Tag: pregnancy and infant loss

The Second Birthday

The Second Birthday

by Trish Hlohinec ♥ 1 Comment

September 3 marked two years since my perfect Baby Sloane was born still. My son told me he didn’t want to go to the cemetery to visit Sloane’s grave because it makes him sad. And because it makes me sad. Truth be told, I don’t like going there either. I wish I didn’t have a grave to visit. I wish she were here with us. I wish I could just stop thinking about her, stop reliving the horror and trauma of the day she came into the world, stop what-iffing myself over and over again. I wish I could just forget it ever happened and move on with my life. But you know what? I can’t. Why? Because she’s my baby. She came from my body and she’s a part of my family. She literally pops into my head a hundred times a day, just as often as my son does. I can’t forget her, or move on, or pretend she didn’t exist. So I do my best to keep her memory alive and make her proud of me. I write about her, I speak publicly about her birth and our experience with the medical system and care providers, I make donations in her name, I buy all the keepsakes, I add her name to memorial items, because that’s all I can do.

Instead of having our friends and family over for Sloane’s 2nd birthday, I put flowers on her grave, bought myself a birthday cake that I like, and tried to enjoy the beautiful boy I have the privilege to raise. It’s so beyond unfair that this is my reality, and it hurts knowing that I am one of millions of parents who know this heartbreak.

This life is beautiful and cruel and above all else, bittersweet.

Happy 2nd birthday, Baby Sloane 💜 I love you and miss you more than words can say

It’s Not Just a Miscarriage

It’s Not Just a Miscarriage

by Trish Hlohinec ♥ 2 Comments

I follow a lot of loss accounts on social media, and one of the most common phrases that those who have suffered a miscarriage hear is “at least it was early.” I actually heard this one myself when I had my first trimester miscarriage, and even though I know it wasn’t meant to belittle my experience, it did. When I saw those two pink lines on that pregnancy test, my entire life changed. I was growing a human, I was now someone’s mother, I vowed to love and protect that little being.

I immediately looked up my due date and started thinking about what the weather would be like when he or she was born. I was due in September, so that could mean hot Summer-like temperatures, or chilly Autumn ones. Of course, there were a million questions that needed to be answered. What would it be like to bring a newborn to my family’s Thanksgiving dinner, and how much fun would our first Christmas as a family of three be? How would we announce to our friends and family that I was pregnant? Would we find out the gender? Should we have a baby shower before or after the baby is born? Oh, and I can’t forget NAMES. So many names went on a list in my little notebook. As soon as I got that positive pregnancy test, I started planning for life with a baby.

For weeks, I had felt incredibly nauseous and tired, until one day I just didn’t anymore. My gut told me this was a bad sign, but I brushed it off because what did I know? This was my first pregnancy, after all. Then, at my 13 week prenatal screening ultrasound when the technician stared stonefaced at the screen without saying a word, I knew something was wrong. I nervously asked her if there was “anything in there”, and she replied “well, not what I would expect to see at 13 weeks.” She told me she was going to bring my husband in to sit with me while she tracked down a doctor. A few minutes later she came back in, and told us to go see my midwife at the clinic right away – she was expecting us. I had only just seen her the day before, and she hadn’t been able to find a heartbeat on the Doppler. She had tried to reassure me by saying that I may not have been as far along as I had thought, and told me not to worry, but I knew. I can’t say I was surprised when she held my hands in hers and said “I’m so sorry, but your baby has passed. There’s no heartbeat.” I asked her why, and all she could say was “sometimes these things just happen.” She gave us a minute alone and I just burst into tears as soon as she closed the door.

I was given the option to go home and wait for ‘things to happen naturally’ or book an appointment with an OB who could schedule a D&C. I opted to wait it out because a D&C seemed so final to me. After days, and then weeks, of nothing happening and being pushed aside by my family doctor, I took myself to the emergency room to ask for the D&C. The doctors and nurses there were so compassionate and kind – something I didn’t know I needed at that time. I was admitted and given misoprostol to induce contractions before my D&C in the morning. I ended up needing morphine for the pain because the contractions were so intense. Before I was put under, the OB performing the D&C held both my hands in his and said “I’m so sorry we have to meet this way. I hope we will meet again under better circumstances.” That tiny bit of kindness has stuck with me, and literally brings tears to my eyes as I type this almost 9 years later.

It took me a few days to feel better physically, but emotionally was another story. Most of the women I had spoken to about their miscarriages made it seem like it wasn’t that big of a deal. It was so common, you know ‘1 in 4’ and all that. I was devastated, and I didn’t know anyone else who had expressed that, to me at least, so I felt very much alone. I had support, of course, but I didn’t have anyone to say that it was normal to feel the way I felt. It hit me hard when friends started announcing their pregnancies. It hit me all over again when my due date came in September, and at Christmas without our first baby.

You see, it’s not just a miscarriage. It’s not just an early pregnancy loss that can be forgotten about once you have another baby. It’s a baby that was wanted, a life that was planned, dreams that were shattered. The heartbreak did taper off over time, but I still think about the baby that could have been. I still wonder if we would have had a boy or a girl. I imagine my living son as a little brother instead of our first-born. I even wonder if we would have him at all if our first baby had lived.

Back to Normal

Back to Normal

by Trish Hlohinec ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

One thing I hear often these days is how people want to get “back to normal” after Covid-19. Since March 2020, most of us have been in some form of lockdown, some have been unemployed or working from home, some have really struggled with isolation, while others have thrived (and learned how to make sourdough everything). I didn’t take on any new hobbies, or learn any skills, because I felt that growing a person was enough of a project to work on during a global pandemic.

Now that the majority of our adult population has been fully vaccinated, people want to get back to what they’ve missed out on over the past 18 months – traveling, concerts, parties, weddings and even funerals. While I’ll gladly admit that I do miss some of these things, I really have no idea what “back to normal” even means after a loss. I mean, this blog is called before and after Sloane because it was and is such a monumental event that it has forever divided my life into two parts. If she hadn’t died, I’d like to think I would be just as excited to get back into the mix as everyone else, as tricky as that would be with a young baby. But she did die, and I can’t go back. The world as I know it has indelibly changed. It’s now a world where a pregnancy test doesn’t guarantee a happy ending, where a perfect anatomy scan doesn’t mean that your baby will come home. It’s a world where cemeteries have a section just for babies.

I have changed, too. I am no longer the same person I was before my heart was shattered. I am less patient, less focused, more forgetful. I have less energy, lower self-confidence, more anxiety. The thought of going to a party and making small talk is kind of terrifying if I’m being completely honest. What if I meet someone new and they ask me about my family? What if someone I do know doesn’t ask me how I’m really doing? What if they do?

For me, at least, there is no going BACK to normal. I have to find a new normal, as cliché as that sounds. I have to find a way to honour Sloane while continuing to move forward. I have to keep telling her story so that she doesn’t get left in the past when everyone else moves on.

There’s a saying I found that goes something like “Don’t tell a grieving person to look to the future, because their person is missing there, too.” If I can’t go back, and moving on isn’t possible, I think I’ll stay right where I am for a little while longer.