100 Foot Waves

Anxiety, fear, hormones, lack of sleep, I don’t know what it is but I am an emotional mess today.

Getting ready to start the day, I was sitting there and brushing H’s hair and just started crying. I don’t feel like doing anything. I have no motivation or maybe I do, but I don’t have the energy to do anything.

After I dropped H off at school and started my day, I received an email from someone at a nonprofit organization called EverMore in regards to a program called North Star that I am participating in.

I was asked to provide a brief bio and one of the last questions I was asked was if there is any encouragement or message I wanted to share with other bereaved parents/families?

This made me think. What would I say to someone who has experienced something similar to help them? The thing is, there are no words that really can “comfort” you or make the pain/anxiety go away. When you lose a child you are forever changed. But the one thing that has stuck with me, was an excerpt from a story that was read at a hospital memorial service for babies who passed away:

As for grief, you’ll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you’re drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it’s some physical thing. Maybe it’s a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it’s a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.

In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don’t even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you’ll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what’s going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything…and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.

Somewhere down the line, and it’s different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O’Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you’ll come out.

This pregnancy has been full of waves for me. And today feels like a 100 foot one.



The loss of a child is a pain that all bereaved parents share and a degree of heartache, guilt and even loneliness that is impossible to understand without experiencing it first hand. 

On the day we found about Brynn, after the ultrasound that day, we were basically sent on our way. I needed to get bloodwork but we weren’t given any resources or names of therapists who specialize in the loss of a child. 

M and  I stayed home from work for the rest of the week. But the following Monday, I had to force myself to get dressed and go to work like nothing happened. 

Why am I telling you this? 

Because I wanted to share a resource with you- http://www.live-evermore.org/home

Live Evermore is a new organization which will provide tools to parents and families who have suffered the loss of a child. 

I actually shared my story and found it very therapeutic. You can read it here-  www.live-evermore.org/laurie

I know I should eventually find someone to talk to about losing Brynn. Even at two years later, I don’t think I have really dealt with how losing her has effected me. I will. Eventually. 

Struggling Today

Today is something like CD18, if you count the spotting/super light bleeding after my beta dropped down to 5. I haven’t temped or bothered taking any OPKs so this month is a wash.

We had our WTF meeting a few weeks ago and it went better than expected. We said we would try a different protocol (EPP), throw in more supplements (DHEA and melatonin)  and run more tests (HSG, repeat RPL panel, etc).

That sounded good then but now I’m at a point where I feel like we are wasting money on something that’s not going to ever happen again. 

I have started considering selling all of H’s old baby toys and clothes. I feel like holding on to it is just me holding on to false hope. And yet going through all of it and selling it seems so overwhelming and depressing. Either way it sucks and is a reminder of what has happened.

If I had more time and/or money, I wouldn’t be worried. But my birthday is 3 months away and I feel like we are racing against the clock. 

IF we do another cycle it will be our last. I know we have tried over and over and we did what we could to have another child. 

I’m sure there will be some grieving process to it. I just know we can’t continue down this road forever. 

Second Angelversary

Dear Brynn, 

Tomorrow will be two years since we found out that you left us. 

This week of the year is one of the hardest for me. I remember two years ago feeling twitches. You and your sister moving around and kicking each other. I remember going to the anatomy scan and confirming we had healthy twin girls. And this time, you were the one who was kicking H. 

Three weeks later, our world came crashing down. What was supposed to be the best birthday present for your dad was the worst.  

We went home, in shock, and just cried. I felt sick. I don’t understand what happened or why it happened. I don’t think I ate or showered for days. And all the while, H was moving around and I felt her. Grieving for you and trying to stay strong for your sister felt impossible to balance. 

When I’m laying in bed with H now, I think of how you two would snuggle, play and giggle if you were here with us. It brings tears to me eyes. I still can’t talk about you without crying. 

I’m searching for a book for H to help me explain our family. And how she has the most beautiful sister in heaven. A true angel. 

This is the last picture I have of you. I’m so grateful for every ultrasound and even the video we have of you. 

You were and will always be so loved.  We miss you tremendously, Brynn. 


I had what I think was probably my first dream about Brynn last night. I’m not sure if it was due to talking to a friend about her pregnancy (with twins) that triggered it, or maybe beginning to heal.

I don’t remember much of it, but I remember crying and being sad (somehow sad doesn’t seem to accurately describe the feeling).

When I fed Harper this morning, I looked and her and remembered Brynn and felt that she was with us.

Later on, while we were all in bed (yes, we co-sleep in the mornings) Harper reached over for M’s tattoo of Brynn’s name. I was able to say her name without crying.

Perhaps all little signs that she is telling me she’s ok.