Excerpts from Julie and Amiel's Baby Blog

Julie Endress and Amiel Handelsman's daughter, Christine Handelsman, was born and died on Nov. 25, 2006. These are excerpts from a blog she and her husband wrote to friends and family after complications surfaced in Julie's pregnancy. They live in the Portland area and work as leadership coaches. Amiel works with Executives and Julie with individuals. To contact Julie and Amiel, email julie.endress@gmail.com

NOVEMBER 19, 2006
A bed-rest birthday

Julie is now sleeping peacefully in bed with our 22-week baby inside of her. I laid next to her for a few minutes gently rubbing her back as she sank into zzzzzzz. Today is her birthday, and she spent it as she did the last two days, on modified bed rest. What this means is that she was on the couch except for visits to the bathroom and getting up to eat dinner. Modified bed rest is only a major bummer. That's my opinion, at least. I'll let Julie speak for herself when she writes her first post. Why bed rest? In short, to help the pregnancy go to term or at least close enough that the baby has a high chance of surviving and being healthy. More specifically, to reduce the amount of stress on Julie's body under the assumption that this will reduce the frequency and strength of her contractions. 

NOVEMBER 20, 2006
Julie's First Post -Nov 20

Hello! Thank you, Amiel, for setting this up. I do imagine my mother is getting tired of hearing me tell and retell my story to every friend who calls with concern. The good news continues! Our appointment today continued to show my cervix closed at about 3 cm. Since I don't seem to be responding to the medication to stop the contractions and the contractions don't seem to be causing any trouble for my cervix, our doctor decided to take me off them. I am of course watching myself closely as we make this change to note any difference in the quality of the contractions so that I can call them immediately if there is a shift. ... I will be seen again by our doctor on Friday so she is keeping a close eye on me. I also have an appointment the following Monday with a perinatologist at St. Vincent's which is the hospital in the Providence system that has a NICU. Good to meet the person who may deliver our baby if he/she were to come early. I am still on modified bed rest but I think I squeezed in two trips up stairs per day this time so little by little I might be back to doing all the fun stuff in life. ... I am extremely hopeful that this was just another little bump and scare along the way but that our baby is going to be delivered well into next year and in a very healthy state. Nothing like a little disruption in my plans to remind me I am not in charge nor will I be, ever. Love to all who are reading this. I'm looking forward to visitors and my mom's companionship over the next several weeks.

NOVEMBER 27, 2006
Very sad news

Dear family and friends, I am writing to share deeply sad news. Early this Saturday morning, on a day that would be the sunniest in Portland in weeks, our little baby girl was born and, just as quickly, died. Julie and I have called our family, and I've called a few friends. I'm sure you can understand that it is difficult to make many calls right now. I'm emailing you because I care about you and know you care about me and want to share this directly with you. The short version of the story is that our baby was born perfectly healthy except too soon to live. At 23 weeks, she did not have the respiratory system to survive on her own or with the help of the most advanced technology. She was officially born a little after midnight Saturday morning and officially died two hours later when her heart stopped beating. We named her Christine and held her in our arms throughout the night and following morning until the man from the funeral home came to pick her up. We are considering having Christine's tiny body buried in the infant section of a nearby cemetery, having a tombstone inscribed with her name and birthdate on it, and holding a memorial ceremony for her soon. Physically, Julie is doing fine, experiencing the pains and discomforts that are felt after child birth. Emotionally, both of us, and our families, are grieving deeply. I feel the pain in my chest. The main reason I am able to write to you with any clarity is that I've been crying a lot the last day and a half. How fortunate we are to be surrounded by people — family, friends, and people at the hospital — who view our grieving as an appropriate response. The night Christine was born was a traumatic one for Julie and me. I imagine that you may be curious about exactly what happened. And I know that the death of infants (and people in general) is often hidden from public view, a reflection of our culture's aversion to death as a process and as a topic of conversation. I want to share this piece of the story with you in some detail as a way of including you in the experience Julie and I have had and are in the midst of having as I write. 

Love, Amiel

The detailed story

Friday evening, Julie's contractions (which she had been having for at least nine days) got stronger and more painful. She would lose her breath with each one. We spoke with our doctor and an hour later decided to go to the hospital. During the ride over, Julie was in what we now realize were the final stages of labor. She was in excruciating pain. She breathed as she had learned in her prenatal yoga class, which amazed me. That drive was one of the scariest I've ever made. My gut told me that this might be the night, and I also feared for Julie's health. When we arrived at the hospital, I parked in front of the ER and wheeled Julie up to the labor and delivery ward. The nurses had been notified by our doctor that we might be coming in, so they knew who we were. ... The energy was frantic as we figured out how to get the bed out of the room quickly. The other room was just around the corner, so it took only 10 seconds or so to wheel Julie's bed into that second room. Just as the back of the bed had entered the room and someone told Julie not to push, Julie screamed out, "My water broke." Half a second later, I heard a nurse say "the baby is here." I looked down, and saw the baby there between Julie's legs. She had come out in one swift movement as though riding a wave ... while the wheels of the bed were still rolling. After quickly cutting the umbilical cord, the nurses took the baby out of the room. Julie moved herself onto the second bed. I went around the corner, heard from the nurses that the baby wasn't making any efforts to breathe, and said a few words indicating they had my consent to stop resuscitating. (If we had been at a hospital with neonatal intensive care, they wouldn't have done anything since the baby was 23 weeks and was born with eyes closed). A nurse asked if I wanted to carry the baby back to Julie. I asked, "Would this be good for Julie?" The nurse replied, "It would be perfect." So I picked up our baby, not breathing but technically still alive due to her heartbeat, and walked back to Julie's room, weeping. I handed our child to Julie. Together we held her for the next two hours, crying, holding and kissing each other and the baby, and marveling at her beauty. It was during this period that we named her Christine. After a while, we fell asleep with Christine on my chest and Julie's arms wrapped around me. When I woke up, all I felt was love for Julie and Christine. A few rays of sun entered through the window and for a few moments I felt great peace. We held Christine in our arms throughout the following morning. Julie's mother, Sally, and her sister, Wendy, came to be with us. Neither Julie nor I had ever imagined doing this — holding a dead baby in our arms — yet the nurses and doctor told us these were precious hours to spend together, and once we started holding her, we didn't want to let go.

...At birth and death Christine weighed 1 pound, 3 ounces and was 11½ inches long. Julie and the nurse said Christine's face looked like mine. I thought that her peaceful countenance reminded me of Julie. 

NOVEMBER 28, 2006

Funeral home and death certificate

Yesterday we went to the funeral home, a short walk from our home, to select a casket for Christine. There was really just one choice, and I found that relieving. Just as we were leaving, Julie asked if we could see Christine. The answer was yes, and we spent 15 minutes holding and admiring her. I was afraid of what she might look like — fear is no stranger to me — and was surprised to find her more beautiful than before — more red in the face with a larger dimple in her nose. We could feel her coldness through the dress she was wearing. I had at least one moment of pure anger yesterday when I found that her death certificate said she was stillborn. I called our doctor, who agreed that she was born alive and promised to make a call to remedy the situation, which she did. We later learned the nurse had been confused and filled out the wrong form. To me, no cause of death is any better or worse than any other. What I wanted was the truth of her life and death to be represented accurately. 

DECEMBER 19, 2006

This Friday night will be four weeks since Christine was born. I decided to write again for my own benefit as a way to reflect on the past month. My main focus in the first two weeks was to be with Christine and prepare for the funeral. Meanwhile my body was struggling to find peace as my insides were in a tumultuous knot. I felt sick to my stomach and was experiencing some cramping. All kinds of self-blaming and blaming others surfaced. Luckily I was able to have space for this. I spoke with a counselor knowledgeable about premature labor and she said that it is more unpredictable and more painful because the uterus is not ready and therefore working inefficiently. It doesn't matter if it is true. It was comforting for me to hear that I had been through something really difficult. That my memory of the physical pain and the emotional anguish was real. On this day we also met with Rhiannon (the woman who married us) and engaged in a circle of concern and acknowledgment for Christine, teasing out the essence of her spirit and what was important to us in a service for her. On Friday, one week after her death, my mom, Amiel and I went to the funeral home to dress Christine in clothing that we chose specifically for her. We swaddled her in a green, fuzzy, perfectly sized blanket and lay her on top of the blue blanket I had just finished crocheting for her. I felt very clear and calm during these 30 minutes with her as my mom helped and Amiel took pictures. It just felt right to be taking care of her. As it became time to leave, my insides suddenly screamed as a fierce contraction doubled me over in pain. I had to sit down to recover and all that was left to do was to leave. Sunday night we spent some time with Will, our nephew. As I was leaving, it brought tears to my eyes to tell my sister what a delight he is. I didn't think it would be hard to be around him but the love that swells up is almost overwhelming.

... December 8 at 1 p.m., we held a service called "A Special Love for Christine Handelsman" with over 20 people in attendance at the Unity Chapel. My father and Amiel's mother made the journey to be here for the event. I felt well supported and proud that at 23 weeks, our daughter had garnered such a following! I took pleasure in arranging her casket, the photo, the candle, the new quilt that Barbara made just for Christine, the gorgeous flowers, the Jizo Bodhisattva from James and Stacy and the staff and faculty at New Ventures West, the plant from Jean. Honestly, for me, very few of the words were being received but words didn't matter that much to me. Standing up hand in hand with Amiel to chant a Krishna Das song mattered. Seeing my sister and her husband read the poem from his mom that she had written especially for Christine mattered. Hugging everyone who came mattered. Standing up and reading as I struggled to find my voice mattered. Seeing Amiel read his letter to Christine mattered. We made our way to the cemetery for the burial. As Amiel sat on the bench with Christine's casket on his lap, I sat next to him with my head on his shoulder and my hand on the casket. Rhiannon read two poems and we played a song that was familiar to both Amiel and I which was perfect. "How could anyone ever tell you you were anything less than beautiful… how could anyone ever tell you you were less than whole… how could anyone fail to notice that your loving is a miracle… how deeply you're connected to my soul…" It resonated for me because I wanted the world to know that Christine was beautiful and whole. There was nothing wrong with her. She didn't die because there was something wrong with her. It also spoke strongly to me because these were words I needed to hear. I needed to hear that I was nothing less than whole, that my loving is a miracle. Everyone could feel how deeply she is connected to our souls.

MARCH 12, 2007
Brief Encounters

Tonight we go to a support group called Brief Encounters. It is specifically for parents who have lost children before, during, or shortly after birth. The group meets at a big house in Northeast Portland with a large cozy living room and big fireplace. ... What I appreciate about this group is that while we are all different people who have had different experiences and different ways of making sense of these experiences, we all have in common the loss of a baby. And this alone provides a rich space for revealing what's happening for us, who we are becoming, and what challenges we are facing. There is space for tears and laughter. Every so often I will be driving home and just start sobbing uncontrollably about the loss of Christine. The rest of the time I am in a very positive place. That's just how life is these days. 

MARCH 20, 2007
Such Is Love

It’s me, Julie. I know a few of you thought the last entry was from me but it was Amiel. I am far from making the tremendous strides that he is to find full time work and travel about. I wish I could say that I haven’t written for several weeks because I’ve been feeling so great it didn’t occur to me — instead I think the truth is that I had a short reprieve, had a good trip to NY to visit my parents, my friends Kerri, Jeanne and Kari, and it has been surprisingly dark otherwise. It was during my trip to NY ... I looked at my friend’s son, John, who is about 14 years old that it occurred to me that many of my dear friends’ children will be grown and gone before we even have any living children. I know it is a bit of a dramatic exaggeration, but any dream of my kids having fun vacation memories with theirs are disappearing in thin air. As I write that I’m reminded that there is still a long way and many miracles between today and “my kids.” ...

It's been so many things that I’m afraid after four months, these bad feelings just are not going away. My throat literally hurts (feels tight) most of the time. I need to find ways to cry at least daily or else it really builds up. And yet I often feel so apathetic and angry that I’m too cynical to cry. With the help of my friend Jean I came to appreciate for the first of many times (perhaps) that this sadness is going to hang around for a LONG time. I also came to acknowledge yet again how important it is to keep expressing myself. This feels like an old lesson and I don’t have much patience for it because as I feel the depth of the sadness it feels like there is nothing new to say. My daughter, our daughter is dead. She is never coming back. We will never hold her again and we will never see her grow up. Just how many ways can that be said? I look at little girls in their cute pink outfits and barrets in their hair and fear that I will never be the same again. I don’t like depressed, negative people!! I don’t want to be one!! I drove up to Great Vow Zen Monastery today where Amiel and I had made an offering in honor of Christine in January. It felt good to be out of the house. It felt good to identify something I wanted to do and actually do it. I was alone in the wet, green Jizo Garden in the forest. It is a beautiful place and I imagine the peaceful looking Jizo statues are taking good care of Christine’s spirit. I’m grateful that I have plans for the future. It's no guarantee that I will feel any better, but it does help distract me a bit which makes it all more bearable. I am aware that there are many people who care and continue to hold us in their hearts and yet I feel more isolated than I’ve felt in a long time, perhaps ever.

This Thursday, on Christine’s due date, March 22nd, we will join Wendy, Bill and Kathleen to listen to the song by John Denver, read the various notes and acts of kindness in Christine’s honor and light a candle to remember her sweet, tiny spirit. My love to you all. All This Joy by John Denver All this joy, all this sorrow All this promise, all this pain Such is life, such is being Such is spirit, such is love. 

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