Blogging has become a part of who I am.

I started this blog one year ago tomorrow. This post will be number 149.

When I started my blog, I was writing about a new pregnancy. I was utterly naive to the depths of despair that can result from those two pink lines on a stick. I was clueless... and boy, did I ever have another thing coming to me. Sometimes you're the bug, sometimes you're the windshield... and I was about to be one serious bug. When I started my blog, I was 23 years old. We were re-doing an old house, owned by Ryan's oh-so-generous Grandparents. Ryan had just gotten word that he'd been hired after a good couple of months of jobless searching.

Now, well, I suppose I'm not so clueless, hmm?? I'm continually amazed that the rewards, however, that have come of our loss and the rocky path it led us to. I never, in a million years, would have associated a dead baby with new friendships, a wealth of knowledge, or some serious self-discovery. Now, I'm 24 years old... still a child in the eyes of so many, yet, most days, I feel like anything but. (Did you even know my age until today?) We're not re-doing a house anymore, and well, we don't even live there now. A year of hard work, all for naught, or not for naught, depending on your point of view... but that's the summary of life. We work our bums off--and for what? Ryan still works for the same company, though I'm so proud to say he's now made it to 'assistant manager' status. A great accomplishment--in fact, he was recognized for making his new status more quickly than ANY other person within the large company. (The pay increase wasn't too shabby either...) Way to go, hubbs!

So many new things are on our horizon. Baby will be here in approximately 75 days. Seventy.Five.Days. I can't believe it. I can't believe we've made it this far, can't believe this dream of ours might actually become reality this time.

So what's this got to do with blogging... and blogging being a part of who I am? A lot, really. Over the last year, I've really come to identify with my blog, with my readers who I adore so much, and with the blogging community. I blog for the memories, for the fun, for the networking... I blog because I want to share a little part of myself with you. Whoever you are.

Why do you blog??

"Dead Baby" (keep reading, you'll get it)

Not still feeling so p*ssy pants negative today, but I wrote this the other day and wanted to just throw it out there for your consideration.


Fetal Demise.

Those words rattle around in my mind almost every day. I hate those words with an unspeakable passion. They mean, under no uncertain terms, that something terribly tragic has happened.

Those are the words the radiologist used to describe what had happened to our baby on November 23rd in the ultrasound room at the hospital. After the ultrasound technician searched, without success, for a tiny heartbeat, she retrieved the radiologist. The radiologist searched, and searched, and searched again for that little heartbeat and couldn’t find it either. He turned off the machine, put down the “magic wand,” and turned to face us.

“I’m sorry to tell you this,” he said, brow all contorted in negativity,” but our suspicions have been confirmed by the fact that we cannot find a heartbeat. Your baby stopped developing at 13 weeks, 5 days. At this stage in pregnancy, we don’t use the term miscarriage. Instead, we use the tern fetal demise.” He said a couple of other meaningless things that I don’t remember, said he was sorry and then left the room.
That is when I grew to hate those two little words.

Think of it this way, sort of how I think about it, starting with the definitions for these two words straight from Meriam-Webster online:

Fetal: of, relating to, or being a fetus.
(Note: Fetus is defined as “an unborn or unhatched vertebrate especially after attaining the basic structural plan of its kind”)

Demise: Death. A cessation of existence or activity. A loss of position or status.

Here are my problems with these words:

Our baby was not a fetus. I have hated this word for as long as I can remember, because it’s harsh. It’s cruel. Our baby, just like any other, had a heart he would have fallen in love with. He had eyes, probably beautiful blue eyes (I say that based on how genetics work), that he would have seen this world with. He had ears, a nose, a mouth, 10 fingers and 10 toes, legs, arms, and the list goes on. He was a baby from the moment he was conceived. Our baby was NOT a fetus.

Demise is a horrible sounding word. It’s so… final. While I realize this situation is equally final, I already know my baby has died, so do you have to use that word? Tell me I’ve lost the baby. Tell me what to do next, but don’t use the “death” words.

Put fetal and demise together… you get baby dead. "Dead baby." Thanks… I get it. What a brilliant way to describe our precious Brody, who should still be with us today.