The First 40 Days Without My Son

A few weeks before Afton was born, I bought a book called The First 40 Days.

Have you heard of the 4th Trimester? You know, those fresh days after you bring your baby home, when you – the powerful, beautiful, natural mother – are reeling and healing and head-over-heels in love all at once? This book embraces the idea that we should look at pregnancy and birth as more than three trimesters. That there’s so much healing and adjusting that needs to happen after a baby is born, and that we should really view those first 40 days after birth as the 4th Trimester.

The book is really beautiful and intentional, and I’d recommend it for any hippie-leaning mama who is preparing for life with a new baby.

But that’s not me anymore.

I need a new book – one that’s written for moms who never brought their baby home. Whose first 40 days included, mainly, surviving the shattering of their own hearts. Instead of giving us recipes for how to promote healing or lactation, this book, in my imagination, would tell us what to eat when we literally cannot find room for anything in our stomachs other than rock-heavy grief.

As far as I know, that book doesn’t exist (does it? please tell) and this post is not my attempt to write that book. I’m in no position to be giving advice. In all honesty, today I could hardly get out of bed and it was 50 degrees in February. 50 DEGREES IN FEBRUARY.

Earlier, in my happy days of being pregnant, I decided to share first trimester and second trimester posts. Now, after his too-early arrival at 23 weeks, I’m going straight to the fourth.

Here it is in all its wordy honesty: a full documentation of the first 40 days without my son.

Phsyical Healing

People often ask me, how are you healing? physically?

And I really appreciate it.

But I have almost nothing to say because, if I’m being honest, having a major abdominal surgery and several very large incisions on both the inside and outside of my body is really a non-issue in comparison to the emotional pain of losing my baby.

For the record, everything seems to be healing just fine. I bought these things which seem to be helping on a cosmetic level, maybe? I guess I didn’t realize that a c-section scar would not heal super smoothly, so there’s that special and very glamorous detail that I will now live with forever. The uneven scar would have really bothered the old Lindsay, but it doesn’t ruffle even one single feather of my new exhausted self. Okay, maybe half a feather. I might still have a little shred of vanity hanging on.

Bottom line – I’m healing. I can sit up, I can walk, it’s all fine. And even though I never wanted a c-section and I definitely never wanted this story, I’m grateful that my body is putting itself back together.

Milk!

After giving birth at just 23 weeks, my body started producing that liquid gold for my baby, and it was incredible. I’m obnoxiously proud.

I decided to pump and donate milk, primarily because the idea of just stopping lactation immediately upon getting home from the hospital was so heartbreaking that I couldn’t handle it. I knew I needed to have this experience, even if it was just for me.

Meeting a mom and handing her a bag of almost 100 ounces of hard-earned breastmilk that should have been for my son was sweet and weird and super emotional. I thought: maybe I won’t cry. I cried immediately. Her baby was a former one-pound preemie, and the mom hugged me and teared up with me as her happy little buddy smiled at us from the backseat of the car. I smiled back at him and thought: that could have been Afton. That one-pound preemie who grew up to smile happily at strangers could have been my son.

As amazing as the donating experience was, I would do the pumping all over again even if just for me. It was so emotionally healing to just find a quiet place to sit and be close to the memory of my baby every day. I’d hold his blanket and think about him, and a lot of times I’d light a candle or just cry, but staying close to Afton and close to the pregnancy through pumping milk was one of the best things I did in the first 40 days.

It gave me structure, purpose, and a really bittersweet joy. It made me feel like a mom.

I decided to officially stop one month after his birthday. It’s hard to describe the level of emotional pain that I felt as I watched my body produce less and less milk, and then eventually none. There were so many hard changes: My nursing bras no longer fitting. My appetite completely vanishing. The feeling that my heart was literally, physically, breaking. For two days, I had a hard time talking to anyone about anything without needing to leave the room for a good hard sob. Those were some of the darkest days of my life.

Letting go of this crazy-beautiful body miracle has made Afton’s goodbye official for me. He’s here in my heart, yes, always. But he’s not a part of my body anymore.

Sleeping and Eating

Sleep? Sleep has been okay.

The time before I got to bed and the time after I wake up are the hardest for me. Bjork and I realized our differences one morning when his use of the paper shredder just after I had woken up was enough to trigger full-on waterworks. I don’t know why. I don’t even know. It’s just one of those things. When I wake up from sleep, I am so emotionally fragile that I cannot handle a paper shredder.

But sleep is there. It’s happening. And that’s a really good thing.

But oh, the eating, you guys. The eating during these first 40 days has been unlike any other season of my life, and I don’t mean that in a good way. My stomach is constantly full, unnaturally satisfied, not hungry at all, because it’s heavy with emotion and anxiety and grief. There is absolutely no space left for food.

Food fits neatly into two categories: Okay and No.

Right now in the Okay category, we have:

• sugar cereals (calling back to those first trimester days)
• avocado toast
• hot chocolate, of which I can drink exactly one third of a small size from Caribou
• soups and crusty white bread with butter
• chocolate covered animal crackers
• ginger tea

I’m trying to eat just a little bit every day, but even foods in the Okay category are just okay. Nothing tastes good. Nothing gets me excited. It sounds cliche, but it’s the truth. Food has lost its flavor.

Can I just tell you, though? My one successful experience with food came after a day of really struggling to eat. I had picked at my oatmeal that morning (as with almost every morning) out of sheer obligation to keep my body alive and then just skipped lunch altogether because I couldn’t even handle the thought of forcing myself to eat any more food.

That day, Bjork and I went to Afton’s grave. We spent some time just being with him and near him, crying together, loving the sweet spot that we picked for him (pictured above). And when we came back to my parents’ house that evening, I smelled lasagna right when I walked in the door and I came alive. Garlic and cheese and meaty tomato sauce… ah, there you are, hunger. I had a huge bowl of lasagna that night and felt just a little bit like my normal self again.

The strange thing is that every time we spent time with Afton, even after he had passed away, I felt a little bit better. It’s like after I was close to him, holding him or being near him even after he was gone, it pulled up my last reserves of strength to keep putting one foot in front of the other. It feels symbolic: when I was with him, I was okay for a little while longer. I could eat.

Food = survival in the first 40 days.

Emotionally

If you came for the juicy stuff, this is your spot.

To use a super common analogy, the first 40 days have been nothing short of an emotional shipwreck.

Above all, it’s disorienting. One moment I’m having the thought: “I think I actually love being pregnant,” and the next moment I’m slammed, pinned down under a waterfall of grief, trapped and scrambling to right myself but not knowing which way is up. I find the surface, I catch my breath, I scramble to hold on to Bjork, and then I get pounded again by a new wave. There is heavy water rushing over my head and pushing me back under, and this time I know which way is up a little better than I did before, but I’m also getting tired. It’s getting harder to claw my way back up for air the second, third, fourth time. The exhaustion is bone-deep.

And then between the waves, in the periods of stillness when I come up and catch my breath, I look around and see a wide expanse of open sea in every direction which brings its own type of panic. Here I am, stranded, in the middle of my own ocean of sorrow and confusion. Where is everyone? Just a minute ago, I was on solid ground, safe and naive, and now it will be years before I ever make it to shore. Wait, will I ever make it to shore?

This is where I live now: in the heart-and-soul identity crisis of being a mom but not.

It’s my ocean. I’m out here in the middle of it, miles away from my baby and all the dreams I had for our family, present and future. And what’s really overwhelming is knowing that my new identity – a mom without a baby – is one that I’ll carry for a lot longer than I’d like. Maybe, in some ways, forever.

I’m not a soul without hope. I know that I will be okay, and I know Bjork will be okay, and I know that because we made that promise to our baby as he was dying in our arms.

“It’s okay, Afton. You can go. We will be okay.”

I WILL keep that promise. For him, I will.

But damn. My heart.

Hard Things Vs. Helpful Things

Things that are hard:

• Seeing baby bumps
• Seeing babies, kids, families, and anyone who doesn’t know about Afton… so basically all people
• Looking at social media because the babies are everywhere
• Getting dressed – maternity clothes are too big, regular clothes are too small
• Talking to people without acknowledging Afton
• Making small talk with anyone about anything
• Listening to music without crying
• Caring

Things that are helpful:

• People asking us questions about Afton
• People making plans with us and understanding if we have to cancel last minute or if we are a little on the socially weird side right now
• People texting us throughout the day just to say, “How are you today?”
• Writing about Afton
• Writing to Afton
• Sleeping
• Snuggling with Sage
• Walking with Sage
• Doing anything with Sage
• Following a bunch of animal accounts on social media
• Lighting candles
• Browsing trash magazines
• Binging on TV shows
• Reading about other peoples’ similar experiences with loss

And Now What?

I was probably moderately good at this in my Before Life, but in my current state of mind, my ability to fake my way through anything has gone down to zero percent.

My counselor recently asked me: what feels good right now? And I said: telling the truth.

Which is good – it just means that the hardest possible thing for me to do right now is to pretend to be excited about something I’m not. So I’m going to honor the honesty that this situation is asking of me.

I think the answer to the Now What question looks like slowly trying to cook and eat, just for me, just because. Now What looks like walks with Sage and naps as needed. Now What looks like finishing those thank you cards and finding the right special box for packing away all of Afton’s clothes and blankets. Now What looks like writing posts about whatever is true, and only when the inspiration comes, such as at 1am when I am drafting this post. That night owl lyfe tho.

Now What looks like love and grief in a holy mix: slow and steady, little by little, day by day.

My vision for these next few months involves a slow re-assembling of all the pieces of our life… and the blog sort of coming along with it. My promise to you is that when I’m ready, I’ll write about food. And when I’m not, I won’t fake it.

To all of you who read these posts? Even though it’s such a hard and weird season for us, I’m thankful that you’re here for it. Really, deeply thankful.

I closed my other baby posts with this note, and as I stand here on the other side, I think it’s worth ending with that one last time.

To you mamas who are pregnant – I’m glad you’re here. Please love your precious babies the very best you can. ❤️

To you mamas whose journey involves loss of a pregnancy, a child, or a dream  – I now stand bravely with you. I see you, I love you, and I’m cheering for you and your babies.

To you readers who are in a completely different life stage altogether but still show up to be friends on the internet – you are amazingly cool. We’re lucky to have you here. 

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The Normal Day: Afton’s Story, Part Ten

This post is part of a ten-post series I’m sharing about the life and loss of our son, Afton. Click here to read more of Afton’s story.

The first time I felt Afton kick was on a tour bus in Lyon, France. We were driving by the river, all lit up at night – and with two teeny tiny pops, there he was. I smiled and cried because I was in France with my favorite person and our baby was saying hi for the very first time. It was too awesome.

I became obsessed with trying to get Bjork to feel the kicks, but I was never fast enough. It became a routine – we’d lay in bed reading, and every three minutes I’d grab his hand and say: THERE! There he was! Did you feel that? And every time, Afton would get still and quiet. It was a game. That stinker.

Our last “normal” day before the hospital was everything I would have wanted it to be. Bjork and I drove to the studio together – a rare event. We met with our builder to finalize the details of the baby-inspired remodel that was supposed to start in a few days, and we laughed about finishing the remodel before April 26. “Please don’t come early, baby!” I joked easily. I took Sage for a walk around the lake and listened to an audiobook on breastfeeding. (Sweet Afton: your mom is nothing if not a nerd.) Bjork and I worked late, until 8pm, saying outloud how sweet it was to enjoy these last months of having such a flexible schedule before our lives would get changed by the miracle of a newborn. We got dinner at a cheap Mexican restaurant and came back to snuggle on the couch with Sage.

As soon as we sat down, Afton started kicking. I grabbed Bjork’s hand, expecting more of the same shyness, but as soon as I put his hand on my belly, Afton gave a strong, direct kick. Bjork’s eyes popped and we both laughed with wonder. There he was! Introducing himself to his daddy on what would be our last night together at home.

Our last normal day with Afton was just that – normal. Sweet, precious, normal. That’s what I want to leave as my last story, because our normal days with our baby were some of the best days of my life.

“Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are. Let me learn from you, love you, bless you before you depart. Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow.” – Mary Jean Irion

Afton – we’re celebrating your life today and every day. I’m so proud to be your mom.

I’m sharing more about life with and after Afton on my personal Instagram account. I’d love to have you follow along here.

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The Darkest Night: Afton’s Story, Part Nine

This post is part of a ten-post series I’m sharing about the life and loss of our son, Afton. Click here to read more of Afton’s story.

It’s been almost one month, and time has softened the grief only to unleash a storm of questions. I try to sit with them, to work through them, but the most cruel one lingers: why couldn’t my body hold onto my baby?

A few nights ago, I couldn’t sleep. I laid on the couch by myself, in the dark except for a box of Kleenex, and I thought back to seeing Afton for the last time on the ultrasound just before he was born. It was the exact definition of bittersweet: watching his lively feet kick right down through my dilated cervix, showing us that he was happy and healthy, but that he needed to come out before it was time. It was the last time I saw or felt him move.

Over and over I thought about it – he was perfect, but I was flawed. How could my body not know how to do this natural, life-giving thing for him? I cried hard that night as I sat alone in the dark. Why? WHY? He was beautifully and intricately formed, more than any living thing I’d ever seen. He was loved so fiercely.

And then, without missing a beat, I heard – You are, too.

Or maybe more like felt it, right there in the intense darkness. Lindsay: you are, too. You are beautifully and intricately formed, and you are loved so fiercely.

I’m always a little wary of people who say “God spoke to me,” so I won’t make that assertion when I can’t say for sure. But what came into my mind in that moment, and what I know deep-down is true, and how God loves us… they all match. I’m keeping it. The reason I think this story is worth sharing is because I think this place of self-doubt is more universal than it is personal. And that you-are-too message? That feeling? I want you to keep it, too.

I am convinced that God looks at me the way I look at Afton, except better: as perfectly made, beautiful, and so loved. I am also convinced that Afton’s loss is a tragedy that happened in my body. To be honest, I don’t necessarily believe there’s a reason for it, that God wanted it, willed it, or planned it, or that “my body failed me.” My body grew a beautiful baby and tragedy took him away.

What I know of God is that he is life and love, and he is with us in the dark night of tragedy, and that he made us beautifully the same way he made Afton beautifully. And he is weeping with us – all of us – for tragedy and loss of life.

I know that I’m not the only one with a broken heart these days. So many of you have sent messages and emails, and whether your story is the same or something completely different, I think this truth still applies. I’m including this as a part of Afton’s story to remind myself – and us – that just as beautiful and perfect and loved as our sweet Afton was?

You are, too.

I’m sharing more about life with and after Afton on my personal Instagram account. I’d love to have you follow along here.

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The Stranger: Afton’s Story, Part Eight

This post is part of a ten-post series I’m sharing about the life and loss of our son, Afton. Click here to read more of Afton’s story.

Every day, there are new Brave Things.

Going to the grocery store for milk. Walking Sage around the block. Seeing babies. This week my Brave Thing was getting on a plane and going to Hawaii. I know, right? Dreamy. And four weeks ago, it would have been. But I’m living a new life now – one where following through on a would-be babymoon to Hawaii falls under the category of Very Brave Things.

As we checked in for the flight, we realized that Bjork and I wouldn’t have seats together. Row 5 and Row 15 – not even close. We got on the plane hoping for a flexible seat mate, and we lucked out. Row 5 was not a great seat (hello, bathroom), but the guy sitting next to me – Brian – agreed to switch seats so that we could sit together.

Being the super nice person that he is, Bjork took a few minutes during the flight to write Brian a thank you note. He explained Afton’s story and why it was especially meaningful for us to be able to sit together on this flight. I woke up just as he was walking up to Row 5 to deliver it.

After we landed, we stepped into the gate area and saw Brian waiting for us. He introduced himself and thanked us for the note.

And then, quietly, with tears in his eyes, he told us that he knew the pain. He had lost his first son at a premature 26 weeks old – almost the exact same as us. “It will be 6 years this month,” he said. “And it’s still hard. It never completely goes away. But you’ll make it through. With time, you’ll make it through.”

Even (or maybe especially?) as a Christian, I’ve always been really uncomfortable with the overuse of cliche faith words. For example, God will bless you, that was a blessing, hashtag blessed. But Afton’s life has given me so many instances where using those cliche words is so very justified.

Brian, you were a blessing to us in the deepest sense of the word. You softened the blow of airports and luggage and crappy seat assignments, and you reminded us that we’re not alone. That the world is full of good people who will love Afton with us, and that God is close to us, the broken-hearted.

To healing, Hawaii, and a Very Brave Future.

I’m sharing more about life with and after Afton on my personal Instagram account. I’d love to have you follow along here.

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The Shower: Afton’s Story, Part Seven

This post is part of a ten-post series I’m sharing about the life and loss of our son, Afton. Click here to read more of Afton’s story.

I think it was on Sunday, the day we lost Afton, that my nurses gently suggested I take a shower. I’d been on bedrest, unshowered, for five days. I knew it was necessary but the idea of it made me so heartsick.

Soap, water. Getting clean. Leaving him behind. No, no, no, this is all wrong.

That shower is one of my most vividly painful and brave memories of January 1, 2017: me, sitting on a chair in the shower, weak from surgery, and Bjork sitting just outside the shower because it was too emotionally scary for me to do alone. We breathed in the steam and wept and took that first step towards our new normal. Towards life after Afton.

I started easy: my feet. Then my legs. My arms, my belly, my face. As I got closer to my chest, that sacred place right over my heart where Afton had taken his last breath, the knot in my stomach tightened. “He’s deeper than my skin,” I cried over and over and over. We both nodded, pretending to be brave as I sprayed hot water over the spot where Afton had been snuggled in so close, my first and last physical touch point with my living baby boy.

After I showered, a grief counselor knocked on the door. She sat on the edge of my bed and cried with us. Then she suggested something awesome: picking a smell for Afton. She told us to choose a scent that we could put on his tiny body and clothes that we would remember as “his smell,” even after ten thousand more showers.

The day before he was buried, our sweet Afton got a royal lavender treatment – candles, soap, lotion, oil, the works. He was tucked into his casket smelling like peaceful lavender, mom and dad’s kisses, and grandma’s blanket, complete with a few stray Sage hairs between the yarn.

It’s been 25 days since that shower, and it’s almost to the point where the scent of my lavender lotion is starting to catch me off guard. And it’s so amazing. I think: oh, there he is again! My little Afton, almost as close as skin on skin.

You’re deeper than my skin, sweet baby. All the showers in the world could never wash you off.

I’m sharing more about life with and after Afton on my personal Instagram account. I’d love to have you follow along here.

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The Nurse: Afton’s Story, Part Six

This post is part of a ten-post series I’m sharing about the life and loss of our son, Afton. Click here to read more of Afton’s story.

A few days after we returned from the hospital, I received this letter from our NICU nurse, Megan. She was Afton’s primary nurse for the short time he got to be in little NICU room #44. We are forever grateful for this letter and even more so for the way she cared for our son.

Dear Afton,

I met your Dad first. He is full of kindness and was incredibly steady, he is your biggest cheerleader. His gratefulness for those caring for you was one of a kind.

I met your mom soon after when she came down to pump at your bedside after an emergency C-section, which is quite a feat. She sat in a wheelchair and pumped milk (impressive), she is incredibly strong, protective and nurturing.

Your oxygen levels were concerning me, so I opened your isolette to give a full assessment, and we met for the first time. As we problem-solved, gave you medications, took X-rays, and made changes to your ventilator, I changed your tiny diaper, I swabbed some breast milk in your mouth and you gave the sweetest little suck. I whispered, “you are strong, you are brave and you are so loved, now fight sweet boy.” And you did.

When your parents came back to your bedside to receive the hardest news, that your lungs were too premature and our efforts weren’t helping you become more stable, they wept and the pain was visible on their faces. Yet with eagerness, they sat to hold you for the very first time. The minute your body was against your momma’s chest, your oxygen saturations climbed higher than they had all night. You were telling us, this is where you were safest, this is where you wanted to be and you were fighting for these moments.

In all the chaos of giving medications, drawing labs, and many people hovering outside your room, there was a protective bubble of love that held just the three of you.

Your heartbeat faded and we made footprints of your long feet, and handprints of your perfect hands. I loved admiring your button nose. Then your parents bathed you for the first time, it was a moment filled with gentleness and love. They admired everything about you. Your mom put you in a new diaper and swaddled you up. You were kissed, sung to, read to and infinitely loved.

Your life, though brief sweet Afton, changed mine. I will always remember you.

Your nurse,
Megan

Thank you, Megan. You were just who we needed.  

PS. Is he not the cutest lil one pounder? HIS NOSE.

I’m sharing more about life with and after Afton on my personal Instagram account. I’d love to have you follow along here.

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The Necklace: Afton’s Story, Part Five

I’m a jewelry minimalist. I wear my wedding ring, “pearl” earrings, and maybe a necklace on fancy occasions. But this year for Christmas, Bjork surprised me: jewelry!

I lifted the red velvet box open and found a necklace laying inside. “It’s a mother’s necklace,” Bjork explained. The diamond was in the position for the 4th month of the year – April. Of course. The month that Afton was due. It was beautiful, simple, perfect. The clasp was a little tricky, so I asked Bjork put it on for me. As he lifted my hair and secured the clasp, I literally said: gosh, this feels like a movie… like foreshadowing, doesn’t it?

I wore my necklace for four blissful days. And then our world collapsed.

I cried as I hurried to put my wedding ring, my earrings, and my now precious necklace into a little plastic cup in preparation for the c-section. I handed it off to Bjork as they started wheeling my bed out of the room. It felt all wrong; I needed more time with this baby. I needed to be wearing that necklace.

When Bjork finally got into the operating room, he grabbed my hand through the tangle of monitor cords and opened his other palm to show me: he was holding the necklace. He held that necklace all through Afton’s birth. And twelve hours later, with the necklace back on, I held my baby in that chair in the NICU, and I remember little else in that moment but our touching skin, our mirrored heartbeats, and my necklace as a perfect companion to his little hand on my chest.

It’s only been 19 days, but time is swift. When I look at pictures of our last hours with Afton, I now have to squeeze my eyes shut so I can imagine exactly how warm he was, and exactly what his fingers felt like, and exactly how fast his heart was beating. How did it feel again? EXACTLY how did it feel? Please, Time, just give me this one vivid memory. In my most desperate moments, I hold the necklace and Afton feels just a little more real. Like it was all as sweet and hard and holy as those deep parts of my memories tell me that it was.

I’m still a jewelry minimalist, but my collection has gained one perfect, permanent piece.

I miss you, Afton.

I’m sharing more about life with and after Afton on my personal Instagram account. I’d love to have you follow along here.

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