Someone who I desperately need to understand (because of this person’s significance in my life), believes that because I lost Calvin so early in his life, my pain is easier compared to someone who lost a child later in life or to someone who lost a parent… that less time equals less pain, that having more time to build a relationship is worse, and that this is how it is for people “in general.” This weighs so heavily on me and hurts me so deeply that thinking about it makes cry all over again.

I wonder if people stop and think about everything that Louie and I have lost. I wonder if people realize that when Calvin died, part of each of us died with him - both literally, because he was made from us, and figuratively, because the lives for which we had been preparing was brought to an abrupt ending. Our dreams. Our plans. Those don’t just disappear into nothing. Those wishes are still here. But they have just become impossible for our life on earth with Calvin.

A friend recently said that it’s difficult for those around me to understand because they haven’t gone through a similar experience. I thank God for that, I really do. I would never wish this on anyone else. What I do wish is that people would stop making assumptions or superimposing their own beliefs on how I should be grieving, how much I am allowed to grieve, and when I should be “over it.”

Someone in my support group mentioned the need to educate people on what I am going through. So this is my request for anyone out there who may know - are there any resources (books, articles, videos, slideshows, pamphlets) - that I can give to people who could use more insight into my grieving? Does “Why Your Loved One Is Not Over Their Dead 2nd Trimester Baby?” exist? Because, I don’t think I’m the only one who “needs help.” (I am getting help, by the way - Louie and I joined a support group at UCSF, and I’ve bought 4 or so books. So shouldn’t others get help, as well?)

Thank you in advanced.

Calvin at 13 weeks 2 days (January 29, 2009)

4 1/2 months ago, I went in for an ultrasound, excited to see my baby, to learn whether my first child would be a boy or girl, to call my son by name, to bring home another picture. I could not do any of these things that day. 4 1/2 months ago, I was 18 weeks pregnant… 4 1/2 months pregnant. So after today, I will be without Calvin for as long as I carried him. And this life I must live without him feels so long.

It hurts knowing that I should be 9 months pregnant and preparing to meet him and take him home.

It hurts remembering the therapist who said oh good, you didn’t have to make that choice, because we had. we made the choice to keep our child.

It hurts that the feelings of pregnancy have faded.

It hurts that I can’t fully remember all the details of his face anymore.

It hurts that people have chosen to not talk with me about what happened; it feels like they never even knew I was pregnant.

It hurts that Louie is hurting so badly, but no one reaches out to him because he’s a man, and people don’t realize that sometimes it’s harder for him than me.

It hurts because it feels like I’m losing Calvin all over again. It hurts because sometimes it feels like I was never pregnant with him.

… I just hurt.

This Is What It Feels Like:

I came across this piece on the community message boards on Babycenter.com, in one of the loss support groups. I think it does a good job of conveying what it’s like to lose a child. I share it because I hope it can help those of haven’t experienced this to gain some insight into what Louie and I are going thorugh (and I fervently pray to God that you never do). I also share it for those of you who have lost a child (or children), because I have found some validation and comfort in knowing that I am not alone in these feelings.

You are walking along fine with everyone else and the sun is shining and all is well, then you walk SLAM into a brick wall. And it hurts – it really hurts. It hurts your head and your chest where your heart is and your stomach. And it shocks you as only slamming into a brick wall can. It stops you dead in your tracts. And you stand there thinking, “How did I not see that coming? What the hell happened? How could someone just do that to me?” And you look around and everyone else seems to be walking around the wall. They are carrying on like nothing happened and the sun is still shining for them. They don’t even see the wall. They don’t even know it’s there. And you realize you didn’t even know it was there until you hit it – you didn’t even know there was a brick wall you could hit – not now, not at this stage. And slowly you pull yourself back together. The pain in your stomach has turned to a sick feeling and your heart still hurts, your mind racing with questions about this brick wall – How, What, Where, Why??? Mostly WHY??? Why on earth would someone make you walk into this wall – why did they have to put it in front of you and no one else?

And you can walk again now the pain in your stomach and maybe your legs has lessened. So you slowly make your way around the wall and to the other side. But it doesn’t look the same on the other side. It’s greyer and emptier. And you know you’ve left something behind – something very precious and you want it back. So you turn around and there is the brick wall behind you and it seems to hit you with the same force again when you realize you can’t go back. It’s blocking your path and it will always be there. You pummel your fists on it and cry and shout at it but it’s unbreakable and absolute. It won’t let you get your precious bundle back – that has to stay on the other side and you must carry on without it. You can’t go back to the path you were on before you hit the brick wall – it’s impossible. So all you can do is go forward and walk on from it. But it’s hard going and your legs don’t seem to want to walk away from it. You know when you look over your shoulder it will always be there. It may fade a bit from view but if you look closely you will always be able to see it – even in the distance. And you look around you again and see all the people who never hit the brick wall carrying on too. You tell some of them about the brick wall and they sympathize – it must’ve hurt they say. You are looking very well despite this brick wall – you have no cuts or bruises on the outside because those heal. So you must be doing ok then now they say. “But my wounds are on the inside!” you feel like screaming. How can you not know about this brick wall – why couldn’t you walk into it instead of me? And then you feel bad – you know you wouldn’t really want anyone else to walk into that wall.

Some people are ok – maybe they have seen the wall themselves in the past or came close to it – maybe they are really good friends/family who close their eyes and do try to imagine walking into the wall. They are the ones who help you keep walking away from it. People tell you that you’ll never hit this brick wall again – it only appears once in your life. And you want to believe them even though you can’t ever be sure. Up ahead it looks like maybe your path does cross back into the sunshine again – the same sunshine that everyone else is basking in. And you can maybe just make out another bundle waiting for you to pick up and carry with you for the rest of your life. And maybe if you are strong and keep moving forward then you’ll reach it one day. But it’s not the same bundle as before – it can’t be. That one is behind the wall. The wall that’s always there if you look over your shoulder. And written on it forever more is the message in letters a mile high, that only you can see – My Darling Baby. RIP

Rachel Butterworth. “Stillbirth - The Wall.” Footprints. 2006: 2. SANDS: Stillbirth and Neonatal Death Charity. (Written for her daughter Rhianna, born sleeping 10/16/05.)

“Walking With You” was created by Kelly at The Beauty of Sufficient Grace to help support those who have lost a child.

Together we share our stories, helpful information, scriptures, encouraging words, prayer requests, and more. To learn more and/or to join, please visit Walking with You.

This week, we are sharing how we chose the names for our babies and any special meaning behind them.

Calvin Phoenix Zapanta Ejanda

I believe it was in early January that Louie and I chose Calvin’s name. It was after Christmas, after we received the sweetest message “Congratulations, your pregnancy is viable!” We were in his room at his parents’ house coming up with names that included both letters L and C, as a way to combine both of our names (Louie and Crystal). We just went through all the names we could think of that included these two letters, such Clyde, Lucy, Lucious, Chrysalis, and Chucklass (just kidding on some of those).

We finally agreed on a name for a boy, which you know to be Calvin, and a name for girl (I will not share her name because should our Heavenly Father decide to bless us with a daughter, we want to wait until then to share her name with the world). If Calvin had been a girl instead, her name would have still included Phoenix.

Phoenix was because we wanted a name that honored Louie’s grandfather, Felix. Tatay, as we called him (which means Father in Tagalog), was welcomed into Heaven last September, right before we had our Catholic wedding ceremony. This was an important way for us to pass his memory on with our child. That’s Tatay in the photo to the right, and yes, he is popping his collar! Little did we know how appropriate the name Phoenix would truly be, since now the soul of our blessed son is living in the grace of God. We know that Tatay, along with our other loved ones who have passed from this life into eternal life, is watching over Calvin.

Something special that my mom noticed, and that Louie and I hadn’t realized, is in the first three letters of Calvin’s name: C-A-L: Crystal And Louie. So with his name, our precious boy carriers us with him.

The Etymology of Calvin and of Phoenix

According to Behind The Name, Calvin can be traced back to the French word chauve, which means bald. I find this amusing because I imagined my relatives nicknaming him Calbo, which is the Tagalog word for bald; the reason being that the Filipino pronunciation of v’s sound like b’s. Also, it is rather appropriate, since he was born bald, with merely a hairline and the dark beginnings of hair, which were both clearly discernible on his head. Our Calvin had a widow’s peak just like his mommy.

Phoenix derives from Greek and means “dark red.” And as many of you probably know, it’s the name of the immortal bird of Greek and Egyptian mythology that becomes consumed by fire, but rises from its own ashes. The immortality of this bird, its rising back to life from its own ashes, reminds me of God’s promise for each of us – Though we shall return to dust, we will rise again to everlasting life. And so I live in the hope of joining my son again.

Sharing His Name

It was our plan to announce our baby’s name (and thereby his gender) after our ultrasound on March 4th. I was 18 weeks pregnant, so we were sure we would learn (confirm) whether our baby was a boy or a girl. The ultrasound technician even offered to write it in an envelope that we could open when we got home. But things changed. We did not get this envelope. When I asked for a picture, he responded, They’ll talk to you when you get there.

There was the Fetal Diagnostic Center where we were going to meet with a perinatalogist to review the ultrasound results. This was a follow-up appointment to the ultrasounds we had at the end of January, which detected the presence of amniotic bands. This is what she said to us: I’m sorry. The baby’s passed away. (You can read the full story on this post - The 5th Belongs to Calvin: Calvin’s Life.) When I asked the doctor if our baby was a boy or a girl, she answered that she didn’t know, that they didn’t check, considering the circumstances.

This Is How We Shared His Name, Instead

After I delivered Calvin, and while I lay sobbing with Louie crying I’m sorry over and over into my hair, they took my little boy, cleaned him, and dressed him. At this point I still didn’t know whether I had a son or a daughter. My attending doctor, Nita, told me that our baby was malformed, but she didn’t want to try to describe what he looked like to us, because whatever she said would not really show it. God bless her for saying that, because though we still feared seeing our baby, we did agree to do so. I asked her if our baby was a boy or a girl, and she said he was a boy. In that moment, our baby had his name.

Another doctor, brought the bassinet carrying our son into the room, and very gently asked if our baby had a name. We said, Calvin. She replied, Calvin is very special. He’s so special. The people in the room with us, those four doctors and nurses, were complete strangers until that day, but they were the first to hear his name. And Peggy, my nurse, was the first to write his name (on the card above).

I don’t know if anyone other than a parent who’s lost a child can understand how important it is to hear his or her name, to see this name written, to have others acknowledge the life and existence and significance of this precious, precious person who was taken away so much sooner than any parent would ever want.

after a night of being so overwhelmed by the grief and pain of losing my son that it felt like dying, today i’m ok.

perhaps i’m getting used to these recurrent slamming into a glass wall/getting power-punched in the gut moments of despair, as well as the triggers that bring them on.

i know what was said is true. i know that intent and perception can sometimes be dichotomous. and i’m trying to believe those words were chosen without ill-intent (i could be trying harder, but that’s all i’m willing to give of myself right now). i know this person loves me, louie, and calvin. that’s probably why i went spiraling down so quicky and so hard – i felt like I was being patronized, which made me feel attacked and betrayed. but i’m not surprised at how badly someone’s choice of words or tone of voice can knock me down.

it’s because i’m protective of my grief.

yes, i spent last night reliving the loss (that continues to tear at my insides anyway) like it was happening all over again. yes, i am most definitely back to feeling like no one understands how badly my heart has been wounded. but this does not feel out of the ordinary.

yes, it took exhaustion from crying to finally bring rest (if you could call it that). and i woke up with tears still wet on my face, as though i cried through my sleeping - which i do not find impossible. but this does not feel abnormal.

it could be that this feeling of normalcy and of being ok with getting hurt by people i thought could understand me is merely a protective numbing. maybe i think things are fine because i’ve cut off my capacity to feel for the moment. but i prefer to believe that i’m starting to recognize it’s not their fault their lives are moving on while my world needs to stand still for bit a longer. hopefully i’m starting to understand that the pace of my grieving will always only continue at a fraction of the pace at which others heal from the hurt of my son’s death. it’s a better way to live, i think, than to shut myself off from them.

It’s been four months since we said both hello and goodbye to our son. This is difficult for me because I was 4 1/2 months pregnant with Calvin when we lost him. To think that he has been gone from us for almost as long as he was with us is such a painful thought. But I’m thankful for every day that we had with him, especially because I know how much he fought to stay with his mommy and daddy for as long as he could.

Phoenix with Amazing Baby

Claire gave us this picture of a banner she saw on Myspace. It’s so appropriate because I am amazed at the strength of my little boy.

With this first entry of The 5th Belongs to Calvin, I’m finally ready to share the full story of Calvin’s life and the 4 1/2 month journey Louie and I were able to share with him while he was on this earth.

If you would like to contribute a picture for Calvin Phoenix, please read about the Calvin Phoenix Photo Project.

The Big Fat Positive

On Tuesday, November 25, 2008, two days before Thanksgiving, I decided to take a pregnancy test. I had suspected that I was pregnant for a while, but wanted to wait for my body to build up enough HCG levels. The line showed up as soon as I started peeing on the stick. I was ecstatic. I placed the positive test on the table in our bedroom, nonchalantly called Louie over, and pointed to the pregnancy. I remember his eyes lighting up and growing wide; he had a huge smile on his face. It’s a little known fact that Louie and I made the agreement that if he did not drink Coke for a year, I would consider having kids. Of course, he surpassed his end of the bargain :).

Waiting to Be “Viable”

A few days later, I started cramping and spotting. The cramping was mainly in one spot so I was afraid of an ectopic pregnancy. On December 2nd, I went in for an ultrasound, and learned that the pregnancy was in my left uterus (yes I have two, if you are curious, you can see my 3d ultrasound is in this post ) and was told that I could be miscarrying. The doctor wanted me to come back the next week. She gave me a form to give to the front desk stating that reason for another ultrasound: viability. To see the tiny life inside me and know that we could lose him was so difficult. Because he measured at only 5-6 weeks, and I guess because they weren’t sure if he was “viable,” I didn’t leave with a picture of my baby, but a picture of my own double uterus instead.

Louie and I went back to the hospital the following week, on December 10th. We saw and heard our baby’s heartbeat, which was amazing. He was so much bigger than when we first got the chance to see him on the ultrasound screen, and we finally got a picture of our little peanut. But after speaking to the doctor, she told us that the ultrasound tech felt that the sac holding our baby was misshaped. So they wanted us to come back again in two weeks (which fell on Christmas Eve). Again, the form read viability.

The week after that, on my mother-in-law’s birthday, I had my first prenatal appointment. Sharon, my midwife started to do an exam and saw pregnancy tissue at the front of my cervix. She tried to reassure us that some women have this and still go on to have their babies. She personally went up to the receptionist to get us scheduled for an ultrasound on that same day, because she did not want us having to wait until the next week (the Christmas Eve appointment). All we could do was cry and wait and pray. When we finally went in for the ultrasound, we saw Calvin, more than twice his size from the last week, heart beating strong, swimming in my belly. We went home relieved, with more pictures of our little salamander baby. And at the beginning of the following week, I got the most beautiful message from Kati, the genetic counselor: “You don’t need to come in. Congratulations, your pregnancy is viable!”

Amniotic Band Syndrome + Down’s Syndrome

We had about a month of respite until after my second prenatal appointment on January 29. At this appointment, we heard Calvin’s heartbeat on the doppler for the first time; it was a beautiful sound that brought me to tears. The doctor recommended that we do the screening for Downe’s Syndrome, Trisomy 13, and Trisomy 18, and we only agreed because we would get to see our baby again. We went in the next day and saw just how much he had grown - he actually looked like a baby as most people picture them, with a big round head and little belly. A different ultrasound tech came in and the mood changed; she looked so serious. Then she left. And Louie and I were sitting waiting in that room, until finally she came back and said that we needed to talk to someone about the results. They had found amniotic bands, which causes amputations and can threaten the baby’s life. I broke down. She also told us that it looked like the fingertips on his right hand were missing. Louie and I sat in the car sobbing, crying for our baby. Our family’s came that night to be with us.

The next day, January 30, I went in for a Level II ultrasound. We watched Calvin swimming and turning, opening and closing his hands, stretching his body out, moving away as the ultrasound tech pressed on my belly. Watching Louie watch our son was such a beautiful moment; it’s one of my few memories of Calvin with his daddy, and I hold it so dearly. After another 2+ hour long ultrasound, we went to speak to Kati and the perinatologist (a specialist for babies in utero). Upon reviewing the ultrasounds again, they said that our baby still had his fingers, and although there were three amniotic bands, they had not attached. Somehow, our baby had been avoiding them.

A few days later, I received a call from Kati saying that the screening for Down’s Syndrome also came out positive. We decided to refuse to the amniocentisis because of the increased risk of miscarriage (which was already there because of my double uterus), and because we had decided we would love, care for, and raise this child regardless of whether he had it or not.

I began doing my research on Amniotic Band Syndrome and on Down’s Syndrome.

Knowing His Touch

In the following weeks I began to be able to distinguish my baby’s movements from the rumblings of my growing belly. I could feel him fluttering and tumbling inside me. Louie wanted so bad to feel Calvin moving around, but I told him it was still too soon. So for the time being, it was like a secret between me and our baby.

On February 25, the day before my birthday, we had our second prenatal appointment. I guess it was because she was new to my case, but the doctor spoke with us again about the risks of amniotic bands, brought up our options of continuing with or terminating the pregnancy. It was difficult because it was like hearing the news all over again.

After a couple minutes of searching, she finally found the baby’s heartbeat. It sounded weird to me – not the way it sounded before, but she said it sounded fine, and that we could schedule the next prenatal appointment after the ultrasound. We were just so thankful that Calvin was still with us.

That Saturday, as we were sitting in his parents living room and Louie starting playing music on his laptop, Calvin started tumbling around. I told Louie and he placed his hand on my belly. He got so excited because he could actually feel Calvin moving. I don’t know why or how Louie could feel our son dancing in my belly so early in my pregnancy – Calvin was just going into 18 weeks. But I am so grateful that Louie got that chance.

Saying Goodbye

On March 4, we went in for our follow-up ultrasound. It was hard because the monitor was next to me, so I couldn’t really see it. I did notice that sometimes the numbers on the bottom right corner would range from 15 weeks to 17 weeks, which was really odd to me. I also noticed that after a while Louie had his eyes closed, and he wasn’t looking at the screen. It got really quiet. When I asked the ultrasound tech if we would get a picture from him or from the doctor, he just said the doctor would speak to us.

The doctor told us that the baby had passed away. God said no to us. He allowed our baby to die.

Louie later told me that he saw our baby wasn’t moving, that the ultrasound was not reading a temperature, but as we walked to the doctor’s office, he was trying to convince himself that our baby was okay.

It was not what I wanted. What I wanted was to go into the ultrasound, know that my baby was alive, find out for sure whether he was a boy or girl, then announce to the world his name, which Louie and I decided to keep secret until we knew.

That night, I was admitted into the hospital. About 10 hours after they starting giving me Misoprostol, and before the anesthesiologist could come in and speak to me (I had finally agreed to an epidural), I told Peggy, my nurse, “I feel something coming out,” and she rushed to get the doctor, Nita. I felt such a tremendous tearing sensation that I could not let go of my grip on the bed to hold Louie’s hand. Nita asked me to lie back, but I couldn’t. I just started crying out. I remember screaming in pain then feeling the rush of liquid and then my baby.

On March 5, 2009, at 9:54am, I delivered Calvin Phoenix into this world. Not alive and breathing, not full-term, but I have to be grateful that God did answer this prayer, even if it was not in the way I wanted. I got the chance to give birth to my son, to hold him, to call him by his name, and to see him in his daddy’s arms.

The Strength of My Baby

My attending OB, because of Calvin’s size, was under the impression that he had died 3 weeks prior to when I came in to be induced. I told her that we had a prenatal appointment the previous week – in fact exactly a week before being told he had died – and heard his heartbeat. From the beginning of my pregnancy and the threatened miscarriage with the spotting and cramping and pregnancy tissue, to the amniotic bands that invaded what should have been the safest place for him, our son fought to stay with us. He was struggling, but still he held on. Though Calvin should have passed sooner, he clung to life so that my birthday would not be a reminder of his death, but of my happiness as I felt him dancing in my belly to his daddy’s music. This is such a gift from my precious child. And I am so proud to be his mother.

Happy Four Months, Calvin Phoenix! Mommy and daddy love you so much.