Her Meaning

QUINN

counsel, wisdom

OLIVIA

derived from the word olive. The dove brought Noah an olive branch after the flood to prove to him that there was life after destruction. A sign of life.

Words and their meanings have always been very important to me. Though some may use words such as like and love, pretty and beautiful as synonyms, to me, they are worlds apart when it comes to what they actually mean. I love the depth of vocabulary.

When choosing our children’s names, it was important to me to have deep meanings behind those combinations of letters that they would carry for the rest of their lives. I wanted the characteristics of those names to reflect what we would pray they would grow into.

Some parents pray for their daughters to be beautiful, to be kind, to be a lady. Though I believe she was all of those things and more, I desired Quinn to be a baby, a girl, a woman, of wisdom.

A woman who made sound choices and thought with purpose, who had a deep understanding of the world around her.

A girl whom others would look to for advice and counsel.

A lady who was wise.

To us as parents, this is the trait we would be most proud to see our girl live out. 

On the morning of September 13^th, we dedicated our little girl before we said goodbye forever. We entrusted her back to God, to the place from which she came, and let go of the gift that we had been so briefly blessed with. We could not dedicate her life to him, as she already danced in the place where she was created to be, so we dedicated our lives instead. We dedicated ourselves to being parents that Quinn would be proud of. We dedicated ourselves to trusting God, though we wanted to lash at him with raw anger at the betrayal we felt. We dedicated ourselves to being changed because of our little girl.  

And so now, I am not the woman I once was. She has altered me forever and my baby is still teaching this mommy many things. She is teaching me wisdom. Quinn is teaching me to search for knowledge and thirst for truth. Her spirit has made me desire to be what I prayed for her. In her perfection, she reflects the one who made her. I can only hope that because of her, I am able to portray a small glimmer of Christ’s spirit. 

I pray that each of my children, and the names we choose for them will do the same.

Lady of Sorrow

I wish I could hear Mary’s side of the story. Jesus’ mother and I share a sorrow that no mother should ever have to feel - losing your precious child, watching them die and knowing that you can do absolutely nothing about it.

We think about the miraculous visit of Gabriel and how amazing the immaculate conception would have been. But what about Mary? She was a Jew. She knew that a saviour, her son, would come into the world and ultimately have to give his life. In that moment, was she feeling joy? Or was she suddenly hit with the weight of desperately loving a child, yet knowing each day that she would have to watch him die?

“I am the Lord’s servant,” Mary answered. “May your word to me be fulfilled.”
Luke 1:38

I am no theologian. Perhaps what I am saying is completely blasphemous. But in these words, I don’t hear joy. I don’t hear the elation that a woman feels knowing she is pregnant and going to become a mother.  I hear heartbreak. I hear consent to living with sorrow each and every day of her life. I hear a woman after my own heart. 

Altar of Annunciation, Meinrad Guggenbichler.
Mondsee Kirsch, Mondsee, Austria

Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows, Adriaen Isenbrant
Church of Our Lady, Bruges, Belgium

Tell Me.

I’ve always loved favourites.

What’s your favourite colour? Teal.

What’s your favourite thing to do? Create.  

What’s your favourite song? The Girl by City in Colour.

Daniel and I play this game a lot, asking each other favourites. Asking our friends their favourites, asking our friends kids their favourites. It’s lighthearted, it’s fun, it’s something we would have done with her, with our daughter, with Quinn.

Now, we imagine her favourites. I think we do a pretty good job.

What’s her favourite colour? Purple.

What’s her favourite thing to do? Giggle.  

What’s her favourite song? The Girl, by City in Colour.

It’s our “family thing”. You know. You have a family thing too.

Today, I ask you, what’s your favourite thing about Quinn? Tell me what you remember. Tell me what you loved about her. Even if you never got to see her sweet face, if you know me, you knew her while she was growing inside of me. You got glimpses of her too. What was your favourite?

My favourite thing was Quinn and her Daddy. She had him so wrapped around her little finger from day one. She would hear his deep voice and go giddy with joy inside of me. I can just imagine her flinging herself into his arms when he got home from work each day, a gleeful "Daddy!" singing from her lips, so like his. I remember telling several people how excited I was to see Daniel with his baby for the first time. He's such a proud papa. Such a good papa. My favourite.

P.S. I'm making her a baby book. These sentiments will be included. Only share if you wish. 

Pondering

What do I say in that inevitable moment that is to come?

“Do you have kids?”

“No.” A lie. A disservice to my beautiful girl. Yet, the easiest way out.

“Yes, she’s 3 months." Another lie. Though she would be. 

“Yes, she’s dead.” Truth. But so, so callous. And inappropriate.

So…what?

I do not welcome your feedback unless you too have walked this road, have struggled this struggle, have lived this nightmare. Perhaps this is harsh, but only you, mother of my heart, will understand that each word chosen in this moment, though simple, holds so much weight. Each word speaks to a life that was lived, but is no longer here. Each word tells the entire story of a little girl, my little girl, my Quinn. And so, you can see, why these words must be chosen so carefully and so deliberately.

I am not ready to choose these words, to speak them aloud just yet. And so, I sit in the stillness and warmth of my home, my safe place, and dream of her. I dream of her beauty, of her button nose, the delicate curve of her lips, so like her daddy’s, of her hands and feet, so large and awkward in comparison to her delicate face and body, of the feel of her cheek upon my lips as I kissed her for the first time, of her fingers curled around mine, of the soft, downy feel of her perfectly round head, covered only by a light fuzz, a testament to the curls it would have held.
I sit and I close my eyes and hear the echo of her laugh. A bubbling and full laugh, free from being tainted by the troubles of this world. Pure and utter joy, that girl.
I sit and see her looking at me, pausing for a moment from her dancing and skipping, her round eyes wide, her brow furrowed, but a smile dancing at the corners of her mouth. And in her 4-year-old simplicity, she cups a hand around my face and she says to me,

“Don’t be sad, Mommy. I’m not sad!”

I’m trying, my girl, I’m trying. For you, I’m trying. 

Baby Weight

I am two months postpartum and my pre-baby jeans are too big.

Cue the I hate you’s.

But this is not a statement of bragging, this is a statement of grieving, of deep loss. 

All tangible signs of her are gone. All physical reminders of her existence have disappeared.

And so, I mourn. I mourn the loss of the belly that carried her. I mourn the loss of the milk that would have sustained her. I mourn the loss of all extra weight that kept her strong and healthy for nine months. 

The weight of this loss is so much greater. 

I am alone. I am just Deanne. You can no longer tell I bore a child, the most beautiful and perfect child.

So please, don’t tell me I look 'back to normal'. There is nothing normal about this. Tell me I look changed, tell me I look different, tell me I look like her mother. 

She is (was) here.

Her name is Quinn Olivia.

She is my daughter.

I got everything I ever dreamed of. I am a mother.

I got to be her mommy… for 24 hours.

Who could imagine that the next words I would be writing on this blog would be those of my baby’s birth and death. After everything we’d been through. No one could have prepared us for this.

I am not certain why I feel the need to share these sentiments publicly. Perhaps it is because I want the world to know her. I don’t want her beautiful face to be forgotten. If she were here with me right now, I would already have an album on facebook full of every new and exciting thing she did. Look, this is her face when she’s pooping! Look, isn’t she cute when she sleeps? Look, she smiled! Look, she smiled a little bit bigger than the last time! Typical Mom stuff, thinking their baby is the only one to have ever done anything that cute. But instead I have 88 pictures, my memories of those blissful moments and these words to share with the world. To introduce my baby to them. That’s it. That’s all I have.

She was so beautiful. Every mother says they have the most beautiful baby in the world. I did. I do. None can compare to her. She was absolutely perfect in every way. So delicate, so feminine, so Quinn. She took my breath away when I looked into her face for the first time.

   

“She looks like me!”

It is the most miraculous thing to look upon the child you have created and see yourself. That’s yours. You made that. She belongs to you. She is a part of your very being, your soul. Forever and ever.

Simple words cannot express the depth of love I feel for her. I love my baby. I love my little girl. But she is not here. I cannot lavish that love upon her. And so, it hurts. It hurts so very badly. Simple words cannot express the depth of pain I feel for her.

To the world,
Please don’t forget her. Don’t forget that she fleeting existence. Don’t forget her beauty. Don’t forget that I am her Mommy, that Daniel is her Daddy, that we are a family. Don’t forget my firstborn baby girl, my Quinny bear. 

Our Baby Story

Hey Stranger (is what you're thinking). It's been awhile.
I have a pretty good excuse...I think... I may be biased. Read ahead to see what I've been up to!

The day I was born, the announcement of the birth of the first frozen embryo transfer baby was the headline in the national newspaper. Though insignificant to you now, dear reader, this sentence will give you chills in approximately 2500 words. This is only the beginning of my story.

The desire to be a mother was placed in me from the moment my first baby sister was born. It grew with each birth of a new sister (three in total) and much to the chagrin of you the youngest, molded me into her second mother, a role I was happy to take upon myself. Though I had thousands of other dreams that changed with the seasons, the career path of being a Mom was the only one that stuck. I love kids. Seriously. I love them. Though I find joy in other places, children are always a guaranteed way of making me feel absolute bliss. I was meant to have children.

And so begins the saga…

When we started trying for our own two years ago, I knew in my gut that something was amiss. My Doctor knew as well, and sent me to a specialist 6 months earlier than they would normally send any other woman.

Dr. T confirmed my suspicions. Rarity #1 – I have polycystic ovarian syndrome. Why is this rare?  You ask. Because these are the some of the symptoms:

1)     Obesity – Well scratch that off the list. Seriously, I need to eat some donuts or something.

2)     Abnormal hair growth – I shave my legs once a month, if that. The hair on my head is so thin, it takes literally 5 minutes to dry. I clearly don’t have an excessive hair issue.

Exactly. Rare.

Because I didn’t exhibit any of these symptoms growing up, it was never caught.

Women with PCOS have trouble ovulating because of the amount of cysts that grow in their ovaries. Normal women have a couple of follicles that generally develop into 1 or 2 eggs. In my body, 10-12 follicles would appear each month that would never develop into mature eggs. Don’t despair! I was told. This can easily be fixed with monthly doses of Seraphine, an ovulation stimulant.

Month 1 – I took those pills religiously. A slight change was noted in the cysts growth, but took a very long time to develop into anything substantial. Obviously, no pregnancy.

The second month, I was given a shot of extra hormones to jumpstart things. Nothing.

The third month the Dr. was on holidays so I had to skip the cycle and try something on the next. Here I began to learn the art of patience.

The fourth month, I was still waiting for another cycle to begin. Torture.

The fifth month, I began heavy duty injections to really get things going. It’s a good thing I’m not afraid of needles as I had to shoot up in the bathroom every day. I still wonder what my garbage man thought I was doing every month. (Don’t worry, I’m responsible and threw the actual needles in a sharps bin. There were just loads of empty syringes and little tiny saline bottles)

I went in for my regular scan this month, really hoping that something would have happened.

Nothing.

The Dr. looked and me and told me he was baffled. He had never seen ovaries so stubborn and wasn’t sure what to do with me. I went home and wept. Rage at God began to take over. I can’t have kids, I thought. This is a cruel joke.  I couldn’t function. My dream for my LIFE was falling apart in front of me. I was at a complete and utter loss as to what to do with myself. There were no answers.

After speaking with his colleagues at Genesis Fertility Clinic in Vancouver (and causing quite the hubbub of activity with my strange case), Dr. T gave us another option: Go on in-vitro fertilization (IVF) stimulants and try to get some sort of activity in my stubborn lady parts. The issue with this was the risk of hyper-stimulating the ovaries and causing 10-12 eggs to develop. In this case, they would suggest converting the cycle to IVF (fertilizing my eggs in a lab instead of letting us try naturally), freezing the extra eggs, and implanting only 1 or 2 back. Setback? This would cost around $7000.

Though I was still in a state of despair, the little voice of hope whispered in the back of my mind, nudging me forward even though I was terrified of being crushed once again. For some reason, I couldn’t give up yet. We decided to forget the cost, deal with our “baby loan” later and do what had to be done. Watch out! Those who manage to get through a university degree without student loans may be hit hard later.

The seventh month, I started on crazy injections.

Now let me tell you, I feel for diabetics. Your life begins to revolve around these silly ounces of medication you have to shoot into your body in order to survive. For me, it wasn’t insulin I was using to live, it was shots of hope. It was all I could hold onto. Despite the rash and the bruises all over my stomach where I had to inject every morning and evening, something pushed me on.

What I thought would finally be my last day of injections, I went for a scan. Sitting in the exam room, vulnerable from the waist down (let me tell you, that gets old pretty fast), I was shaking like a leaf.

The horrible words came again. Nothing much to report.  Just a whole shitload of tiny follicles. Pardon my language, but sometimes these situations call for foul and strong vernacular.

Seriously? SERIOUSLY? My ovaries were that resistant? What war did they think they were trying to win here?

Dr. T, determined to conquer these two beasts, gave me a couple more days of shots and said to come back for a scan in a couple of days. It was still early.

Two days later, I went in for another scan, shaking like a full out tree in a windstorm this time.

There were two follicles that had grown to medium size.

A couple more days, he said. They’re growing slowly. I’d heard that before.

Here’s where things get interesting. A detail I forgot to mention. When Daniel and I got married, we began attending a church where we instantly connected to a small group of 8 couples. Unbenownst to us at the time, 6 of these 8 couples would have fertility issues along the way. Co-incidence? I think not.

The Friday following my appointment, we met with this group for our weekly bible study. Though they had all been fervently praying through this entire process, we decided to bring out the big guns this time. There was oil, there was some anointing, there was definitely the laying of hands. Sound weird? Maybe! Keep reading. We believed those biblical promises with all our hearts and prayed for those 2 little eggs to grow.

Saturday morning, I went for another scan.

Two healthy, juicy eggs.

Give them a couple more days to grow, and you’ll be ready to ovulate! The Dr. said. I cried with joy (literally) as I called my God-made support group to announce the good news.

Monday, I went back to check on my little guys. There was a funny look on the Dr’s face as he scanned me. We’ll call you in the afternoon with your bloodwork results, was all he said. The fear started to creep back in.

That afternoon, at exactly 4:15, they called me.  Change of plans. Prayers worked…but too well.

There was still 1 egg growing and ready to drop, BUT there were several more that could potentially develop with continued stims and then we could do the convert to IVF. In this case, we’d be taking a risk as the healthy egg would be absorbed and we would have to wait to see if the other ones really did make it. However, as we want a big family, this was the option the Dr. suggested. We had 20 minutes to make the biggest decision of our lives. So many questions ran through my head.. What if they don’t develop? What if this is the last chance I have to even have an egg and I waste it?  What if? What if? What if?

I sat outside the office crying to my Mom, not knowing what to do. Pray. She said. We’ll pray.

As I was an emotional wreck, Daniel had to be the leader he is and make the decision he thought would be best for our family. We would risk it.

I continued the shots for the next couple of days. My stomach was starting to get used to them by now. I had abs of steel, literally.

Then I got the stomach flu.

I showed up at my appointment and sent the nurses into a tizzy when I told them the reason I looked like death was because I was barfing all night. Apparently one of the signs of Ovarian Hyper-Stimulation Syndrome is throwing up. This was NOT good. It’s a very serious condition that can be really bad. Like, I’m talking in the hospital, on your deathbed, bad.

Luckily, it was just the stomach flu. But I was still showing signs of the syndrome. Guess why?

Appointment number 416, I sat on the table, praying with all my might that there would be something there. Anything! Even just 1 or 2!

There were multiple.

When I say multiple, my friends, I’m talking 20+. This explained the terribly bloated belly. My ovaries were literally the size of grapefruits.

Once again, the bad news washed over me like a horribly frigid bath. Not only are you in terrible pain, but this many eggs means really low quality. Though they had developed past the follicle stage, they may not have any insides and therefore, not be able to grow past a certain point. The doctor suggested we go ahead with the extraction and fertilization of the eggs, but to be prepared that we would probably only get 1 if we were lucky. $7000 on MAYBE one egg? We chose to believe that God had gotten us this far, he would keep us going.

I showed up at the clinic on the morning of our extraction, doubled over in pain with a stomach the size of a 4 months pregnant lady (sans the baby) but hoping for the best.

They extracted 27 eggs. Holy crap is right.

Now here’s some math:

27 eggs extracted

27 eggs fertilized

17 survived the 3 day test

8 survived to blastocyst stage (ready to implant)

Can you say crazy? Let me quote verbatim what we had been told way back in the day

“If you want to have 4 kids, ideally I would suggest freezing around 8 eggs,”

If you are still denying that God had his hand right deep down there in this whole mess, keep reading.

In order to give my poor body a rest and time to recuperate, we decided to wait a month. They would freeze our little embryos, then when we were ready, defrost them (I’m hoping they didn’t use a microwave, I don’t want alien children) and transfer them back into my prepped uterus.

The month of waiting was surprisingly not very torturous. By this time, I believe I had mastered the art of patience. 

I’d like to take one moment here to mention the fact that I had reached a point of feeling so sure and so comforted by the miracles God had already performed. I was convinced without a doubt that the transfer the following month would work. I knew that God was good and wouldn’t bring us this far just to say, “Haha, take this, I’m going to crush your dreams again”. He’s not like that.

And so we waited

Surprisingly, the transfer process is very simple. You take some estrogen (pill), you take some progesterone (another pill) and when your uterus has a nice thick lining, they shoot a catheter up into your business and let those embryos fly (Too graphic? Too bad. I’ve gotten over normal social conventions by now). It takes 5 minutes, literally.

December 5^th, I had my first transfer. December 19^th, I found out it wasn’t successful.

I am going to be frank here, I was pissed off. I was angry and I was hurt and I was very, very disappointed. To me, they had placed something alive into my body and now it was alive no longer. The doctors would call it attachment failure. I say, my embryo, my baby, died. To understand this, you must understand that I see life at the moment an egg and a sperm unite to create something that doesn’t naturally exist. I realize that many don’t share my views, but it doesn’t make them any less real to me. I had to grieve. I am still grieving. It was incredibly painful, and I didn’t get over it easily.  

But the story continues.

By this point, I was angry with God. Everything I thought was true seemed to be a lie. I believed with all my heart that it was going to work. Then it didn’t. I wish I could say that God came down in a bolt of lightning with a glowing heavenly telegram (or email in this day and age) that gave me an answer, but he didn’t. I still don’t know why we had to go through that, but I choose to believe that my small perception of this life is no match to what God has laid out for me. I chose then and choose now to believe that he knows best, even when I can’t explain it.

Ehem. Well that was heartfelt. Let’s get to the happy part, shall we?

January 9^th, we went back for another transfer. This time we decided to transfer two embryos with the hopes that it would up our chances of having at least one.  Same as last time – pills, scan, catheter, see ya later, wait.

When I saw the positive sign on the test 2 weeks later, I screamed and told God he better not be shitting me. Again, sometimes profane language is called for. He wasn’t! It was true. But this couldn’t be the end of the story, could it? Of course not! I have come to accept my life just is simply not normal.

I started bleeding 2 days later. If any of you know my husband, you’ll know that he is the perfect counterpart to me, and is incapable of worry. His response to this?  Don’t worry about it. It’s not a big deal. Everything will be fine. NOT A BIG DEAL, MY FRIEND? Um, I’m pretty sure that bleeding is one of those great things about pregnancy that you get to miss out on for 9 months. Needless to say, I was terrified.

After 3 ER trips and several ultrasounds, they finally discovered the cause of this bleed – a failed twin pregnancy resulting in a blood clot that was slowly being expelled. Now, don’t ask me too much about this because I haven’t really thought about it yet and I’d prefer not to. I’m focusing on the good part – the baby I knew was there all along is totally fine! The bleed has nothing to do with him/her and will hopefully clear up by the 2^nd trimester.

And now, if you’ve actually lasted this long, we are nearing the end.

As of today, our baby is healthy and growing. I don’t know what the future holds for this pregnancy, but I do know one thing. This is a miracle baby and God has his hand firmly entrenched in it all.  My hope is that you, my dearly beloved and precious reader, can see a glimpse of that now too.

The day I was born, the birth of the first frozen embryo transfer baby was the headline in the national newspaper.  Co-incidence? I don’t believe in that.

**EDIT**
I look back on this entry and wish I could return to that optimistic, trusting girl that once truly believed it would all work out in the end. I don't have much to say, other than 5 years later, I'm still in shock that this even happened to us. Our baby was fine. We truly thought God's hand was holding us so strongly along the way. When I was fearful throughout my pregnancy with Quinn, I literally thought I heard him say "Don't worry, you've been through enough, I wouldn't do that to you."
And then...
I'm learning to trust again. Slowly. But it's so hard. And there are a lot of tears, and a lot of yelling, and a lot of bitterness and fear. And reading the words above, feels like I'm reading the words of a total stranger.
We had it all, and then we didn't.
I just want that baby, my baby, my Quinn.