In memory of Stella Hope Dankel and her unnamed sibling

I'm sure most of my readers already know that I lost our baby, but in an effort to honor her life, I would like to document her existence.  The following is written like a diary.  The Dec 6 5:15 entry is very honest and slightly graphic in nature, so if you plan to read, you can skip that part if you're sensitive. Things didn't exactly go as planned with my surgery.  I know it needs editing, and it loses parallelism, and I've probably messed up the order in places, but this is how I feel tonight. 

Dear Stella,

September:

5 weeks: We were so excited to find out were going to have another baby this September.  We found out right at the end of our family vacation. Your daddy and I were nervous about adding another member to our family, but were are really excited.

You are going to have a great big brother.  You will get to have lots of fun together.  He will be almost 4 years older than you.  He is a little skeptical about you coming, but mostly excited.  And you are going to have a cousin that is your same age.  You are just going to love your all your family--your grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins.

-- 7 weeks: I've started to feel really sick and tired, but I'm so excited, I know it will be worth it.

October:
--8 weeks: We got to see you for the first time on the screen at the doctor's office.  It seems so real now.

--10 weeks: I started having some bleeding, and had to go to the ER.  You really gave us a scare, but they did an ultrasound, and I got to see you dancing all over the screen. I'm worried, but I will have another ultrasound at the doctor next week. I have been put on rest until I see my doctor.  Not too excited about that.  I won't be able to run my half-marathon or travel, but hopefully I'll be off rest soon. I'm not really sure what's going on, and am a little worried. Later in we discovered this little scare was in fact me miscarrying your twin. We had no idea we should me mourning him or her at this time. We were just thankful for you!

--11 weeks: You are still doing great--great heartbeat and very active at the doctor's office. They found an empty sac, and think I had a vanishing twin.  Not exactly sure what that means.  Will talk to the doctor next week.  I still have to stay on rest--which is really restrictive, but I'm so tired, I can't complain too much.  Colin tells me he wants to help feed you when you come. I tried to explain he might have to wait a while.  He didn't really understand, so he decided he would have his own pretend baby that he could feed cheerios.

--Your grandma and nana keep coming up to help take care of all of us, so I can rest.  I can't wait til I stop being sick and I can enjoy being pregnant.

November
--12 weeks: The doctor has kept me on rest because of the position of the empty sac, but I don't have to be quite so careful.  Your heartbeat is still great, and you are looking good at 12 weeks.

Your Nana and Papa were here to help, too.  Your brother loves all the attention he is getting, but he's ready to have some of my attention again. My doctor explained to me that the bleeding I experienced in October was your vanishing twin. I am so confused about this. No one really can give me a straight answer about it. The original doctor evidently missed the twin in the first ultrasound. Your twin was never "compatible with life" it seems.  We just sort of push this aside and focus on you.

--14 weeks: We were supposed to travel to see my brother, your uncle Ken, and his family, including your older cousins.  It's not safe for me and you to travel, so we have our first little family Thanksgiving.  It was kind of nice not to travel.  Finally not feeling so tired.  Starting to have some good days mixed in.  We have put up the Christmas tree--we've got a stocking for you.  Colin is so excited and loves to talk about how it's you're stocking.  He's convinced you are a boy, and he wants to name you Jack-Jack.  He does not want to be persuaded away from that. 

--15 weeks: Finally not sick that much anymore.  I'm getting my energy back, and Colin and I are back to having fun.  He loves playing with your giraffe toy, and he talks about how you two are going to play together once you get big enough. Grandma found some of Aunt Sarah's dolls while we were at her house.  Colin loved changing the babies and feeding them.  I tried to show him how we would have to hold you when you were born, but he didn't really understand.

--16 weeks:

December 5
I can not wait until my appt today. I get to have another ultrasound, and I get to find out when they will tell me if you are a boy or a girl.  Your daddy and I have sort of delayed planning anything until we find out.  We sort of have some name ideas, but nothing really. 

The N.P. asked me if I wanted her to call the sex if she could tell, when I was ready for my ultrasound.  I said yes, but then I changed my mind, I didn't want to find out without your daddy...

No heartbeat...the hardest words I've ever heard. I really couldn't believe it.  I was speechless.  I knew something was wrong a minute into the ultrasound.  The N.P. had always swung the screen for me to see as soon as she found you, and I could always hear your heartbeat right away...but I was hoping.  The doctor came in to see me, and she was very kind and gave me lots of hugs. She explained that I would have to have surgery. She gave me an option b/c you had only made it to 14 weeks even though I was 16 weeks along.  I made my decision.  I hope it is the right one.  I made my decision for selfish reasons, but I don't think I can handle the alternative.  She gave me some instructions on some medication I needed to take that night to prepare.  I called your daddy, and we were very sad.  They think that I miscarried your twin early on, and that there was something wrong with your genetic makeup that allowed you to live longer, but not to survive.

Daddy told Colin that you had died before I got home from the doctor.  He of course peppers me with questions about why.  He keeps showing me your stocking, and saying "that's my dead baby's stocking." I can't really handle it.  Your brother keeps talking about you, and it's so hard...his sadness is so different.  I don't have the words to explain it to him. daddy and i put your brother down for a nap. i ask him to sing me Jesus Loves Me and Away in a Manger. I didn't realize I had asked him to sing songs about babies.



Your grandma came up to take care of your brother, Colin, so daddy could take me to my surgery.  We had to tell your brother that you would never be able to live with us.  He sort of understands.  He wants to know why you were sick and died.  We don't really have the answers.  I really thought you were fine.  I thought we were out of danger.  I'm broken-hearted.  We all are.  It just seems wrong.  I can't believe I will never meet you, never know you, never see you grow up.  I don't want to talk to anyone.   I read info on the procedure...I wish I hadn't.  I look up what our options are with your remains...in Illinois we have no options...I wish I hadn't checked. I ask your daddy to take down your stocking and put it away.  Colin just can't stop talking about it, so I think if we remove it, he won't be reminded of it.  He had been so excited about you having your own stocking.  We had already put a little giraffe toy in it for you.

We get lots of notes from friends that let us know we are not alone.  Many of my friends have lost unborn babies as well.  It's eerie how many to be honest.  It does help us feel less isolated, but it doesn't take away the pain and sadness.

December 6

4 am--something is wrong.  I don't know what, but things are not going the way they are supposed to.  I will try to go lie back down.

4:30--things are going from bad to worse..I'm scared. 

5:15--i'm yelling for your daddy...you came before you were supposed to...i had delivered you too soon...daddy calls the ambulance.  i saw you, and i hadn't wanted to.  i feel very, very sick...the paramedics are very calm, and that helps.  they help me get you out of the toilet, and cover you up, so I don't have to look anymore.  i have to hold you b/c you in a bucket beneath my legs because you are still connected to the placenta that didn't pass.  There is so much blood.  They get me to the hospital quickly.  The ER doctor can't do anything...too much blood.  They find out I can keep my original surgery appointment. I keep losing more blood.  I'm very scared, but my vitals continue to look strong.  I start to worry something is going to happen to me.  For a while I stop grieving for you, and worry about myself--I'm sorry.  The cord finally separates from the placenta and they move the tub holding you...I can finally relax my legs a little.  My doctor comes to see me, she says she's sorry things have unfolded the way they did.  The medicine wasn't supposed to work that way.  Thank God this didn't happen before we knew we had lost you.  I can't imagine how we would have felt--the shock we would have been in would have been so much worse.  She says you were coming no matter what we had done, so it was good she'd encouraged me to schedule the surgery ASAP.  The nurse makes me sign a bunch of papers.  She does give me the option of what to do with your remains.  I was caught off-guard b/c I didn't think we were going to be given the option.  I took the easy way out.  I chose myself over you.  I couldn't handle sending you to a funeral home, making arrangements.  I feel so guilty.  I'm scared I might not be able to have another child.  My surgery only lasts 15 minutes.  Everything goes smoothly.  I feel oddly well when I wake up. I'm just tired.  I am anemic after the blood loss, but I feel okay beyond being tired. I can't believe you're gone, but I mostly feel numb.  Scott spoke to the doctor after the surgery.  She thinks you were a little girl.  We decide to name you, so we and Colin would have something to give you.  It helps mostly.  We name you Stella Hope. This was not a name we had ever considered for you before, but it seems right.  We had so much hope for you, but now we have to hope beyond that, and hope to see you whole one day.  Estelle was my mom's grandmother's name, so you sort of have a family name--though I never met her. 

11:00 When we get home we tell Colin your name.  He seems to like it.  C says your nickname will be Stell.  Sweet little boy doesn't really understand we won't really have a chance to call you by your nickname. The first of condolences begin to flow in...a fruit arrangement.  It makes me feel better.

3:30--our Xmas cards arrive. they are filled with signs of our hope we had for you. not sure how to fix them. Daddy wants to get an ornament of an angel to remember you.  we will go this weekend to pick something out as a family.

8:30 when we put Colin down for bed, we read him a book to try to explain about how sometimes babies die.  the book is hard to read...it is very sad. he doesn't understand. he is freaked out by the book.  he starts to cry.  he says, but I'm your angel.

11:00 pm--we did okay until bedtime.  i'm so sad.  the sadness comes in waves.  i do pretty well during the day, but every once in a while something strikes me as sad.  i tried to close my eyes, and i see a picture of what i think you would look like as a little girl. you have dark curly hair and brown eyes.  you have the same little bird grin as your brother. you've gone somewhere we can't follow.  thank God for the vicadin, I sleep once I calm down. Your daddy is not so lucky.

December 7
 i feel so sick today. i think i can't handle the medication. i spend all morning in bed.  thankfully your grandma is here to watch Colin.  i am incapable of caring for him today.  when he comes home from school, i'm in bed.  he tells his grandma that he needs to climb in bed with me to cuddle because i'm sad my baby died.

we get a delivery of flowers and a poinsettia. they brighten our dark house. my body is so stiff...i can barely move my neck.  grandma helps me pack up all my maternity stuff.  i need it gone.  i can't stand to look at it. i can already wear my nonmaternity clothes just 24 hours after you are gone from my body. 

grandma bought us a nice box to keep the few things we bought for you. it's not much--i'm equal parts sad and glad about this.  i'm putting all the cards we get in there, too.  our friends have been so supportive--we've received lots of things in memory of you. the outward signs of you are painfully easy to erase.

Grandma and I fix the Christmas cards.  I hated to erase everything about you.  It makes me so sad to cover up that Colin was excited to be a big brother. I can't sleep again.  I'm scared to close my eyes. Daddy and I talk and we feel so much the same way.  It just hurts so bad to have lost you.

December 8
Colin talks to me for 15 minutes straight in the car about you.  He reminds me of your nickname.  He tells me he had really wanted a little brother, but you were a girl.  Then he says I'm really sad my baby died, mama.  Me too honey. he asks me where you're buried.   I have to tell him you aren't.  I feel like I might have made the wrong choice with your remains. I feel like I'm always telling him things are confusing.  I can't figure out how to simplify it for him. I tell him I'm not sick anymore, so we can do fun things again.  He's so excited by this. I take him to MOPS.  As soon as he enters his class, he tells them you died. I'm nervous because this is my first time seeing anyone other than Bree since I found out you were gone.  Everyone is very kind. I get lots of hugs.  I start to tear up during the devotion about peace at the time of Xmas.  I won't have what I want for Xmas, but I hope I can have peace about it.  I've told Colin about the song I sing when I get sad.  The song is It Is Well With My Soul. I'm pretty much singing it all day.  I think about passages from Psalms a lot, too, and it helps a little.  I an pretty much keep things in check in public.  But when your daddy and I are alone, and after Colin goes to bed, it's the hardest.

He asks us to read the Angel book to him again.  The next hour he can't sleep.  He keeps crying.  He keeps telling us random things that are upsetting him. I'm confident it is you, he is sad about, but he doesn't understand how to express it.  He tells me he wants to take down all the Christmas decorations.  He doesn't want his xmas lights in his room.  He wants to take down our trees.  I don't know how to help him grieve.  He's only 3 years old. 

I decide to write this for you.  I know it's just for my own good.  At least I hope it's good.  You will never be able to read this, but I plan to put it in your box.  I don't want to forget you, but it's awkward that you were never really born.  You sort of fall in to this gray area.  We will never have anything that is yours.  We will be the only ones to remember you.  The state doesn't recognize you, you were never considered alive.  But I know you were.  I have faith that you are with God.  It is only by faith that we can survive this.  I didn't really know I could feel this kind of sadness.  I'm so thankful we have your brother to love still.  I just want to hold him and hug him all the time.  He's so cuddly right now. I want to always remember and honor you, but at the same time we have to move on and heal.  We need to focus on him right now, and parenting him out of love instead of sadness or fear.  This makes me feel sad.  I know eventually it won't hurt as bad, and that makes me sad also...that eventually it won't hurt so bad.  I just really can't believe you're gone.

I had to pay the first of the bills on you since you died.  It was for my 2 ultrasounds in November.  It is going to be so hard to pay the next few for my hospital time and ambulance ride.  Until those come and have been paid, I think I won't really be able to start healing.
We love you, precious girl.  I can't wait to be reunited with you one day.   May God hold you in his loving arms.  I know you have joined lots of little ones who have left too early.  I hope you felt no pain. I pray that we will know each other one day.

Though I don't plan to write anymore regularly, we will never forget you.  I hope to write to you every year on this anniversary, and put a picture in of our family.  I'm scared it will always feel a bit hollow, but we have hope. 

Your, mama.