Wednesday, June 17, 2009


"You know what worries me... if we do conceive again, and carry to term... I think your families optimism may kill me. They don't know how hard it's been, or about D's baby, Amariah. All we ever have is the hope of a baby."

"Yeah. But you don't have the clotting disorder your sister has."

"No, but something could still happen. There isn't a guarantee. You're forgetting about umbilical cord accidents, HELPP, PROM, incompetent cervix... I could go on."



My sister lost Amariah at around 41 weeks. She was in Georgia, far away from her family, on an army base with her husband.

They aren't sure what happened. An autopsy showed a blood clot in the umbilical cord, and my sister tested positive for Antiphospholipid Syndrome. As far as the medical records are concerned, this was the cause of Amariah's death. We have no doubt that this played a role, but we also believe that the military hospital was negligent. My sister had went to them the day before Amariah's heart stopped... they didn't even check her out that day. They just sent her home.

Amariah was my first neice.
She was my mother's first grandchild.
She is my sister's first child, and only girl.

I still feel caught off gaurd sometimes when I think about her. She should be here. She should be ten. There are no gaurantees. I used to think that there was. As a child I'd never heard of a pregnancy not resulting in a baby. Until I was fourteen and we lost Amariah. My sister lost her child, my mother lost her grandbaby, and my brother's and I lost our neice.

Even so, when I had gotten pregnant, I had hoped that there was a gaurantee. But there isn't, there wasn't, and I lost both pregnancies.

I wish there was a gaurantee. I wish I knew how it would end if I got pregnant again.

I wish I could be as optimistic as A's family. They haven't seen the things I've seen though, or felt the things I have. My family isn't the most supportive of all this. D is the most supportive. She even sent me a card after my second loss. My grandmother, were she alive, would have supported me. She had a still born baby girl too, just like my sister. My mother can't seem to understand, but she's mentally ill... and I learn to live with it. But A's family, they're from a different world altogether. Babies never die there. Preganancy is a gaurantee. I wish I could live in this world that they do, but I can't.

I guess it's just as well. I may never even be able to get pregnant again, let alone carry to term. If we move on to adoption, it will be a whole other minefield I'm sure.

But I was just thinking about this again last night.

I don't talk about Amariah much. I never have. But she's always been somewhere in my heart. I was so excited to meet her, and I never got the chance. All that I've ever had is a photograph of her. She was beautiful.

I really wish there were gaurantees.


Bluebird said...

This post really struck me, and I thank you for sharing it. It made me think about my sister, and how my loss might have impacted her. I wonder sometimes if, since my family lives out of town, they didn't experience it as much. . . you've reassured me that they miss our babies too.

Although I have to say - I hope and pray every day that I have taken the bullet for my family and that my sister will never know what it is like to struggle to get pregnant or to lose a child (or children). Granted, the little green eyed monster will probably still rear his head in that case :) But I don't want to have to watch her go through this.

I'm sorry for you and your sister and sweet little Amariah. And I'm sorry you haven't been immune to heartache either.

Kristin said...

Oh honey...lots of {{{hugs}}} and thank you for sharing Amariah with us.

Michelle said...

Oh too!

Tara said...

I am so sorry. I wish for gaurantees, too.

Anonymous said...

I'm so sorry about Amariah. How awful that they just sent her home without even checking her out.

I wish there were guarantees too. I wish I could be optimistic too. It is so hard to know what we know and hold on to hope at the same time. Hugs.