an attitude and was so impatient. Little did she know, I was printing the paperwork for Kiera's gravestone. Part of me wanted to tell her, hoping it would make her think twice next time (or ruin her day), but I didn't have the energy.
I haven’t found anyone that shares my multiple experiences; loss of a child, very near death experiences myself, infertility treatments/IVF and now surrogacy. Talking about one or two of these with people that relate is helpful, but my story is so physically and emotionally complicated that often I silently retract when people try to relate to it all. However, I’ve found it most helpful to try and help others. I’ve had several women reach out to me to vent or ask for support and building them up has been incredibly therapeutic for me.
I’ve accomplished the most in my life when I get in my own head (contrary to popular belief), focus on what I want and block out distractions. After Kiera died, I had to pep myself up most mornings for years by imagining myself as a race horse with blinders on and a goal in sight. For me, that goal has been to have more children and I wasn’t going to let anything get in my way.
I think one of the main reasons I kept dodging therapy is that I knew if I said many of the truths out loud, fear would take over and it would paralyze me. We’ve had countless doctor appointments for years in which the word “fatal” was used. I knew in my heart that Ryan and I were meant to be parents to more babies, and that Kiera came into our lives for a reason. After the last major internal hemorrhage I suffered from the egg retrieval, I realized that my family, body and luck had reached a limit. We had to go to our last plan and safest plan of surrogacy.
My fertility doctor has been one of the most empathetic, compassionate and strongest people in our lives over the past few years. I'll call her Dr. S for this post. She's also been my life saver and now one of my closest friends. We know that Kiera led us to each other because we've each needed the other's inspiration in our lives for different reasons. She was willing to take the chance of doing IVF knowing how risky it was with my bleeding disorder, but also knowing how desperately Ryan and I wanted more children. Most doctors refused to take the risk. She had said to me multiple times "We need you to have embryos." I would push back saying I've gotten pregnant naturally once before, I can do it again. In her mind, she was so afraid of another massive bleed that would cause a hysterectomy and put an end to our fertility journey all together. She also wanted us to be able to test the embryos for Von Willebrand's to make sure our future children did not have this awful condition. The test needed to be created because it didn't exist. She did her research and knew that if they collected me and Ryan's DNA, they could build the test over about 4 months. The test has now been created, our embryos have all been tested and there have been numerous studies on this new development in science. Most importantly, we have peace of mind knowing that we've put an end to this hereditary bleeding disorder in our family and have eliminated it from our bloodline, no pun intended.
Dr. S came to visit me countless times throughout my hospital stays, especially after my egg retrieval. She rode in the ambulance with me while the Anesthesiologist was giving me adrenaline shots to the heart, she yelled at every doctor in the ER telling them exactly what medicine I needed and how much blood to infuse. She was the best advocate you could ask for. This specific ICU stay was during Covid so I couldn't receive any visitors the whole time I was there, except for her. She would give Ryan and my mom updates on my condition outside on the sidewalks of NYC. There were hours where they stood out there and didn't know if I had survived. I will never forget one specific day that she visited me and I knew something was different. She had looked like she had been crying and I've never seen her so nervous. I asked her how long I needed to recover before we scheduled my embryo transfer. That's when she shared some of the hardest news she's had to give, and some of the most disappointing that I've had to receive. She said that there was no way in her right mind they could try to get me pregnant. If I was minutes away from dying from a routine egg retrieval, it was highly unlikely that I'd survive another delivery (it was miraculous I survived Kiera's). If I had a miscarriage or even a C-section, they could lose me. She explained that the surrogacy process takes a very long time so when I'm ready, I should begin researching it just so that I could make an educated decision. I could read through the lines, there were no other options. I knew this was the right thing to do, but why did I spend the past few years getting surgeries to prepare myself to carry another baby, and now I couldn't do it? I felt like this was all a cruel joke and I was hoping I'd wake up from this nightmare very soon.
After she left, I had called Ryan sobbing and shared what I knew would be very tough news for him to digest as well, but he sounded surprisingly calm. Dr. S had already spoken to him and my mom about this before she came to see me. This news was actually a relief to them. She explained to them that we had gotten a record number of 46 eggs during the retrieval which would surely give us a ton of healthy embryos (we ended up getting 25 total after day 5... 16 of them were genetically normal!) Using a carrier for our next baby would take away so much of the stress, fear and risk. I asked Ryan to put my mom on the phone as I figured I'd surely get some sympathy from her. She told me this decision was a no brainer. She couldn't continue to almost lose her daughter. You know how you take things out on the one you're closest to? I was enraged. I used all the energy I had left to yell at her "Easy for you to say! You carried both of your children. I'm here in the hospital by myself on a morphine drip while you're all making decisions for me, behind my back!!" I felt betrayed by literally everyone, including God. It was the loneliest I've ever felt in my life. I know how loved and supported I was, but it was the middle of a pandemic so I couldn't see anyone and I had no energy or interest to answer texts. I was alone with my thoughts on what nearly was my death bed, now saying goodbye to my dreams yet again.
I was released from the hospital a couple days later and none of us spoke about the elephant in the room. I just needed to focus on regaining strength and continuing outpatient IV's of the blood clotting medication. Finally about a week later, I told Ryan that I wanted to plan to do an embryo transfer and when his eyes filled up with tears, I knew I couldn't put him through any more of this. Ryan had decided that he didn't want anymore kids if there was a chance he'd lose me in the process. He told me to take my time and think about it. As much as I knew what the right decision to make was, it didn't make the choice of surrendering any less scary or painful.
The next morning, I woke up and told him that I had made the decision, we were going to use a gestational carrier. He was shocked that it was less than 24 hours later and asked if I had really given it enough thought. I told him I woke up with a sense of peace and confidence that this is what needed to be done. His eyes filled up yet again and he told me that he had stayed up all night praying to Kiera asking her to help me make the decision. Our little girl had answered her daddy's prayers without wasting any time.
I’m a huge believer of self-care, which has different meanings for everyone. Here is how I’ve implemented it: Acupuncture saved my life both physically and mentally. I also frequently treat myself to massages and facials. Shopping became a second job, although Ryan and my bank account were not happy. I found every reason to celebrate. Golf is on? Let’s have a party! (I only very recently started caring about the sport). It’s a rainy Sunday? Let’s have friends over for dinner! I just bought new forks…we need to host so I can use them! I’m sure I was exhausting to Ryan because I was always keeping busy, and still am. I knew that if I didn’t surround myself with people who brought me joy or kept my mind occupied, the darkness would take over.
Some days have been much harder than most but you have to occasionally allow yourself time, hours or a day max, to feel the pain. Then keep powering forward. Avoid events and block anything or anyone that make you miserable. I’ve broken up with social media more times than I can count. I strongly suggest taking breaks from it, but that can be saved for another post.
I’ve cursed out God more than I’d like to admit. Ryan even pushed me to go to confession for it. To my surprise, when I told to the priest that I hadn’t confessed since my first reconciliation and shared what I was saying to God, and why… the priest said “Good, I don’t blame you.”
Although every ounce of me at times wanted to run away from my faith, the past few years have only drawn me closer to God, thanks to Ryan’s encouragement. Every time I’d think God gave up on us, he’d redeem himself with a miracle, a sign, or a real life Angel. Don’t get me wrong, I have a beautiful life and am incredibly fortunate in most aspects. But I’d ask God why we are facing so much suffering and I would always hear, “Your story is far from over, you will see.” Ryan and I feel immensely blessed that we think we understand the reasons, and our story isn’t even in the middle.
The two of us only continued to grow closer in our marriage through all the grief and trauma and we lean on each other greatly. I remember feeling like our relationship was like a seesaw. It felt like every day we took turns with having a bad day while the other used all their strength to pick us up. On the outside looking in, most people probably didn’t have a clue. There were so many stressful and intense moments but we tried our hardest to avoid fighting. I think the worst part of it for each of us was watching the other try to get through the day with a completely broken heart and shattered dreams.
The night that Kiera died, Ryan and I weren’t given any drugs to help sleep or reduce anxiety. In fact, the only hospital room available was right next to the nursey. We asked to switch so we didn’t have to lay awake listening to crying babies all night, but it was too late and they didn’t have any other rooms available. They put a red rose decal on our door so the nurses knew our baby was gone. Looking back, I think it was a blessing that we were forced to feel all the raw emotions from the start. We never took a drug after that either. I’m not at all against medical help, but I believe feeling all the pain helped lead us to a journey of true healing. What we felt was not sustainable so we only had two options, and we chose to help each other live more fulfilling lives and try to become better people in honor of our little angel.
One of my most vivid memories from the night that we had to say good bye to Kiera was a brief conversation that I had with my mom. She helped me walk to the bathroom. I refused to use a wheelchair even though I had a very difficult 52 hour labor two days prior and still had the epidural in my spine. They were afraid to remove it too soon and cause a spinal bleed. In that surreal, shocked state, I thought that if I were to succumb to any weakness, I’d never regain any strength. I remember thinking that I couldn’t imagine ever wanting to smile, laugh or have fun again. I looked up with a blank stare and asked my mom “Will I ever be happy again?” Without hesitation, she said yes. “When?” I asked. My mom said “I don’t know, sweetheart. But I promise it will happen.” Mothers do know best, because she was right. Knowing how agonizing it was to see my daughter struggle, I can only imagine how my mom felt that day and for the next 3+ years to follow.
I wasn’t prepared for what was to come after the loss of Kiera Marie, but I don’t think you ever could be. My body had just performed the miracle of delivering a beautiful baby, but just a couple days later, she was gone. I guess I didn’t expect to go through the normal post-partum things because I didn’t have my baby here to show for it. My milk came rushing in.. in surplus. I couldn’t pump to relieve the pain because then it wouldn’t dry up. For weeks, I had this sore physical reminder on top of my broken heart and mind. I was proud of my body for doing exactly what it should be. I was also angry that it didn’t just know that Kiera wasn’t here and this whole process was a waste and insult to injury.
No one warned me that I could be leaving the hospital without my baby. Then again, why would they? That’s never supposed to happen. I don’t remember this but my mom reminded me recently that there was a whole plan in place. We were to leave through a back door of the hospital to avoid the lobby with all the happy parents coming down with their babies, prepared to take them home. My mom told me that I looked at our parents and the hospital social worker and said “If this is my reality, I am going to face it.” I do remember Ryan and I walking down into that lobby, without Kiera. The look on our parents’ faces will never leave my mind. They too tried so hard to be brave but the horror, heartbreak, fear of what was to come and love was pouring through. I remember wanting to collapse in that lobby and hopefully wake up to a new story line. The empty car seat in our car, draped by a beautiful pink blanket, will always be vivid in my mind.
When we returned to Hoboken a few days later, I felt like I had this scarlet letter on my chest and that people were all looking at me differently. The day before Kiera's funeral, my mom took me to get my nails done at my local salon. One of the manicurists, who I didn't even recognize, whispered to my mom asking if something happened to my baby. My mom nodded her head yes and whispered back that she had passed away. The woman's eyes filled up and she said "Your daughter always came in here with such bright eyes and a big smile, but she looks so empty and sad."
I wasn’t prepared for what would happen when I left the house to run errands or even when I went back to work 10 weeks later. I found myself running into people constantly or even complete strangers every day, asking when I had the baby, congratulating me, asking for pictures. These were local store workers, security guards, crossing guards, locker room workers at the gym, or even my clients at work that somehow didn’t get the news. I found myself repeating a script for about a year comforting people while they cried and I was assuring them that “I’m Ok.” It was awful, I just wanted to hide.
Two months before Kiera was due, we had moved from a one bedroom apartment to a two bedroom so that I could setup a perfect nursery for our little girl. I can’t put into words what it felt like taking down that nursey two months after she died. I just remember thinking “this is disgusting” over and over in my head. I had to pack up all the washed clothes that we had neatly folded, the stuffed animals, books, gifts from my shower. We rented a U-Haul and moved all of the furniture to Ryan’s brother’s basement. I prayed that we would have another baby on the way soon and have to go back to pick it all up within a year. Little did I know how long that nursey would stay down there.
One of the most difficult parts was watching everyone’s lives move on around you, while you feel like your world has ended. I was happy for my friends and family who were seemingly announcing pregnancies every hour, but so sad for us. It felt like every social event we went to, I was getting hit by land mines. I politely declined several baby showers and first birthday parties but it is the everyday joys that others experience that hit the hardest. Seeing daddies with their little girls, watching kids hit milestones that Kiera was never able to experience, and things one would never even think of suddenly felt like a stab in the heart. I also dreaded many common conversations such as hearing how someone accidentally got pregnant or one complaining that their baby kept them up all night. Most people don’t mean to be malicious or insensitive and I’m far from a bitter or jealous person. Yet when you’re suffering so badly, you begin to distance yourself from a lot of people. On the contrary, even if it is awkward, it means the world when people acknowledge that something might be hard for you.
I anticipated that Mother's Day this year would have been the happiest one I've had in 4 years. I had the excitement of having another baby on the way! Even though it wasn't the way I had envisioned, this is all I've wished for the last 3 Mother's Days. I wasn't expecting to wake up crying. I received an overwhelming amount of thoughtful texts which truly helped. I was in paradise (Naples, Florida) and I sure do love sunshine. Yet I had this giant aching hole in my heart that wouldn't go away. I spent a lot of time trying to understand my thoughts and feelings and I came to the conclusion that I was incredibly confused. I'm a mother of two; but where are my children? My daughter is in Heaven, yet I felt her presence on earth so strongly. My son is in North Carolina, being carried by another woman. I didn't have my belly to rub and remind myself that yes, I still am a Mother. I went for a run, laid for hours on the beach, got very dressed up and went out to dinner with loved ones. It ended up being a wonderful day.
The grief counselor in Boston had told us that grief comes in waves. That is so accurate. One minute you think you’re managing and then out of nowhere you’re hit and drowning in a title wave. There is no predicting it or stopping it. I reference back to the things I mentioned in the beginning of this post that helped me. Self-care and love, a strong support system and blinders. Don’t stop going and as dark and heavy as it feels, you’ll make it through, one minute at a time.
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