Making Art After Loss

I wrote this post not even knowing if I wanted to publish it. It would be a lot easier for me to never discuss publicly what I’ve been through this past month. At the same time, my life has changed in such a big way, it feels weird not to talk about it. Some of you may have noticed I haven’t been publishing regular blog posts or sending out newsletters. I haven’t done much of anything, because I’ve been grieving and trying to process all that’s happened.

I never announced it on social, but I found out I was pregnant with our first child in January. Early in the pregnancy, I had a subchorionic bleed where we thought we had lost the baby. It’s an extremely rare condition that mimics symptoms of a miscarriage. By some miracle, our baby survived the bleed. After 8 weeks of light bedrest, everything seemed to heal up fine. We found out at 12 weeks we were expecting a baby boy. We were over the moon. Things were going great.

Our 12 week ultrasound

Then, at 5 months pregnant to the day, on April 25th, my water broke. This is almost unheard of and doctors think it could’ve had something to do with the bleed I experienced in the first trimester. I’ve never been so terrified in my life. I didn’t think this was something I had to worry about. Similar to the bleed, it happened very quickly and was extremely unexpected.

We rushed to the hospital, only to be told a number of awful scenarios. I was immediately handed a box of tissues and asked if I wanted to see the chaplan. Never a good sign. They called a host of experts who all said my days with our baby were numbered. Scenario 1 - I was told I would probably go into labor within 24 hours, and our baby would not survive because he was too small. Scenario 2 - I would most certainly go into labor within a week, and our baby would not survive. Scenario 3 - If I was lucky to make it past a week, I would get an awful infection and go septic. Then, they would have to induce labor and our baby would not survive. Scenario 4 - The placenta would detach or the umbilical chord would snap. I would start bleeding out, and our baby would not survive.

The best case scenario was that our baby would make it to 24 weeks. He would then be big enough to have some shot of surviving, although not likely. Because of the missing fluid, we were told his lungs wouldn’t develop properly and he probably still wouldn’t make it. Even if he did make it, they said he would probably have developmental issues his whole life. We were still a month out from 24 weeks, so we had a long, scary road ahead of us. I’ve never felt so hopeless.

We stayed at the hospital for a week, where they constantly monitored my vitals and told me to stay off my feet. I was put on IV antibiotics to prevent infection. Once I was released, they sent me straight to a high risk pregnancy doctor who echoed what the hospital had told us. They suggested I go home, stay on bedrest, and try to make it as long as I could.

I wish I could say this story had a happy ending. Sadly, I started experiencing contractions a week later on May 7th. Ryan rushed us to the hospital. This time, it was a more specialized hospital that was 45 minutes from our house. Scariest drive of my life. When we got there, the doctors first thought everything was okay and that the contractions would stop on their own. Then, they tested my white blood cell count and it was through the roof. This meant I had developed an infection. They told me if they didn’t induce labor, it would become a life threatening scenario for me and the baby within a matter of hours. So, they induced labor and I had our baby boy seven hours later. He lived for an hour, before dying in our arms just after midnight. It was Mother’s Day, and it was the worst day of my life. The next few days at the hospital, we spent our time filling out death certificates and making arrangements with the funeral home. By the time we left the hospital, my white blood cell count was almost back to normal, but my heart was shattered. We named our baby Michael George Cicak, after Ryan’s brother and dad.

Until this point in my life, I’ve been pretty fortunate not to experience much tragedy. Three of my four grandparents are still around. I’ve led a pretty blessed existence. Well, this past month has destroyed me. I can’t talk about it without bursting into tears. As I’m typing this, I’m crying all over my keyboard. For our first child, this is not how I saw things going. It all feels incredibly unfair. I used to think everything happens for a reason, but I can’t find a reason for this. I keep replaying everything in my head, wondering if I could have done something different. I’ve been surprised to learn that grief comes in waves. It can sneak up on you very suddenly. I’ll be okay one minute, and in tears the next. Or I’ll be lashing out for no reason. Some mornings, I’m okay, and other mornings I don’t have the strength to get out of bed. I feel like I’m living in the past, constantly wishing I could go back to a simpler time. I miss the carefree person I used to be. I miss worrying about dumb things. I miss being naive enough to not realize how precious life is. Everything can be taken away from you in an instant. I guess I always knew this deep down, but it’s scary to experience it firsthand. When I wake up every day now, I feel heavier and sadder. I don’t know if I’ll ever go back to the person I used to be, but I hope to come close one day. Mostly, I miss our baby boy, and the future that was taken away from us.

The silver lining to all this is that I’ve chosen an amazing partner to do life with. Ryan has been there with me through it all. He never left my side at the hospital, sleeping on a rock solid couch all those nights, and he hasn’t left my side since we’ve been home. He’s had to take time off of work to take care of us. Usually, I’m the calm one in stressful situations, and he’s taken on that role through all this. Having been through more tragedy in his life, he’s handled everything much better than I have. He’s been amazing. When I couldn’t hold our baby any longer at the hospital, because it felt like my heart would rip open, he held Michael and never let him go. I knew Ryan and I were soulmates after our first date 14 years ago, but it took our world falling apart for me to realize just how lucky I am. I’ve never been so in love with him. We have a long road ahead of us, including getting some professional help, but I know deep down we’re going to be okay because we have each other. We’re the only ones who know what the other is going through, and we try to talk about what happened as much as we can.

My family has been so wonderful too. We’re all incredibly close, and I’ve never been more thankful for that. When you go through something like this, you realize who’s there for you. My parents live 15 minutes away, and have been dropping off meals constantly and checking in on us. Our siblings and their spouses have been texting and calling around the clock to make sure we’re okay. My cousins have sent care packages. Everyone wants to say or do something to help, but there’s nothing they can do to take the pain away. Just them being there means everything. Our two dogs have suddenly transformed into emotional support animals, never leaving our sides. The nurses and doctors at the hospital showed us so much kindness. I have endless appreciation for people whose careers put them face-to-face with tragedy every day. They are heroes. I’ve truly seen the beauty in humanity through this awful experience. In the midst of this nightmare, I’ve never felt more loved.

The question that remains is - how on earth do I heal my heart enough to make art again? Will I ever want to make art again? I sure hope so. The truth is that nothing sounds exciting or inspiring right now, not even art - the thing I love most in the world. My art comes from such a joyful place. I’m not sure how to access that right now. I’m fully aware that when I do make art again, it may not look the same as it did before. My art is a reflection of my soul, and my soul has been forever changed.

Not knowing what else to do with ourselves, Ryan and I booked a 10 day trip to Hawaii at the end of June. We hope the change of scenery will help us heal. I’m as excited about the trip as I can be. I would do anything to cancel it and go back to the way things were, but I know that’s impossible. I’m hoping getting out of my routine will inspire me to paint again. While being home has been comforting in a way, it’s also been incredibly painful to relive it all. My water broke at home, so it’s hard not to feel traumatized by my surroundings. Every day, I walk past the wall I took my bump pictures in front of. Every time I’m in my studio, my mind goes back to when I was pregnant and happily painting. I have baby stuff hidden away in closets I’m afraid to open. I guess I’m excited for Hawaii to take away some of the pain of being in our house, where I was once so happy. We took a trip to Hawaii in 2017, and we’re staying at the same hotel, so I’m hoping I can pretend I’m the carefree person I used to be for a small portion of trip.

I’ve always been a pretty private person online, not wanting to share intimate details of my life. Since I don’t trust my instincts right now, Ryan convinced me to publish this post in case it helps someone else through a dark time. I don’t know what the future holds for me. I don’t know if I’ll continue writing on my blog. I don’t know when I’ll start making art again. It’d be easy to bury myself in my work as a distraction, if my work weren’t so intertwined with who I am. That’s the one negative to doing your soul’s work for a living. When your fire goes out, so does your work. I feel lost in a dark tunnel without a flashlight - not just in my work, but in life in general. None of the things that used to matter to me feel like they matter anymore. Any goals I had for the future have suddenly lost their luster. Everyone goes through life events where there’s a “before” and “after” version of themselves. This was one of those events for me. It shook me to the core, and I know I will never be the same. Since I have no art to share with you right now, all I can offer is transparency as I embark on my long journey towards healing.