The Month of May

     The month of May and I do not have a very good relationship. I'm not entirely sure when it started, but I know that as early at May 2004, I already had pretty negative feelings for the month as a whole.
     By 2004, I was already realizing that we had a fertility problem. Although I'd been off all forms of birth control for well over a year, I still hadn't gotten pregnant and wouldn't be for over another year. Sitting in church, or even watching tv, and seeing all the commercials and hearing all the comments about motherhood left a pretty bitter taste in my mouth.
     If we fast forward fifteen years, it is now May 2019 and my overall opinion of the month is significantly more complicated than it was then. Since 2004, I have succeeded in giving birth to three living daughters whom I love dearly and they are the only reason Mother's Day is allowed in my home. They want to celebrate me, so I allow them to do so.
     Mother's Day brings everything painful in my life to the surface because, truth be told, I've never experienced an extreme loss or pain that didn't involve motherhood. My own mother died in 2012 and my mother-in-law, whom I loved dearly and had become very close to since my own mother's passing, died just under two years ago. This will be my second Mother's Day without her love and guidance.
     Two days ago, I sat on the stand at church, having lead the Sacrament hymn and waiting until the next portion of the meeting to sit with my family. A wave of grief and pain swept over me as I watched the teenage boys bless and pass the Sacrament.
     I miss our son.
     I miss the hugs, the laughs, the conversations, and the chance to watch him grow from week to week. Those things that should have been, will never be.
     I will never get to watch as my husband places his hands on our son's head to ordain him to the priesthood.
     I will never get to sit and smile at him as he passes the Sacrament to me, to his dad, or to his sisters.
     I will never get to hear him ask questions about the world around him, about my job, or about the Gospel.
     I will never get to holler at him to take a shower because he stinks when he walks in the door.
     I will never get to do his laundry, tuck him in at night, or hold him tight when the world is simply too big for him to handle.
     I'll never get to listen as his dad reads Tolkien to him before bed or explains the intricacies of the Star Wars universe as it was when he was young.
     There will never be and pictures of my son standing in a historical battlefield, with old cannons beside him or pictures of him with his sisters.
     Most of the year, those "nevers" don't weight on me too heavily. I am able to accept them as a part of my life and with the understanding that if Jackson hadn't died the way he did, I would not have Dash and all the immense joy she brings to me.
     But May is different. Mother's Day is different. Year after year, May rips open the scars I bear then asks me to be grateful for them, demanding that I acknowledge them with each social media post, commercial, or overheard comment about Mother's Day.
     I have developed the habit of avoiding church on the most painful of days but I can't do that this year without seriously hurting the feelings of my very sensitive eight year old. Spitfire will be singing her first solo in church, something she is both nervous and excited about. It would crush her if I couldn't summon the strength to sit and listen as her beautiful, clear voice as it echos through the chapel.
     So I will go. I will sit on the edge of the bench with a giant handkerchief and listen as she alone sings the following words:

Maybe I'll never know the love it takes
To make me a happy home that's warm and safe.
And maybe I'll never see how you pray for my every need
And wonder what more you could do for me.

     And when the rest of the primary children join in for the chorus, I will likely get up and exit the chapel, making as little of a scene as possible but unable to sit for the rest of the song.

What Loss Does to You

It's a nice, peaceful afternoon here. I sat with a few of the kids and had a picnic lunch in the yard while a couple of the babies slept in the stroller. The weather is so beautiful and that adds to the peace I have felt through most of the day.

The daycare children are napping and so are Dash and Spitfire.

I'm the only one awake and that is a rare occurrence.

I decided it would be a good time to call our bank and set up a savings account for Dash, as all the necessary documentation was right in front of me from finishing our taxes.

Our account doesn't have the option of doing ongoing automatic transfers without an end date, so I kept clicking the month forward button and picked a random day in 2019. You would think that's not a big deal, but this is what repeat pregnancy loss does to you:

As I pulled up my online calendar, making a note in 3 years' time to renew the automatic transfers, I thought to myself, "I hope she's alive and well because it's really going to suck when I see this if she isn't."

What parent actually thinks that when they have healthy children?

A loss mom, that's who.

Second Stillbirthday

Today is our son's second stillbirthday.

Last year I felt like I handled it really well. I had my sweet, new little miracle to hold, cuddle, and do a little crying with. I took all the girls and we bought balloons and set them free, watching as the wind changed directions and blew them into a nearby tree, entangling those little strings for months.

I'm not doing anything like that this year. One major reason is that I felt guilty for littering and could see the evidence of that for months when I took the children to the park.

The other is that it's again very windy and a little cool. I don't have it in me to walk across the street with the kids and buy balloons, head to the park, and let them go.

I'm too depressed/sad/grief stricken to do much of anything today. I did get 25 minutes of my normal 30 minute work-out completed, but I couldn't even finish that last few minutes.

I feel  . . . raw . . .  exposed . . .alone . . . unprepared.

For reasons I don't understand, the grief has hit much harder than I expected. I thought that the first stillbirthday would be the hardest but I was very wrong.

It's so much worse this year.

There is someone that woke up thinking about Jackson.

My loving husband. I am so grateful that we chose each other as spouses and have both stayed committed to loving and serving one another through the good and the bad. It hasn't always been easy for either of us.

The loss of a child can be devastating to a marriage. Based on a couple different studies I read (you can find them here and here), chances of divorce go up 7-9% over the rest of the population after the death of a child. I don't know the statistics for stillbirths but I can say that of the 7 couples I know who have lost their babies in the last 3 years, 2 have since divorced.

My husband posted this scripture on my facebook wall this morning before I woke:

"Can a woman forget her nursing child,

And not have compassion on the son

of her womb? Surely they may

forget, Yet I will not forget you."

--Isaiah 49:15

There ought to be a law against making one's spouse cry before 6am. (Kidding!) 

My husband thought about me . . . about our son . . . and took the time from his morning routine to let me know that he was thinking about us. Things like that make me fall in love with him even more.

A Child's Poem

Before my 7 year old daughter left for school this morning, I emptied out her backpack, which was full of graded papers, her homework from previous weeks, and all the poetry from her poetry unit.

Second in the pile was a poem titled "In Comes Sadness". The title intrigued me, so I began to read, slowly, breathing carefully as I continued. In the end, I loved it so much I thought I would share it.

In Comes Sadness

Mom and I sit on the bean bag seat

"I am so sorry to say this, but your brother has died."

We start crying 

A tear dripped from my eye

I keep crying--a lot 

"Why? Why? Why?" I think.

My heart feels lost.

Sadness has come to our home.

The poetry unit was done through the month of April and it's clear to me that the moment I shared Jackson's passing will be one of those pivotal points in her life.

I remember constantly that my husband is grieving but in my pain, I'd forgotten how much of an impact Jackson's presence had on my sweet girls.  My other daughter is 3 and may not remember any of what transpired over that six months, but she'll always know she had a brother and his name was Jackson because we will always talk about him.

It has been 57 days since my son was born. It feels like an eternity, but the memory is still so fresh and raw. I feel like the Hulk, raw and exposed, ready to destroy everything with my pain.

I read a meme this morning that said something along the lines of "The pain doesn't lesson, but we become stronger and bear it better with time and healing."

It's still too soon for me to know if this is true.  The only thing that made the pain of losing my daughter any easier was my pregnancy with Jackson.  Will that again be the case? 

And if we conceive again, how will my oldest daughter, my sunshine-before-the-storm, react?  Will she be filled with the fear I will hold? Will she cry to her Heavenly Father, begging him not to take the baby away? Or will she be hopeful or pragmatic?

I am in awe of her beauty, inside and out.  I want to protect her from my pain, but I don't know how! And I know that the pain she feels can give her a measure of empathy that she could not otherwise share with others.

Sadness may have come to our home, as she wrote, but so have valuable lessons and growing experiences that we could not have had otherwise. And I thank my God every day for my two miracles.  I would not be able to heal without them.

Return to Zero

Last night was the Lifetime Premier of Return to Zero, a movie that many in the stillbirth community have looked forward to with both dread and eager anticipation.

The experience we had with delivering Jackson is by no means unique. In the United States and Canada, one baby is born still every 20 minutes.  Even so, there has been very little discussion about what it really means to experience a stillbirth and the grieving process that begins the moment a family realizes their pregnancy has not resulted in the living, breathing baby they'd expected.

I sat in my rocking chair on the main level of my home, alone, and watched.  I was very impressed with the movie overall.  The entire movie was filmed in 19 days which is quite a remarkable feat in and of itself.  Add to that the pressure the actors had to convey the necessary emotions--right in front of the very man whose story is being told--and you have an unforgettable movie.

**I am going to discuss parts of the movie so please don't read if you don't want the movie to be spoiled for you**

The opening scenes were pleasant as the couple went through normal end-of-pregnancy events such as a baby shower, labor course, etc.  Things quickly change.  I felt gut-punched when Maggie mentions she hadn't felt the baby move all day.  The following day she is in the doctor's office and the nurse can't find the heartbeat.  I went through this with my ob/gyn on September 28th, 2012 and again in L&D on March 30th, 2014. In both cases I hadn't felt movement and went in when I couldn't find the heartbeat on my own, only to have the medical professional stand there and keep trying, moving over every inch of my lower abdomen, with nothing but static coming through the doppler.

In both cases an ultrasound machine was wheeled in, just like in the movie and the words, "I'm sorry" were uttered.

I wish I could say that I was completely alone that September morning like Maggie was.  But I wasn't. In that room with me the first time was my daughter who was 2 as well as two of the daycare children who were 19 months and 2.5 years old.  I had to keep myself pulled together as my fears were confirmed in that moment. Tears dripped silently down my face while the doctor and I discussed my options.

In March, my husband was sitting across the room, so I wasn't alone, but I was horrified that I was losing yet another baby. How could this be happening again?

In the next hour of the movie the couple pulls further and further apart in their grief. They are unable or unwilling to talk about how they are doing, saying they're "great" when they're both completely broken from the loss of their son.  Throughout those scenes, I was filled with gratitude that my husband and I are truly best friends.  We have leaned on one another when the grief was too much to bear, held each other through our tears, and supported one another when something was simply too hard to manage alone.

My husband lost his son, too.  I've said this before, but it bears repeating because he is grieving, too.  I have sometimes lost track of that for a moment or two, but it's always there, reminding me that I'm not alone.

Maggie meets a new doctor, a perinatologist, who reviews the autopsy results and who I assume takes over Maggie's postpartum care.  I have refused to see the doctors involved in my D&Cs and my stillbirth for postpartum care--it's just too hard.  This new perinatologist is compassionate, honest, and calm.

My experience with infertility was enough to help me treasure my living children but my experience with loss has magnified that beyond anything I could have imagined.  In the film, Maggie gives her new perinatologist a big of a dressing down about bedside manner and never being able to understand what she'd been through. The doctor gives this heartfelt response:

You've been fortunate enough to experience something very few people even have the courage to think about. . . Maggie, I was in medical school, studying obstetrics when I was pregnant with my second child, a boy . . . and at 7 months, his heart stopped. No reason. It just stopped. And I lost him and I'll never get him back. I lost a part of myself that day and I'll never get it back. . . There is life after this. I promise you that. I was blessed with two more girls after I lost my son. . . and I can't imagine my life without them and I don't want to. Because of what you've been through, because of what your son taught you, you will forever be available to a child, appreciate that child better than most parents ever can and that truly is a gift. We loved them all we could while they were here. No one can ever take that away from us. You will always be Arthur's mother.  Be proud of that. He is."

I bawled and bawled. Because of what I've been through, because of what my son, my daughter, infertility, has taught me, I appreciate children better than most parents ever can and I do believe that is a gift.  I believe it is the reason I am able to care for others' children on a daily basis, to bond with them, to see them for who they are and what they are capable of and to push them to ever greater independence.  To teach them the things I will never get to teach to those I've lost. I am not easily frustrated by my living children and even those "Why don't you listen to me?!?" moments are overshadowed by the knowledge that I have that my children are miracles.

Later on, Maggie and her mother are talking on the sofa and her mother begins with the ever-persistent, "Everything happens for a reason" nonsense.  Her mother reveals that she had a miscarriage about a year before Maggie came along. Maggie claims that "Miscarriage is not the same as a stillbirth."

Having experienced both, I can attest to the truth of that claim.  But them Maggie's mother steps up to the plate and nails it out of the park.

It's still a loss, Maggie. And it still hurts. It's not just the loss of the baby.  It's the loss of a possibility of what might have been and that is exactly the same."  

The movie then works through the difficulties of pregnancy after stillbirth.  This is something I have not experienced and quite frankly, is something I may never experience.

In the cases of all the women I know who have experienced a stillbirth, there was either a very specific known cause such as a prolapsed cord, an umbilical cord anomaly, or an undiagnosed clotting disorder.

I knew I had a clotting disorder and my doctors did, too.  I was on medications to prevent the clotting and yet it STILL happened.

If my husband and I do get lucky enough to experience pregnancy again, I will always have the fear that I will lose a 6th child for the same reasons I lost the other 5.  Because that is all I know.  During my two successful pregnancies, I was blissfully unaware that my body was a ticking time bomb but now that I've lost 4 in a row, and even while on medications to prevent it, I can't ever go back.

The surprise to me is that I don't want to.  Would I change my losses for living babies?  Yes!  But not all of them.  Because if I hadn't had these losses, if I hadn't experienced infertility, I wouldn't be able to appreciate my children and the children of others to the degree that I do now.  And I wouldn't change that. The depth of my love has grown with each new sorrow and I am grateful for that love. My losses have changed me and I am a better mother because of them.

The Memory Box

Today I picked up what I think will be that last thing for Jackson's memory box: his cremated remains.

In the past 3 weeks, I've had a hard time settling one what the proper "term" for those are.  Someone used the term "cremains" in a 2nd trimester loss group and it's the term I think I'll use.

The call came in Friday but I wasn't adequately motivated to pick them up until this morning.  Our Odyssey is still at the auto body shop for repairs and the little Kia Sorrento I'm driving really doesn't have car seat space for 3 (or more) seats.

Today I knew I could make it over and my mood was sufficiently good to get me out of the house, so that's what I did.  The two daycare children sat in the back, rear facing, and my 3 year old was thrilled to sit in the front in our Britax Frontier.

I miss my van and driving to pick up my son's cremains in a too-small rental was just a reminder of how much that week sucked and how I'm still dealing with everything on so many levels. Tears streamed down my cheeks for the first half of the drive there.

Crying and driving aren't a great combination, so I changed the radio station to classical and let that change my focus to my driving.

Have you ever tried signing cremation papers when you have a tired 13 week old in your arms, an arbitrarily moody 3 year old, and an "I must touch everything!" 17 month old?  Let's just say the scene was probably not what the funeral director was used to.  But I think having all the girls there kept me from getting really emotional while I was there and for the drive home.

Jackson's cremains are in a small, royal blue velvet pouch.  I knew the amount would be small and light, but it was even smaller and lighter than I had anticipated. He'll be placed in his memory box for the next couple of years.  When we move into our "forever" home, we plan on transplanting the rose bush Dad bought and planting the cremains with the rose bush.  It's Jackson's rose bush and always will be.

The box also contains all of his ultrasound pictures, the cards we received from friends and family, our hospital bands, and the stats card with his height and weight.

The box is sitting out in the basement on the futon for now.  Sometime, maybe in a month or so, I'll close the top, tie the ribbon, and find a place for the box.  I don't know where, we'll put it, but there's still time to figure that out.

Easter Sunday Scenes

There is always room for a new experience but I could have done without the one I had today.

Today is Easter Sunday and my first thought this morning was how much, a month ago, I had been looking forward to wearing a specific maternity outfit. I wore it for Easter with my second daughter and I love it.  It’s a white tunic with navy blue leggings.  The tunic has medium sized dots in blues and purples.  I feel a little like an easter egg wearing it, but it’s very comfortable and I have fond memories of wearing it.

But I don’t get to wear that any more, and my emotions stayed close.  I spent my morning thinking about my Savior, his birth, the thoughts Mary would have had during her pregnancy, how she felt as he died on the cross. . .  I thought about the Atonement and its ability to heal, knowing that I won’t always be filled with grief, but so overwhelmed by it that I knew church would be difficult. I kept wondering what it would feel like to have Him stand in front of me with tears in his eyes, then hugging me as I cried on His shoulder.

Dying Easter eggs and making breakfast were not great distractions when all I wanted to do was crawl back in bed.  I couldn’t ruin all of the normal Easter festivities for my girls though and I knew we needed to go to church.

In LDS services, members from the congregation give the sermons in small segments called talks.  The first speaker was a young woman around the age of 17.  Her words mirrored my thoughts of the morning, but from the heart of someone who has never been hurt the way I have been. Tears silently streamed down my face as she talked about the healing power of the Atonement and my attempts at wiping them with the handkerchief from my grandmother were only partially successful. I could tell that a few members of the choir, who were sitting on the stand, could see I was wiping tears, but it seemed that others around me were unaware.

The second speaker got up and began talking about birth and death and I had to focus on breathing.  When she mentioned families looking forward for months for the birth of a baby, my inner dialogue yelled, “BUT MY SON DIED BEFORE HE WAS BORN!  IT’S NOT SUPPOSED TO WORK THAT WAY!”

I got up immediately and started sobbing before I was out the door, unable to keep my grief contained. Once the doors to the chapel closed behind me, I walked slowly by sheer force of will.  All I wanted to do was run, and keep running, but there was nowhere to run to or even a room to go in and hide. I walked all the way around the halls and then sat quietly in a chair in the foyer, wanting to listen but wishing harder than ever that I had a place to hide and listen at the same time.

One of the sister missionaries came over, understanding that something was wrong and feeling the need to say something, but not knowing what.  She bent over and gave me a hug and asked if there was anything she could do.

There isn’t anything anyone can do.

I managed to pull myself mostly together to go back in and join my family.  My 3 year old was giving the prayer in primary in a few minutes and was going to need a little help but my husband couldn’t do it because he was teaching one of the Sunday School classes. I sat quietly in the back of the primary room until it was her turn to give the opening prayer, then helped her along a little. 

I was a wreck and my crying was going to disturb everyone around me. I didn’t want to be home alone, so I brought my precious miracle daughter with me to help keep me on task with dinner and to keep me from entirely losing it again.

It worked a little. I did manage to finish cooking our little Easter dinner, but not without some tears and a very short temper.

Today was definitely harder than Friday, and I hadn’t thought that was possible at this point. I miss my son. I have so many questions about what his death means for my family in the eternities. I want to be able to tell my daughters that Jackson will be with us again someday, but in all honesty, I don’t know that and I can’t do anything more than tell them “We don’t know” when they start asking questions. I’m not in the habit of lying to protect feelings and I hope that someday my honesty will mean something to them.

Realistically speaking, this will likely happen again but I just hope I can handle it better next time.

**As a reminder, please keep my facebook post free of comments for the sake of others. Thank you**

The Call

This afternoon, during a moment of stress within our home, The Call came in.

Jackson's remains are ready for pick-up.

My immediate reaction was "No no no no.  This isn't happening!"  Of course, it's already happened and I knew the call would be coming, but I still wasn't prepared for it.

It felt like my world came crashing down all over again. The Call put DH in a rough mood as well, so I know I'm not alone.

I seem to be living in some sort of limbo.  There are times when it feels like Jackson never existed and life feels "normal" but there are other moments when reality washes over me like a tsunami, destroying everything in its wake.

In all honesty, I don't know how long this tidal wave of emotions will last. Weeks? Months? Years?

Will there ever be a time when I can look at something that was purchased for Jackson without choking up? Or look at the sympathy cards or pictures of my pregnancy without wondering why this happened?

Soooo many questions that don't have answers.

My son's ashes are ready, but am I?

I really don't think so.

How Are You Doing?

"Honesty is the best policy."

"Every lie is two lies — the lie we tell others and the lie we tell ourselves to justify it."

"With lies you may get ahead in the world - but you can never go back."

"Candor gives wings to strength."

My desire to be honest has, at times, caused me some serious problems and ruined a few relationships along the way.

The situation I find myself in now isn't helping this any.  I've always disliked the question, "How are you doing?"  It seems the only socially acceptable answer to that question, regardless of circumstances, is "I'm okay".

You know what?  I'm NOT okay.  But I shouldn't have to be, either.  

Today was my first day back in church since Jackson's stillbirth.  I had told my husband this morning that I wanted to go, but that I wished I was invisible so I wouldn't see the pitying glances in my direction.

Alas, I am not a superhero or a wizard with an invisibility cloak.  Word of our loss had spread quite far, but had not reached everyone.  Some found out when they saw me and my clearly not-pregnant-self while others heard when my husband stood at the pulpit and bore his testimony about gratitude and trials and retold just a little of what we'd been through.

I don't know HOW to answer the question. If I was a liar or a social conformist I'd say I was okay but I am neither.  So instead I sometimes dodge the question with a flip: That's a loaded question.

So How am I doing? I'm sad. I'm functioning at about 50% capacity when it comes to getting things done around my home. The meals that have been brought in have been a tremendous help because I just don't have the emotional strength to cook for my children or the money to order in/carry-out every night. I've cooked two meals in the last two weeks and it's all I've really been able to manage.

I'm showering daily, which is probably a big achievement in and of itself. I have almost no clothes that fit, so at least I can be clean if I have to walk around in ill-fitting clothes and feeling like a slob.

I can't bear to go into my sewing room right now.  Not only is it a complete disaster from 5 months of pregnancy-induced "too tired to clean it up" but it was going to be Jackson's room and I don't have the emotional strength to put the room in order by myself and I'm too embarrassed by the mess and my likely reaction to being in there to let anyone else help me out.

I've met with a chiropractor and will be seeing him 3 times a week for the next 6 weeks and probably regularly thereafter for the foreseeable future.  I've found out that my neck is lacking the curve it should have (I have NO curve and there should be a healthy one!) and my lower back has a lovely zigzag as well as being a little twisted like a screw. I want my body to be as healthy as I can and one of the ways I can do that is to provide my spinal chord with as much room to function as possible.  The kinks need to come out.

I have been referred to an MFM with a personal history of 2nd trimester pregnancy loss.  Tomorrow I will call her office and see if she and I can meet and go over my medical history and come up with a better plan than what my previous MFM practice had in place.

Deep in my heart I believe we are not done and that there is a solution.  We can have more children, but we need to find a doctor who can get to the heart of the problem and who will do everything in her power to help us, and humor me along the way if I ask for additional testing.

So how am I doing?  I'm sad . . . and determined to keep going, to get answers, and to always be grateful for the two daughters who hug me each day.  I know I have a divine purpose and part of that purpose is related to raising those daughters but I also know that that is only a small portion of what my Heavenly Father has in store for me.

How and I doing?  

I'm okay.

Life Can Be Graphic

In all honesty, I have hemmed and hawed all week about whether or not I wanted to share pictures of Jackson.  His hands and feet are so tiny and perfect, but intrauterine death isn't gentle on the face and torso, especially for a baby in the 2nd trimester.  The bones in the skull and the ribs are still so soft and they quickly softened even more.

So here is a gentle warning: Many people may find these picture graphic but this is the reality that we endured.  These are the only pictures of my son that I will ever have.

My son didn't have to die.  His death could have been prevented with a simple blood test that my doctors refused to run.  Instead, he will live on only in the memory and in these cherished moments after his birth.

Fingers with fingernails

Tiny little feet

Even at less than 21 weeks, you can see his ankle bone forming. 

Look Mommy! Ten toes!

Hand that was meant for holding.

Too in awe to cry

9.2 ounces

9" long

Tears were unpredictable

I should have held him longer.

He lost his son, too

Goodbye, little Jackson. We miss you.

**Please place comments on my blog, rather than on facebook**

My Guide for Grieving

The first time I remember experiencing grief was 22 years ago when my great-grandfather passed away.  I had no idea at the time that my life would take the twists and turns it has.

It has now been 98 hours since I gave birth to Jackson.  My body seems to be healing well, but I feel like a big fat tub of lard.  It's not a pleasant feeling to add to all the hormones and grief.

I have some guidelines I'd like to share about how to "handle" me in the coming months and years. I am never going to forget my son. I carried him for over 20 weeks and went through labor and delivery. I held him, kissed his sweet head, tiny fingers, and the bottoms of his feet.

1. Please do everything in your power to tell me privately if you are pregnant.

2. Do not send me baby shower announcements, birth announcements, or anything related.

3. If you ask me how I'm doing, be prepared for a answer that's longer than one sentence.

4. Ask me how I'm doing.

5. Call my son by name.  It's Jackson.

6. Give me room to grieve. I won't be doing family functions, parties, or anything else social for awhile.

7. I will grieve for as long and as hard as I need so do not put a time limit on my grief. If I cry for my son 20 years from now, just give me a hug and let me cry.

8. Remember my husband lost his son, too.  Ask him how HE is doing.

9. Don't tell me "God has a plan for you" or "God won't give you more than you can handle."  I have very strong beliefs about these two things and they're too involved to talk about here, but if you ever want to ask me about them, I'll share.  In the meantime, keep your own platitudes to yourself.

10. If someone you know goes through this, PLEASE have them contact me. The one thing that kept me going on Monday was that I wasn't alone.  Two of my friends had been through this, too. They knew what to tell me and how to answer my questions and they were there to listen to me. If I can do that for someone else, it would help me to know that my experience wasn't entirely in vain.