Live life on purpose, despite it all.

I remember hearing Henry’s phone ring from downstairs. We were on the third floor, my sister and I. We had just gotten home from the hospital and were getting ready for bed. I was wrecked with guilt telling her I should have done something sooner. That maybe my mom would be better off if I’d done something sooner. She was trying to console me. But I knew I would never forgive myself.

I could tell in Henry’s voice that this was not good. I was not ready for what was about to happen. It felt like years passed as I waited for him to climb the two flights of steps to get to us.

“This is it,” he said. “We have to go back to the hospital.”

I didn’t know how to do anything after that. I knew we needed to get in the car as soon as possible but I couldn’t figure out how to decide what clothes to put on. What clothes do you wear to say goodbye to your mom forever? I wore a butterfly t-shirt and the blue “you are my sunshine” scarf she gave me, as if wearing something she gifted me could bring her back to life. We drove so fast to get there but it was still too late, and we all knew it running into the hospital, past security trying to stop us. We told them our mom was dying and they let us go.

Nothing could ever prepare me for the way that room felt when we finally got there. The silence. What once was filled with beeping sounds from the machines that were keeping my mom alive were no longer. The room was so cold. My soul left my body in that instance. I didn’t know how to be alive or function in a world that my mom was dead. I needed her so badly in that moment. I remember looking at her lifeless body, hoping her spirit would lift from it and wrap me in one last hug. I needed to be comforted by my mom, and in that moment I realized I would never be comforted again, not in the way I needed and wanted. I had never felt so alone in a room full of people.

And, somehow, four years later, I’m still here. I wish I could say things have gotten better since then but they haven’t. I’ve lost four babies and the most important person to me, my mom. I have one living miracle who I have trouble enjoying because I battle with the trauma of it all. My depression can be crippling and my anxiety makes it hard to function.

The memories of her death, and the death of my babies haunts me.

A part of me died when my mom died. More parts of me died every time I heard those dreaded words, “I am sorry but I can’t find a heartbeat.” I thought life would eventually get easier but I’m realizing that’s not the case. I just have to accept it, but I’m having a hard time doing that. How do we accept the unfairness of it all? How do we create moments of happiness when the deepest parts of our soul are broken beyond repair? How do we survive in a life that is so fragile?

I always feel like I need to wrap these stories and thoughts up with a tidy bow but that’s not what’s real. What I know to be true is that I need my mom, and I know that won’t happen so I am trying to find alternative ways of comfort. I’m trying to accept how others can show up for me.

But I’m stubborn like her. If I can’t have her, then I don’t want them.

I know that I need to live again. That’s what she would want, but I don’t know how. I don’t know how to live in this world of mine that is filled with so much pain.

But I also don’t want to die like this. I keep waiting for things to get better but maybe the problem is, they never will. Maybe I just have to live anyway and find a way to accept that.

Maybe I just have to live life on purpose, despite it all?

I love you infinity, Mom. Send me a sign?

Xoxoxo

Hindsight is 20/20. Death is permanent.

They say hindsight is 20/20. I am sure we all know this to be true - a relationship gone wrong or a career move that wasn’t quite right. Lately, in my life, hindsight has been devastating because I can never make right what I learned because of death. Death is permanent. You cannot go back on death. Once death happens, there is no undoing it.

My mom died suddenly from a ruptured brain aneurysm on April 9, 2019. We just honored her four year anniversary, which was ironically on Easter Sunday this year. You can read what happened in depth here. Basically, one minute she was perfectly healthy texting me that she was excited to hang out later and the next, she was seizing on a stretcher on our way to the hospital. Almost four years later and my mind still has a hard time grasping the reality of that situation. That my mom is truly gone and we had no warning, no way of knowing what was happening until after the damage was done, after she was dead.

I struggled with extreme guilt for a long time after that. I still do. Could I have saved her? Should we have taken her to the hospital sooner in the day when she started not feeling well? Should we have pushed more for her to go to the doctor? Yes, we probably should have but you know what? There is nothing we can do now. She is gone and that is a really hard thing to accept.

My mom is dead and I can never get her back. My daughter will never know a life with Cak Cak. I will never feel another magnificent hug from her. All because of an undiagnosed brain aneurysm that ruptured. In hindsight, there are so many things I could have done differently that day, and I will carry that guilt with me for the rest of my life.

Seven weeks ago, I was told my baby had died at my 14 week appointment. A baby who, two weeks prior, had a perfect heartbeat and was kicking around in my belly at 12 weeks. We were in the “safe zone” or so we thought. He was a baby boy. I named him Brighton Daniel, and I had already made plans of him being a little brother to C.C., a cutie little sneakerhead to Henry, and the perfect addition to our family.

That was all taken from me too. A few weeks ago, I learned that it could be because of a common virus that I did not have immunity too, that I didn’t even know existed. There is no way of knowing if this was the cause of my baby’s demise but it is the only thing that came back positive. Everything else, including chromosomal, came back negative. I was asymptomatic, nothing to suggest I was even remotely sick, aside from the intense morning sickness I was experiencing. If I would have known that this virus posed a threat to me, I surely would have taken measures to protect myself, just like I am sure we would have done everything possible to save my mom from her brain aneurysm before it ruptured. But, again, I didn’t and now I am left with the consequences.

The chances of getting sick during pregnancy are pretty high but the chances of losing your pregnancy because of a common cold or children’s illness are pretty low. The fact that this stupid virus could have been the reason that I lost my desperately wanted pregnancy is infuriating. Statistics have not been on my side lately. I am so tired of people and doctors spewing out statistics when in reality, numbers don’t mean anything to an individual. Tragedy can strike at any time regardless of the statistics associated.

My mom lived life freely. She taught me to live life freely as well. All of that changed the day she died. This pregnancy, I felt safe. I didn’t feel like I needed to live in a bubble like I did with C.C. But I was wrong. If I lived in a bubble, then maybe my baby boy would still be alive. If my mom knew she had a brain aneurysm, maybe she’d also still be alive. I don’t know how this will affect my life moving forward. I want to continue to stay true to who I am - someone who takes risks, who is not scared of life. But how can I do that when life has continued to tell me that I am not invincible?

I am tired of not having information until it’s too late. I am tired of people and babies dying and being ripped away from me because of information I did not know even existed. I hate when people say that this is unfair because my life has been a series of unfair events. Nothing has come easy for me. Everything is hard and I am left to travel through life lost and afraid of the next tragic thing that will happen. Life after loss doesn’t just keep going. You pay a price and that price is never feeling confident that things will be okay for you.

An unknown brain aneurysm took my mom. An unknown virus may be the reason we lost Brighton. Hindsight sure is 20/20 but what do you do with hindsight when you can never make right the things that went wrong?

The aftermath of this miscarriage has been especially heartbreaking. I think I completely blocked out what it was like after we miscarried the twins, but because I was further along this pregnancy, there are definitely more things to be triggered by. For example. I was doing laundry for the first time since finding out we miscarried and most of my pants were maternity pants because I very much already had a pregnant belly.

I opened up my agenda planner for the first time since finding out we lost our baby boy, and I have a space to write down what I am grateful for each day. When I opened it up I realized the last thing I wrote down was that I was grateful for a healthy pregnancy and a baby boy on the way on the day we found out Brighton no longer had a heartbeat. I started that day excited to see my baby boy kicking, just like I started April 6, 2019 with a text to my mom that I was excited to see her.

I recently found out I’ll need to get a hysteroscopy to remove retained “products of conception” (ie: they didn’t get everything out during the D&E). I feel like we are running out of time.

There are days where I feel okay, and days where I am absolutely broken. The sight of a pregnant woman or a coworker announcing they are expecting sends me spiraling. I have cried more tears in bathroom stalls the past few days than I can count. Here’s what I have found to be true though:

You can be strong and also self-sabotage because it feels like the only way to deal in the moment.

You can be healing but also silently crying out for help.

You can be consumed with grief but also want those around you to mention the names of your loved ones who are dead.

You can be self-aware and still have moments where you completely lose yourself.

You can be healthy and self-deprecating.

You can be hopeful and so angry.

You can be happy for someone else and so sad for you.

You can be gracious yet so hard on yourself for feeling like it’s all your fault.

The list goes on…

The reality of the situation is I’ve been spiraling for weeks since finding out about losing Brighton. This is a nightmare that I can’t wake up from and I might have just hit rock bottom.

Mom, I hate that you were taken from us because of a stupid brain aneurysm we didn’t know existed - that you didn’t know existed. You were torn from me so quickly, no chance to say goodbye. What would you tell me now? Somehow I have three babies in heaven and one on earth. Another stone to add to my collection. Three stones sitting side by side - the only physical representation that their lives mattered to me.

When will the heartache stop? How am I supposed to just keep going when it feels like so much has been taken from me? Please let me know.

Love you infinity.

Love,

Your sweetheart

xoxo

What I Am Is What I Grieve

The other day C.C. made some sounds that formed into “Mmmmmmmomm.” So Henry and I are calling it. Mom was her first word. 

It’s interesting how that word makes me feel. When my mom died, any mention of the “M” word had me hiding in the bathroom stalls sobbing, which was basically every day, multiple times a day. My emotions ranged from sadness to anger to guilt, and it was overwhelming. It still is very overwhelming. 

It’s hard for me to consider myself a mom. I don’t know if it’s because the word itself is a trigger for me or if I’m still in shock that I am actually, finally, a mom. 

Being a mom to a daughter is another layer of grief that I’ve been having a hard time explaining. I am to Cora what I desperately need for myself. Sometimes I close my eyes and imagine myself as a child with my mom. Being a mom to C.C. has me yearning for that feeling of home and, for whatever reason,  I can’t find it in the home that I’m in. I wish I had more photos of me as a baby with my mom. 

Hormones? Probably. Postpartum depression/anxiety? Absolutely. Do I understand these feelings? Nope. I wish I did because I am constantly trying to figure it out. 

All I know is that between the pandemic and working from home that I haven’t left my house in weeks, maybe even longer, and the thought of going outside is very overwhelming. I feel everything at once and then I feel nothing at all. 

Breastfeeding when your child is already tiny is so nerve wrecking. Is she getting enough? It doesn’t help that everything from our hospital stay stays with me. She has steadily continued on her growth curve at 3/4% and you know what? I’m proud of that. I’m tired of hiding her progress so people can’t pass judgement. Just like with infertility, I have given up so much to breastfeed and I am happy that I am because it is so rewarding. But I’m so tired. I’m tired from worrying. I’m tired from my own anxiety. I’m tired all of the time, and not just from lack of sleep. 

I love being C.C.’s mom. I also really need my mom right now. I guess I just needed to say that out loud. 

Mom, I need you. You feel like you are getting further away and I hate that so much. I haven’t left the house in weeks. It all feels like too much. I can deal with being in my bubble. Anything more than that is too much. Is it grief? Is it postpartum? I wish I could just talk to you about this, and I wish I could ask you a million questions about how to be a mom, because let me tell you….I am winging it. I don’t have a clue. Sometimes, in the middle of the night when C.C. will only sleep in my arms, I imagine I’m having a conversation with you. I can almost hear your voice, but then you seem so far away. I thought this pain would feel lighter once C.C. was here but now it’s just blended with the intense love I have for her and the intense yearning I have for you.

I wish you were here. 

Love you infinity,  

Your sweetheart

XOXO

My Biggest Fear Was Disappointing You

Photo by Love by Joe Mac.

I remember being in maybe third grade and coming home from school to my mom’s daily “welcome home” hug. As she was hugging me, I broke down in tears because I was so scared to share with her the bad news I had been carrying around for the most part of the day. I had to tell her that I, her perfect daughter, got a check on my calendar. A check in my Catholic grade school indicated you had done something disappointing. If you received something like ten checks, you got a demerit. If you received a lot of demerits you were one of the bad kids. I could barely breath as she hugged me because I knew I didn’t deserve her love and affection. I, Bonnie Anne Dugan, her little loving sweetheart daughter, was now a bad kid. I had disappointed her and I deserved the worst punishment she would give.

Except she didn’t punish me. When she pulled away from her loving embrace she cupped my face in her hands and and asked with a look of concern, “Bonnie, what’s wrong?” After crying for a good amount of time, I finally blurted out, “I got a check. I’m so sorry, Mom!” I kept my eyes closed as I waited for her to lay it on me. No TV, no playing outside…I deserved it. After a few moments of silence, I finally opened my eyes and looked at my mom who was smiling back at me.

“Why are you smiling?” I asked.

“Because you’re so hard on yourself, Bonnie. It’s just a check. It’s not the end of the world.”

“But, Mom. Only the bad kids get checks. This means I am a bad kid.”

“No, sweetheart, this means you’re human.”

My biggest fear has always been disappointing my mom. She was such a gentle and kind soul and she gave me so much love. I felt like I owed it to her to be the best kid possible. That was the least I could do, right? What I learned was that this would set me up for a series of disappointments throughout my lifetime because whether I liked it or not, I was human and I would make mistakes….many, many mistakes. I guess you could say I am a bit of a perfectionist and when one thing goes wrong, that means that I am wrong. For example, today I noticed a minor error on the cover of a publication I am working on and I have not stopped looking at it and critiquing it. My mind has wandered from It’s not even wrong to You are a complete failure. How could you let this happen?

My mom, on the other hand, was always waiting with open arms, regardless of my mistakes. In my mind, that unconditional love she gave me was not fair to her. She deserved the perfect daughter and me, being human and all, would never be able to deliver that. But, man, I really tried to come close. I tried so hard and I, always without failure, let myself down because I could never meet my own expectations of what I thought she deserved.

“Bonnie, you think too much. You try sooooooo hard.” This was a statement my mom used often. She liked to emphasize the “ooo’s” when she was making a point. In fact, just a week before the “nightmare” she was telling me that exact phrase because I had invited my sisters over for a “sister night” and I wasn’t sure if she and my dad would want to come over so I never said anything but then I felt bad and wound up inviting her the day of and apologized for it being so last minute (I know). I am beating myself up now for not having her over that night. It would have been the last time we ever hung out. It would have been the last dance party on my deck with her. One of the reasons I thought it was fine was because that following Saturday, I was supposed to hang out with her. My husband and I planned on going to a fundraiser with my mom and dad, along with my sister and her boyfriend, and we were all looking forward to it. My mom even texted me saying, “I am so excited you’re coming. You deserve a break!”

But that night took a turn quickly and I am still, six months later, trying to figure out what the hell happened? How is this nightmare still a reality? I am ready to wake up.

April 6, 2019 started off as a great day. I slept in later than usual with my husband Henry and texted my mom at 10:29am saying, “We’ll be there today! And I have a surprise for you. (I was giving my mom a cellphone) Did you guys want us to pick you up?”

My mom swiftly replied, “Hi great...glad your coming tonite…I think we’re okay to drive up…I’ll ask Daddy and get back to you…(kissing face emoji).”

Photo by Love by Joe Mac.

After this text, I went upstairs to my office - where I am sitting now to write this blog - to finish a paper for grad school. Afterwards, I went for a run. On my way back, I was feeling happy. I finished my paper and I was about to hang out with family. I called my mom at 3:30pm to let her know Henry and I were going to come over early to give her her surprise and that we would all drive together to the fundraiser. My mom didn’t answer so I left her a voicemail. About fifteen minutes later, as I was chugging water to quench the thirst from my run, my dad called me. This was strange. My dad rarely, if ever, called me. I answered.

“Hey Dad.”

“Hey sweetheart. Listen your mom got really sick. I’m not sure what happened but we are not going to make it tonight. You and Kate should still go though.”

“What? No. I was only going to see you guys. I was just texting mommy. She was fine. What happened?”

After a series of questions, I determined my mom either had food poisoning from a hot dog she ate the night before or she caught the stomach bug from my niece and nephew, who she also watched the night before.

My dad insisted that my sister Kate and I still go to this fundraiser. After much hesitation and push back, I reluctantly agreed and told him I would swing by to pick up the tickets. I felt a little more at ease, given my investigation, but I hung up the phone, still concerned, but mostly disappointed that I wasn’t going to get the chance to hang out with my mom. I sat on the couch and talked to Henry. “My dad sounded worried.”

“I’m sure she’s fine,” he replied.

Since I wasn’t going to surprise my mom with her gift anymore, I decided to take my time getting ready and going over. I grabbed Vitamin Water and crackers as a “I hope you feel better” gift and Henry and I were on our way. We walked in the house and I put them on the kitchen table. My dad came walking down the steps and handed me the tickets.

“She’s finally resting.”

“Can I go upstairs to see her?”

“I don’t know. I finally got her to fall asleep.”

We walked outside so as not to wake her up.

“Okay, well tell mommy I hope she feels better. I left Vitamin Water and crackers on the table.”

During our last exchange, I felt an urge to go upstairs but ignored it because, like my dad said, I didn’t want to wake her up if she finally fell asleep. Knowing my dad was still concerned, I offered to take them to the hospital. I knew that this was a ludicrous offer given my mom disliked hospitals and, like we all agreed, she just had the stomach bug. She would be fine.

Two hours later, we would learn that my mom was not “fine.” My dad called my sister to say, “Something is wrong.”

We said our goodbyes to my uncle, my aunt, and my parent’s friends who sat at our table. She’s just dehydrated. We all agreed on this.

Henry and I were the first ones to pull up to the house. The car was still in movement when I jumped out. I ran in the house. “Dad!” I yelled.

“Up here.”

I ran up the stairs to my parents room. I called 911 immediately. The ambulance was there in minutes. They asked what was wrong. I told them I suspected she was dehydrated as she had been throwing up all day.

As they put her on the stretcher, my mom started seizing. That’s when we all knew this was much more serious, even though our instincts had already told us that. I volunteered to ride in the ambulance with my dad - something I am both grateful for and agonized about. The torturous visions from that ride will always haunt my mind.

A feeling of pure panic and desperation would accompany me for the next 60+ hours. I am instantly brought back to this feeling any time I think about it. Still hopeful that this was all “fixable,” I sat in disbelief as a doctor came into the family room, where my dad and I sat just minutes after entering the emergency room, and told us, with a grim look, that he suspected my mom had a “giant” aneurysm that burst. His tone indicated a lack of hope for a good outcome but I refused to believe this. What? There is literally no way this could be happening. My mom was just fine. We were supposed to be dancing and laughing. This is all a sick joke. The others in my family would soon get to the family room and I would sit there with the images of my mom in the ambulance and the news from the doctor, unable to tell them because, if I told them, it would make it true. Instead, I prayed furiously clutching the rosary we found in my mom’s purse as we waited the dreadful eight or nine hours she was in surgery. The doctor’s didn’t know if she would survive the surgery. She just needed to survive the surgery, I told myself.

She survived the surgery but, again, the doctors were not hopeful with the outcome. I did not care. She survived the surgery! She had made it through. I knew my mom was a fighter. The next 40 hours would be a roller coaster of emotions as we waited, with desperate hopefulness, for any slight signs of improvement. There were some but not enough. At around midnight on April 9, after just getting home from the hospital, we would get the call from my dad that told us to hurry back. This was it. Our mom’s heart was giving out and she was not going to make it.

Stunned. That’s the only way to describe the feeling that would come next. I was utterly stunned. My mind, soul, and body could not process and accept what was happening in that hospital room.

I should have went upstairs to check on her. If I would have just went upstairs to check on her, I would have realized something was wrong and I could have saved her before this happened.

For the last six months, this thought has been on repeat. Though a part of me does believe, thanks to therapy and the constant reassurance from those I love, that this is not my fault, I still feel like that little girl who got a check on her calendar.

I am sorry for disappointing you, Mom. My biggest fear has come true. You, my “person,” my cheerleader, my advocate, and the one who loves me unconditionally despite all of my “flaws” is gone. I am disappointed that, even though we tried, I wasn’t able to give you a grandchild to be a “Cak Cak” to before you left. I am disappointed that holidays or any gathering will no longer be as fun without the life of the party there. I am disappointed that I won’t receive the “thinking of you texts” with the images of the motivational quotes because, somehow, you just knew I was feeling down. I am disappointed that I will no longer hear, “Bonnie you think too much. You try soooo hard.” I am disappointed that we can’t do our normal exchange of, “I love you. I love you more. I love you most. I love you infinity.” I am disappointed that I can no longer hear you call me your sweetheart. I am disappointed that I won’t have any more dance parties with you. I am disappointed I won’t see your smile or hear your laugh. I am disappointed every time I log onto Facebook or Instagram and see girls my age with their moms and children or hear people talk about their families with ease, without having to deal with such a tragedy. I am disappointed I will no longer feel your incredible loving embrace of a hug that could melt any problem away.

But, most of all, I am disappointed in myself that I couldn’t save you. I think blaming myself keeps me connected to your physical life on earth and prevents me from having to accept this excruciating new reality that none of us want.

I love you infinity, Mom, and I am sorry. I am sorry for being human.

Love,

Your Sweetheart.