Fear of forgetting.

Half of this was written on the bathroom floor, and I couldn't bring myself to read through and edit it, so sorry in advance if there are any typos/grammatical errors.

I was going to post another day of Amsterdam, but I wanted to talk about Carter today. It's going to get real, and if I say anything that makes you feel like you should apologize to me, please don't. That's not what I'm getting at, I just wanted to write about how I feel.

I wrote about this two weeks ago, but it has still been looming over me. Honestly, I don't know that it will ever go away, but I wish my anxiety about it would just simmer down. I'm afraid of a lot of things in life, spiders, snakes, death, heights, the dark, but I've never been so afraid of anything as much as I fear people forgetting about Carter. It's a very strange feeling, to have carried a baby for nine months, have the ultrasounds hanging on your fridge, all the clothes washed and in his dresser, have the crib and bassinet set up, ready for a little body, and then never get to bring him home. I've said it before, but I'm the kind of person that over-prepares for everything. It feels like that's what I've done. Like, in preparation to maybe have a baby someday, I bought all this stuff, and even went so far as to have other people buy it for me, and I washed everything and I hung pictures on the wall and I straightened the sheet in his crib, just in case I one day was lucky enough to get pregnant and bring a baby home. And then I think about being in the hospital, and sitting at the cemetery, and I look at pictures of him, and sometimes I just wonder, whose life is this? Whose life am I witnessing because it surely isn't mine. It's not solid or tangible enough to be mine. I can't grasp onto any fleeting memory strong enough or long enough to recognize it as my own. It all went too fast.

But I, as his mother, am the only person that knows how it felt to carry him, to feel his little kicks, to feel the contractions and to go through the process of delivering him and know the pain of recovering emotionally as well as physically. I am the only person that knows what it's like to watch my husband hold his son and gently kiss him on the forehead as he cries. 

Other people know our pain. They read our stories and they see Carter's pictures and I know they know him and love him. For now. But what happens in one or five or ten years when everyone's lives get busier and our pain lessens, and not every single thing I post is tinged with a hint (or a heap) of sadness? How is everyone else supposed to remember when some days I feel like none of it was real? 

It means so much to have people write or say his name. It means the world to me when other people validate that he was real because sometimes it feels like he wasn't. There are days that I can't validate it myself, and other people, unknowingly, do it for me. But what about when no one does that anymore? What about when other people have babies born on October 27, and no one remembers the little boy born that didn't get to live with his parents?

I don't feel like a real mom, because my son is not here. What if, down the road, people will forget about the son I had in 2016? What if they look at our family, me and Brandon and whatever kids we have at home, and they forge about the one that isn't there? What if we move away and no one goes to see him? What if our future kids get made fun of because they talk about a brother that lives in heaven? 

What if what if what if.

What if Brandon and I are the only two people that ever remember him? Realistically, that's all that really matters. But what about when people forget that I have a giant, permanent hole in my heart? What about when someone wants me to do something on October 27 and I don't want to? Will they remember why I spend the whole day crying, or will they just tell me I'm too sensitive and need to get over it? How long is it okay to not be okay? Because right now, it feels like it will be forever.

A different kind of #momlife.

The weirdest things are a punch to the gut after losing a child. Hearing a baby cry, watching the little boy in the pool with his floaties on, the emails and mailers that continue to come because the companies don't know better... Not everything hurts the exact same every single time. Within weeks of losing Carter, it seemed like everyone and their dog was having a baby. Seriously, there are probably about five people I would consider friends that had a baby within days of us delivering Carter. Sometimes I'm able to think about it in a positive way, like how nice it will be to have all these children to watch grow up, and be able to mark milestones for Carter based on what they are doing. But generally, it hurts. Watching babies smile at their moms, or seeing them discover their feet, or hearing them coo. My baby should be here doing that too.

I've noticed that when I am scrolling through pictures on Instagram, I tend to pause a lot on the pictures of babies that are around Carter's age. It's for the same reason I feel like I've developed a problem with staring at babies in public. I'm so jealous that these moms are living the life I'm not, and so so sad that my baby isn't with me. I study these babies, wondering what characteristics they and Carter would share. I wonder what it would be like, to watch Carter's eyes flitting all over the room, or to watch his mouth move, or to try and keep his wiggly little body tight in my arms. All these moms are living the dream with a four month old baby. They might complain about the late nights and the sporadic feedings, but compared to our lack of these things, I promise you, the sacrifices are a dream. 

Besides the pictures, the hashtags, weirdly, have also become a punch to the gut. I don't know why, I've never really paid attention to hashtags before, but I've started to, and they sting. I have been using them to connect with other angel moms, and to grow my circle of mom friends that are in the club we didn't want to be a part of. But while my hashtags read grief, love, loss, recovery, and angelbaby, other moms get to use hashtags like momlife, boymom, momlifeisthebestlife, mamabear, and so many others. Honestly, I don't feel like I'm privileged enough to use those hastags. Like, I am a mother, and I have a son, so those hashtags are definitely applicable, but is it really okay for me to use them when my son isn't alive? Is it the same? Most people would probably say yes, but in my heart, I know it's different.

The standard definition of mom life is a long day after a short night of sleep, stained clothes (yours and the kids), running around like a crazy person taking care of your kids, and endless baby snuggles. Social media mom life tells us that "life is hard and I don't have it all together, but I have my baby so life is perfect." Social media moms are all about sharing their flaws and telling us how they're not perfect women and they aren't perfect moms, but their babies sure are perfect so nothing else matters.

This doesn't get to be the mom life for some of us. Our mom life consists of suffering through our milk coming in with no baby to feed, packing away the baby things and trying to decide whether to leave the nursery door open or closed, hearing babies cry and trying to keep it together, going back to work and taking cry breaks in the bathroom once a day. Our mom life is visiting our baby's grave and going home to a far too empty house. 

Our mom life is different than most, but that doesn't make us any less of a mother. We carried our babies, delivered them knowing they either were not alive or would not live very long, and spend every single day grieving the loss and wondering what we did wrong. Our struggles are different; we don't stay up late feeding our babies, we don't not have time to clean the house, and we don't have to change diapers, but I can tell you that any mother in my position would give literally anything to do all the things new moms complain about. And I know complaining isn't the right word; moms know how lucky they are to be doing the things they are doing. But to an angel mom, hearing a new mom talk about how their baby's sleep schedule is off....they have no idea how much we would sacrifice to get no sleep for the rest of our lives, if only it meant being able to have our babies back.

I can't speak for other angel moms, but without my baby here, I feel like less of a woman, and definitely like less of a mom. I don't put in all the same work regular moms do, but I can tell you that grieving the loss of a child you barely knew is hard work. Really hard work. Sometimes I feel like a fraud, telling people that I am a mom. I don't even think I really ever say it out loud; when I talk about it, I always just talk about Carter being my son. But I don't ever say that I'm a mom. It doesn't feel real.

I wrote this post to challenge myself to feel like a mom, and to remind all the other angel moms that even though our babies aren't here with us, we are still mothers, and that is a part of our lives that matters greatly. I am no less of a mother than any other mom out there. I carried him, I delivered him, and I will continue to love him and care for him, his memory, his spirit, and his tender little grave for as long as I live. I am a mom, and this is my #momlife. Not less than anyone else's, just different.

The waterproof mascara life.

Part of me wanted to call this post "dat waterproof mascara lyfe," but I decided that sometimes it's okay to not put up a front about things. I've realized over the past couple weeks that more and more I pretend I'm okay when I'm not, and I think that's largely due to the fact that more people are reading everything I write. It's easy for me to write how I'm actually feeling when I don't think about the audience, but I think I worry that no one will care to read if (most) every single post I write is deep and emotional. If you still care to read, then truly, from the bottom of my heart, thank you.

About thirteen months ago, I wrote a post on my old blog called The waterproof mascara days. I wrote it the day before we moved to Salt Lake, and I remember the three weeks prior to that day had been so hard, living by myself while Brandon started his new job, packing up our house alone, and saying goodbye to a house, job, and town that I loved so much. 

Have you ever just wanted to kick yourself when you look back on something that you once thought was such a big deal? I look back at almost 25 year old me and think, you poor, sweet, thing, you have no idea what's coming.

For those three weeks, and a couple weeks after, I wore waterproof mascara nearly every day, just in case of spontaneous crying, which didn't actually end up happening as much as I'd anticipated. After we lost Carter though, I started wearing waterproof mascara yet again. And then I noticed I was wearing it so much that I actually wanted to invest in a better tube than what I had. I spent an actual amount of money on waterproof mascara, and I've been wearing it every single day. And unlike the days leading up to and following our move, the waterproof mascara has served its purpose. On a good day, I will cry for maybe a minute. Or sometimes it's just a few quick tears that never end up running down my face. But on a bad day, it would be easier to tell you how much time I spent not crying. And I really don't tell you these things to make you feel bad for me, I just feel like being transparent.

The past few weeks I have been angry and moody and sad and okay, and I don't know how to control it anymore. I don't know how to control my reactions or how to not get upset at people for stupid things. I think the bigger part of me gets upset at myself for getting upset in the first place, over petty, stupid things that don't actually matter. And then I get upset because, if we had Carter at home, maybe I wouldn't get upset about those things in the first place.

I told Brandon yesterday that, if people asked me to rate my days on a scale of 1-10, my entire scale would be the equivalent of what a 1-3 would have been before our loss. The highest I can go on any given day is a 3, and on a day I'd consider a 1, I'm hardly keeping my head above water.

At this point, nothing seems important except for Carter and Brandon, and I feel like sometimes maybe that's not an acceptable thing to feel. Especially since we got the autopsy results back. No one had said or even hinted at feeling this way, but I feel like now that we have the final autopsy results, people will expect me to be okay and move on. Kind of like when you wait days and days for a test result, then you find out your grade and move on. But just because we got the autopsy report doesn't mean this is over. It's not something I can think about and say "okay well I got an F, but I'll just try again next time." I legitimately lost my baby a week before he was supposed to come home with me and I can't have him back. It's not something I will ever get over, but I'm afraid people will want me to. I'm afraid people will forget about Carter because there aren't pictures of him plastering my Instagram feed like a living baby. I scour the internet daily to try and find airplane things to put in my house and on my body so that when people see them, they are reminded of our boy and how much he is still a part of our lives. He might not physically be in our house, but I can still feel him there all the same, and I want others to feel him too. What if people forget and don't count him in the number of children we have when we have other kids at home? What if someone tells me it's dumb to celebrate his birthday every year, or to buy him something for Christmas, or to make him a Shutterfly book every year like I had planned to anyway? I'm so legitimately terrified that people expect me to be over losing him and I can't be. I can't be "on" every day, I can't even be okay every day. I'm afraid of letting people down because I still cry every day.

A friend shared a picture with me of a biplane sticker she saw on someone's back windshield today, and I can't even begin to explain to you how much it meant to me. To know that at least one person, even four months since our loss, remembers Carter when she sees an airplane. To that friend, thank you. You honestly have no idea how much your post this morning meant to me.

I won't ever be as good as I once was. There is always a part of me that will be broken, and I hope that's okay. I miss Carter every single day, but I'm terrified I will forget just how much I miss him, and I'm terrified that other people will just forget him altogether. Life is moving forward for other people, and even for me and Brandon, but I can't decide if I'm okay with that or not. I know good things wait for us in the future, but most days, I'd rather be stuck and lost without my boy than not thinking about him at all.

Final autopsy results.

Our hearts have been a little more tender this past week, and even though I know you will be, I'm asking that you be soft with us in response to this post. 

After we lost Carter, we made the decision to have an autopsy performed. At that point, we were clinging to anything and everything we could to figure out why we had lost him. About a week later, our doctor called us with the preliminary findings. Carter has some skeletal abnormalities-bell shaped ribs and a cervical rib-and multiple spleens. Realistically, babies survive with all those abnormalities. Some may live with a disability, others may be totally fine. They also noted that my placenta was small, but the doctor showed no concern about that. It would explain why he was small, but wouldn't have explained why we lost him. The doctor was also confident that these abnormalities weren't indicative of any syndrome. The anomalies do present themselves in a syndrome, but these three together did not mean he had any syndrome.

About a month or so later, Brandon and I got some blood drawn to do a karyotype. A karyotype just tests the number and visual appearance of chromosomes, so nothing in depth, but that came back normal. 

On Monday last week, the doctor finally called with the final pathology report. Even he had began to wonder why it was taking so long to hear back on it, but when he called, he said it is one of the more detailed pathology reports he had seen, meaning the pathologists did a really good job and checked everything they could.

He said the abnormalities they had found were simply third trimester findings. Not indicative of anything, it was just the same as observing that he has ten fingers and ten toes. My placenta was small, which did explain why he was so small, but it wasn't the cause. The cause was a blockage in the umbilical cord. Now whether the blockage just happened, or if he was pressed against it for too long or what, we don't know. And we never will. There were no knots, just blockage. 

Everything else, besides the ribs, were normally developed. I reread the autopsy report and still just felt so proud to read that everything was normal and looked good. Especially about his brain. I'm confident that he's a smart little guy, and his knowledge is worlds beyond what we'll ever know. We have felt some comfort in the fact that the future with his skeletal abnormalities may have been difficult. He might have lived a completely normal life, or he may not have. The school I worked at before we lost him was a school devoted completely to students with disabilities, and I was there long enough to know that that is a hard life to live, and I wouldn't have wanted that for him. 

It was also nice to know that it wasn't a genetic issue, and that my thyroid wasn't the cause of it. I was the most concerned about these two things, because having to try to adopt or do IVF is just a whole different ball game. We're pleased to know that we are lucky enough to produce healthy babies. 

It has honestly just been such a confusing week. We feel so sad that one stupid block in the cord is what caused us to lose him, but we know we can't go back and change anything, so we're trying to just be at peace with what it is. It won't always be this hard, but we know it won't ever be easy. Thank you guys for all the love and support you've shown us over the past year, through the pregnancy and now through our loss. We really appreciate everything you've done and I know will continue to do for us.

Some good news. Finally.

For the past four months, the phrase "when it rains, it pours" has been so ridiculously applicable to my life. Bad news after bad news was flung in my direction, and there wasn't much I could do except stand there and let it hit me. There were the few scares with Carter, then losing him, then not being able to get a job, and then I found out that my thyroid wasn't working properly. It was super over-active, to the point that it would affect our ability to get pregnant again until it got fixed. And like, realistically, thyroid problems are super common and very easily treatable, but at the time it was like the straw that broke the camel's back, you know? (side note: that phrase has been running through my head for the past two weeks so sorry if I sound like an old person) I left an appointment with the endocrinologist feeling so upset and discouraged. He said my thyroid looked pretty bad, and told me about what options we would have if my bloodwork came back bad.

Educational point: There are two different types of hyperthyroid disease my doctor was going to test for. Hashimoto's is the less severe of the two, and I had already for sure been diagnosed with at least that. Hashimoto's ebbs and flows, and eventually goes away on its own. Graves disease, on the other hand, does not go away on it's own. The over-production of hormone basically causes the thyroid to burn out. To prevent that, you either have to have it surgically removed, or take a radioactive iodine pill to kill part or all of the thyroid. And then you take thyroid supplements for the rest of your life.

The doctor kept asking me what I would rather do, the surgery or the iodine, and I just kept asking him what the chances were that it wasn't Graves. He didn't seem optimistic about it, so the appointment ended with me crying at the nurse about how my life is the worst . When I left his office, I was set on the iodine, because the thought of surgery terrifies me. But then, over the course of the week, I changed my mind and decided to do surgery. With the iodine, you have to kind of be in quarantine for a few days, and the thought of not being able to sleep in the same bed as Brandon, and the fear of the cats accidentally touching me, was enough to dissuade me. So all week I was pumping myself up for surgery, knowing that the results would be Graves disease, and I was just okay with it. Surgery wouldn't be great, but it would at least be fast. 

Fast forward to yesterday. I had so much anxiety all day about my appointment, because I just wanted to know what the results of the labs had been. They had just gotten my results the day before, but I don't think the doctor had a chance to look over them soon enough for a nurse to call me back. Anyway. Brandon joined me at the appointment, because I was kind of freaking out, so we both sat in the room, waiting, while the doctor read over the results and didn't say a single word. I'm not kidding, he called me in, we sat, he silently read over the report for like three minutes and didn't say a word the whole time. Brandon and I just kept looking at each other like what the heck. I had been so patient (sort of) all day, and those three minutes about killed me. Finally, years later, he started talking, and it turns out that my hormone levels dropped, which means I don't have Graves!! My levels are still high, but they dropped quite a bit since the last time I'd had my blood drawn. But what was important is that I don't have to get surgery, and I am very very happy about that!

One of two things will happen now. Either my levels will drop to their normal level, and then stabilize, which is great, or they will drop, drop, and keep dropping until basically my thyroid dies out on its own. Not ideal, but it's so easy to supplement thyroid hormone that it's not a big deal. Either way, we are a quite a few months out from being "normal" (to which my dad responded "well that's how you've always been right? two months out from normal?" still not funny dad) regardless of which direction my thyroid goes. I'll go get my blood drawn once a month, and we'll just monitor it and see what we need to do. Obviously I'd rather be healthy now, but I'm okay with temporary unhealthiness and no surgery haha.

I haven't blogged much since I found all this out at the end of December because, quite frankly, I just didn't feel like there was much to talk about. I feel like I've been so positive over the past few months, but the last couple weeks have been really rough. I'm real in what I write on the blog, but sometimes it's exhausting to even be honest with myself. I just needed to shut down for a little while and take care of myself. If I've learned one thing from all this, it's about how to take care of myself, and pay a little extra attention to me when I need it. but I'm back in action now, and feeling happier after our news yesterday. 

And if that wasn't enough to cheer me up, just wait and see what we're doing this weekend.

Collateral beauty.

Last night we went to see Collateral Beauty. I wanted to go last night, rather than on a cheap Tuesday, because I knew it was going to make me cry, and I would rather cry in front of fifteen strangers instead of ninety. I did cry, but not entirely out of sadness. In the movie, Will Smith's character loses his six year old daughter. We lost Carter, but losing an unborn child is different than losing one you have spent years with; I couldn't fully relate to his loss, I only know my own.

But I cried because the message of the movie is something I've been striving for since the afternoon of October 26th. In the movie, a character says "just make sure you notice the collateral beauty," which is far easier said than done. But I've been trying. 

There have been a few situations in the past weeks that could have been perceived as super, super crappy, or actually kind of neat, and I've realized that it is up to me how I perceive them. When I was buying a Christmas tree at Hobby Lobby for the rest of Carter's ornaments and the cashier announced overhead "we need Christmas tree BB as in baby boy to the registers," the collateral beauty was not being angry that they use baby boy as the identifier, but noticing that the universe somehow knew what I was using the tree for. Collateral beauty is hearing the lady in the Sizzler bathroom tell someone she is going to name her baby Carter, and me not getting mad, but telling her that we named our son that, that we lost him at 39 weeks, and having her tell me that she lost her first. Collateral beauty is wanting to be upset about the dry skin between and under my eyebrows, but suddenly appreciating it when I remember that Carter had the same dry skin in the same spots. Collateral beauty is having a package of ours delivered to the wrong house, getting a random text from the lady that received it, and having her tell me that she has been in our shoes twice, and getting the biggest hug from a stranger that I've ever been given.

Sometimes I think about certain things that have happened, and wonder if I'm just making up the beauty and the special meaning of it all. I wonder how on earth I can try and tell people how situations like these make my heart feel lighter and heavier at the same time without them thinking I'm a crazy person. But then I remember that it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter if I think I'm crazy or if other people think I'm crazy-unless I'm having conversations out loud with no one, then someone get me some help. What matters is how I perceive things, and how I choose to grieve. And most of the time, not every second of every day, but most of the time, I choose to perceive things in light and in beauty. Life is too short to not appreciate every minute, even the bad ones.

Things I can't do.

I woke up this morning feeling mad. Confused, tricked, betrayed, angry. And I'm feeling all of these things not solely because of the fact that Carter was taken from us, but because of the things that have come after. Being angry doesn't bring Carter back, I've accepted that. But I'm mad about all the other things that have been messed up because we lost him.

These first six weeks that I've spent recovering were supposed to be filled with late nights, loss of sleep, frustration at figuring out what he wants, feedings, and figuring out our new life together. Instead, I'm left wanting for all those things. I heard our friends talk about how their new baby isn't sleeping...I'd give anything to not sleep again if it meant taking care of Carter. Our plans for holidays changed completely. Instead of staying home and trying to figure out how to cook a turkey in a crock pot, we went to Boise for Thanksgiving in our new crossover vehicle that felt all too big without a carseat in the back. We planned to celebrate Christmas at home too, cuddled up by the tree, spoiling our boy with more gifts than he needed. Instead, we're stuck trying to figure out what to do because the only thing we want to do is the one thing we can't.

Back in September, I put in my notice at work and told everyone I was planning to be a stay at home mom. They found my replacement quickly, and I even trained her for a few days. Then we lost Carter, and I was left childless, jobless, and without purpose. I was fine at home for the first few weeks-I had Brandon with me for two, and was still recovering for the third-but those first few days the week of Thanksgiving were rough. I was bored and tired of sitting at home. I had a job interview that Monday in a different department of the school I had worked in before. I figured I was a shoo-in, because I already knew the people that worked down there, and had glowing recommendations from the administration of my previous job. I didn't get the job, though. And even though I was incredibly bummed, I had applied for a job at a middle school, and thought that maybe I was meant to have that position. But I found out yesterday that I didn't get the job at the middle school either, despite the principal and vice principal from my last job reaching out and telling the middle school admin how lucky they'd be to have me. Both places told me they chose someone with more experience. The middle school called and asked if I would be interested in something part time, if something opened up, because they loved me. Talk about a stab to the heart. I was good, just not good enough.

I obviously don't expect a job to be handed to me, but I thought that after losing a child and having my world somewhat crumble, I thought maybe a divine force would make the process of getting back into the real world a little easier. Maybe not add more hardship to the suffering I've already endured. I guess I was wrong.

So when I woke up at 3:00 this morning, sad, angry, and unable to fall back asleep quickly, I made a plan for my day. A non-productive, depressing, angry plan that would allow me to wallow and soak up all the pain I've been feeling for the last six weeks. I planned to stay in bed, watch tv, not shower, not eat, not talk to anyone, and just be miserable all day. It didn't sound great, but it felt appropriate. But then I woke up for real at the glorious hour of nine am, planning to do those things, and realized that I can't. Not even that I can't, but that I don't want to. On some level, I do, but being pissed off at the world and at God isn't going to fix anything. It's not going to bring Carter back-it sure wouldn't make him proud of me-and it's not going to get me a job or a hobby or just anything to save me from my boredom; it would only make it worse. So I got out of bed, opened the blinds, fed the cats, got myself a big glass of water, and decided to write down all my feelings. Let them out instead of letting them pool up inside me and wear me down. Because you know what? Depression is the absolute freaking worst, and I'm not going to let it get me. So now, I'm going to go take a shower, eat breakfast, and figure out what I'm going to do today to get out of the house. I am stronger than I think I am or sometimes want to be. If Carter has taught me anything, it's that.

Carter's story.

There's a part of me that feels like I shouldn't be writing this yet. It has only been two weeks since we lost our sweet boy, so it feels like it's too soon. It all still feels like a dream. A nightmare, actually. But I'm writing it because I miss him, and I want people to know that it's okay to talk about him. And I'm writing it in hopes that it will make me feel better to get all my emotions out in words that I can't seem to say.

To tell the whole story I feel like we need to start a little earlier. About seven weeks ago, September 25th, I didn't really feel Carter move all day until really late that night. So the next morning, a Monday, I called my doctor and he told us to come in. They did a non-stress test to check his heart rate, which was stellar, then did an ultrasound to check the fluid around him, which was also stellar. The office called me the following Wednesday (the 28th) and said it looked like there were some enlarged areas of his heart, and asked us to schedule a fetal echo-cardiogram. I cried my eyes out at work that day because I had been just waiting for something bad to happen, and I thought it was finally happening. A week later (October 12th), we did the fetal echo, and the three doctors in the room said his heart looked great, and that we had nothing to worry about. Friday of the same week (October 14th) we had our 37 week appointment. The following Wednesday, (October 19th) we had our 38 week appointment, where my stomach measured smaller than it had that Friday before. So the next morning we went in for another ultrasound to check the blood flow in the placenta and through the umbilical cord. They said everything looked fine, and we saw his little heart fluttering, and got to watch him move a little bit. Over the course of the next six days, I noticed how little I felt him move, but I kind of just assumed he was running out of room in there, since I wasn't that big.

When we went to the doctor for our 39 week appointment (October 26th), the doctor asked if I had felt him move, and I just told him no. Brandon kept trying to say "but you thought you felt him this day, right?" and even though he was right, and I had thought I felt him move, I still just told the doctor no. And I think in that moment the three of us knew what was about to happen. He tried to find Carter's heartbeat for a few minutes, and there was nothing. It was the worst sound I've ever heard. Just the dead silence. I already was crying before he was halfway done listening. He helped me sit up and told me he was going to prep the ultrasound room. After what seemed like a million years, he came back to get us. The walk to the ultrasound room was awful, because you could tell he had told the nurses and other doctors what was going on. We could see the sadness in their eyes.

During the ultrasound, the doctor was blocking my view of the tv on the wall behind him. He wasn't doing it on purpose, but I could only watch his and Brandon's faces. The doctor's face dropped and he told us he was sorry, and Brandon and I just clung to each other. I couldn't cry anymore, because I had already cried everything out. I just was in shock; I had to ask him if this was real life. And I kept apologizing to Brandon, because I felt like I had let him down. After a bit, we asked what the next step was. The doctor told us he would call labor and delivery to see if we could go that night, or we could wait and go the next day, but we said we wanted to go that night. So we went home, fed the cats, put away the bassinet and a few other things, grabbed our bags, and headed for the hospital.

The whole drive there and the whole walk in we just kept saying how wrong the whole situation was. We were supposed to be pulling into the hospital on two wheels, and I was supposed to be taking breaks to cope with contractions while walking in. But instead, we were just walking solemnly in. The labor and delivery wing was so quiet when we got there, and we were grateful. It was a peaceful start to an awful night. 

Our nurse took us in and let us get comfortable, talking to us about the situation and trying to help us with our emotions. She got us some dinner, and walked me through what the night held for us. She checked me, and I wasn't dilated at all. Around 7:30 pm she gave me the first dose of Cytotech to get the process started, and said she would check me again in three hours. At eight, Adrian showed up to the hospital. At this point, Brandon and I had had enough of being sad, and were just kind of okay with what was going on, so it was nice to have another body in the room to talk to about other things. Around 8:30, Brandon's parents showed up, and again, it was just nice to have more people to talk to about other things. They stayed until just after ten, Brandon's dad gave me a blessing, and then we were by ourselves again. The nurse came in and checked me again, and I was already at a 1.5. The doctor wanted her to give me a double dose of the Cytotech then, but she decided to wait and check me again at 11:30 to see where we were. I honestly don't remember what time she came back to give me the second dose, but she didn't double it like the doctor asked. My parents showed up sometime (before or after the second dose, I don't remember, I think after) at 1:30 am. They stayed for about 45 minutes, then went to our house to sleep and try to let us sleep. Of course, at this point, the contractions started getting pretty strong. I kept trying to sleep, but they were coming every minute or so, and I legit thought I was dying haha. Brandon was sleeping so peacefully on his little couch, and I was just laying on the bed with my finger next to the nurse's button for probably a good hour. Finally around 3:30 am, I buzzed for the nurse. Our first nurse was supposed to leave at 3, but she was still there and came in with our second nurse. I asked for just a small dose of the pain meds, so they gave it to me, then left. And about thirty minutes later I buzzed them back in and asked for more meds. They checked me at this point, and I was at a 4. An hour (or less, probably) later, I buzzed the nurse back in and asked for the epidural. I had told myself that I was going to try and go without, only because I was afraid that when I asked for it they would just laugh and tell me I was only at a one, so I was just trying to be tough. But the nurse (first nurse still, and this was at 5 am, two hours after her shift ended) checked me and said I was at a five and that my water was ready to break. But the doctor told them not to break my water, so they just had to wait.

I got the epidural, which was surprisingly painless compared to the contractions I was having while he was trying to stick the needle in (being a woman is a joke). They gave me a faster acting dose, and then the regular stuff, so within minutes I was feeling pretty good. That was all around 5:30 am. The nurse came back in just after 7:00 am with our third and final nurse, who then checked me and told me my water had broke and that I was at a ten and ready to go. They went to call the doctor, and said he would be there in 30 minutes to an hour, so we sat back and prepped to meet our sweet boy. We were shocked at how quickly the whole process had gone. Our first nurse had told us that we wouldn't have a baby by seven am, but maybe early afternoon, yet here it was not even eight am and we were ready to go.

The doctor showed up around 8:15, and talked to us a little bit while they prepped the room. I have to put a plug in for him here: I love our doctor. I love him so much that I told Brandon that we are never leaving Utah because I want him to deliver all our children. And if you know me at all, you know that me saying I'll live here forever is a big deal! Anyway, they got me all situated, I couldn't feel my legs one bit and felt bad that I couldn't do much to help in that aspect. When the doctor finally sat down, the nurse would tell me when a contraction was coming, have me push for ten seconds, then take a deep breath and do it two more times in a row. I had to do three sets of three and then at 8:51 am he was there! Brandon got to hold one of my legs and watch, which sounds gross, but I'm so glad he did given the situation. They immediately laid Carter on my chest and gently cleaned him while Brandon cut the umbilical cord. I couldn't stop crying for so many reasons, but you guys he is beautiful! And he looked so peaceful.

After about ten minutes, they took him over to the little table to clean, weigh, and clothe him. He weighs 5 pounds, 15 ounces, and is 20 inches long. Once he was clothed, they gave him to Brandon to hold. It was one of the saddest, most touching things to see Brandon holding him, crying, and then to hear him say "he looks just like you." It broke my heart. We spent about an hour with Carter, talking to the doctor a bit and then having the nurse fawn over our cute boy. Our families had been waiting in the waiting room, so we had them come in and take turns holding him. I was so happy his grandparents were there to meet him and hold him for a little bit. We couldn't get over how big his feet are!! And his hair, oh my gosh his hair. He has a full head of dark brown hair that has a little bit of a curl to it. And he has Brandon's squishy lips and I love them.

We spent probably about two and a half hours with him, alternating between crying and just feeling complete joy at how perfect he is. And that is how we will always remember him: our perfect, squishy faced, skinny little babe. Sadly, his skin started to get really dry, so we called our parents back in to say goodbye, then had a few minutes with him on our own, and then said goodbye for the day.

The rest of the afternoon was spent watching Impractical Jokers and trying to rest, again alternating between crying and just feeling okay. We left the hospital that night around 5:00, because I didn't feel like staying anymore. That night, someone went to the hospital and took pictures, and also took molds of his hands and feet that we now have to hold. It's not just like a hand and footprint, they are his little feet and hands that we can pick up and hold individually, and I'm so grateful for them!

Physically, the recovery has been fine. Emotionally, it has been a little harder. The first few days I cried a lot, but we also laughed a lot and felt a lot of joy and blessings despite the situation. My parents stayed with us until Sunday, and Brandon's parents stayed with us the following Monday night, so we always had extra bodies to distract us and take care of us. 

We had a little graveside service for Carter this past Saturday. Brandon and I got to go see him at the funeral home before hand, and he still just looks so perfect. We picked out an outfit for him that Brandon's mom altered to be a little smaller than his newborn onesie he had been put in at the hospital, and the clothes still were so big on him! He's just a skinny little thing. The service was so nice though. We had a ton of family show up, which was honestly so great. There was so much love there. My dad read a letter that I had written to Carter, and Brandon's dad said a closing prayer, and that was it. We left a little airplane for him, it has become our little symbol for Carter and all the adventures he'll be taking (airplanes were a prominent theme in his nursery). Then we had a luncheon with all the family, and again it was just so great to feel all the love and support.

I wanted to write this so people would know his story. We don't know yet what happened- we're still waiting on test results-but he made us a family, and he will always be our son. I also want everyone to know that Brandon and I are actually doing okay, despite everything. Some days are harder than others, some minutes are harder than others, and when we feel like we want to be sad or angry we let ourselves be those things. But it also takes a lot of work to be sad and angry all the time, and knowing Carter, he wouldn't want that for us. We have this beautiful memory of the nine months we got to spend with him, and a somehow kind of beautiful delivery (you know, for as beautiful as those things actually can be), and I would do it all over again in a heartbeat. I want to be able to talk about Carter! I want people to feel like it's okay to ask us questions, and for them to know that our future children will absolutely know about Carter, and that he will always be mentioned when we talk about family. The situation completely sucks, and I've said that so much that just saying "it sucks" no longer covers how I really feel about it. But Brandon and I keep telling ourselves that yes, it could be better, but it also could have been worse. We were lucky to know before we delivered him that he would be born still, it gave us a lot of time to prepare and fully understand what was happening. We also are lucky to not have had an infant loss due to SIDS or something else beyond our control. Our situation sucks, but it could have been worse. And honestly, we have so many friends right now that have just had babies or will be very soon, and we don't want to feel angry or resentful towards anyone. We don't want our sadness to take away from our happiness for anyone else. And like I said, Carter wouldn't want us to do that either. 

I know we are receiving so much comfort from Carter, God, and from all our family and friends. Thank you all so much for the kind messages, gifts, and thoughts and prayers. I want you to know that we really can feel them. And I want everyone to know that we're okay. I wouldn't say we're great, but we still are able to get out of bed every day, appreciate the sunshine, and find reasons to laugh and be happy. If anything, the blue sky that has greeted us every day for the past two weeks makes me feel like Carter is surrounding us with his spirit.

I didn't want to post any pictures on here, because I don't want to force anyone to look at them, but if anyone is interested in seeing a picture, I really would love to share. He really is so cute. One of the other first things Brandon said when he saw him was "We make cute kids! We can keep having kids and they won't be ugly!" haha. I know we're biased, but still. So really, don't be afraid to talk to us about him. He's our son and we love him so much, and we want him to be a part of other people's lives as much as he is a part of ours.