He Lives

Here he is.  Our newest baby boy.  Born alive.  On Mother's Day.

There is a longer version to this story.  The version which involves my depressed self barely getting out of bed the weeks before he was born.  And, a sad pregnant lady desperately changing practices at 38 weeks in hopes that delivery at a new hospital with a new practice will prevent the trauma of remembrance that walking into a hospital to deliver a baby will surely bring.  (It didn't.)  There was a long labor after being induced in this story.  With a stupid epidural that didn't freaking work while doctors kept telling me that I should feel pressure.  And, the crazy, depressed pregnant lady yelling back that she had birthed three babies with an epidural and the pain was NOTHING like this.  A story where I ended up delivering the baby without the aid of any drugs and it was as awful as everyone says it was.  But, in the end, I had a living baby.  A real live baby that I could take home with me.  That I could hear cry.  That I could look and see the blue irises of his eyes.  That I could curse at 5 am for getting up every. single. hour.  That I could see his big brother and sister kiss and hug and love and love and love.

Time

I often think about time these days.  It has been a year since Mackenzie died.  My birthday approaches.  I think about the person I used to be a year ago.  Two years ago.  Five years ago.  Ten years ago.

I think about how lost I am.

I think about how everything in my life revolves around getting this baby out of my belly alive.  And, then what?  Then my life finally begins again.  I can finally close this chapter of my life.  I can call the clinic in NJ and let them know our decision about our one crappy embryo up there.  I can delve into going back to school or call work and let them know when I am going back.  I can choose a birth control method.  I haven't been on birth control since 2006!

I can be free.



We spent Mackenzie's birthday together as a family.  We went to a family trampoline park...which the kids loved.  I wanted to do something that made them happy.  We made angel food cake.   We bought balloons and made notes to our dear sweet boy.  It took two attempts to have enough balloons to get the notes to "heaven," but we finally did it.  We finally had our ceremony for our little boy lost.  People sent flowers.  My best friend gave me a lovely book called "Tear Soup," a book about healing after loss.  Another best friend send me a beautiful print of e.e. cumming's poem [i carry your heart with me(i carry it in].  I felt loved and cared for by some and ignored and belittled by others (mainly my mother and family).  My mother said, "well, what are we going to do?" in reference to honoring Mackenzie's death.  Something, I thought.  Something would have been nice.  A call.  A card.  But, in the end, it is my day to grieve my little boy.  No one other than my husband will ever feel that day as I do.


I spent Tuesday afternoon this week in L&D.  I had gone in for a routine biophysical monitoring of the baby, which indicated that I was having regular contractions every 6 minutes.  Because the baby is still breach, they wanted to make sure I wasn't in labor.  My cervix hadn't opened, though, so I just had to spend 4 hours monitoring the baby and getting an IV bag "as lack of fluids causes contractions."  (Duh.  I know this.  I drink 6-10 bottles of water a day and have contractions regularly despite this!) 

I had been anxious about how I would feel returning to L&D where a little over a year ago I had given birth to Mackenzie.  But, it wasn't as emotional as I thought it would be.  I cried just a little.  I mourned what could have been.  And I moved on. 

Anniversaries

We are fast approaching Mackenzie's birthday and I find myself getting more and more apprehensive.  I don't want it to have been a year since he died.  Sometimes the pain feels so distant and unfocused and other times I just ache to have my life back the way it was before he died.  I sometimes think unconsciously that this baby in my belly is Mackenzie and not this other baby.  We keep "testing" out names when talking to the baby and none of them feel "right."  None of them are Mackenzie. 

Lately, a lot of small talk is initiated as my belly quite announces itself and is a simple topic of conversation.  I vacillate between telling people this is our third and fourth pregnancy.  Tonight my husband and I went to an event at my son's school and were asked by multiple people how many children we have.  I had told my husband of my problems answering this question, so he answered for me.  "Four." Each time he said it, we would look at each other tears in our eyes, and politely try to steer the topic elsewhere.  And, tonight, I can't sleep thinking about it.

I feel no joy in having this baby.  He mostly reminds me that I should already have a baby.  My husband assures me that once the new baby comes and is healthy and alive that I will feel joy for him.  But, I worry that I won't.  I worry that I will resent him, which is not fair for an innocent.

A Long Break

I'm 30 weeks now.  7 weeks since I last posted.  I have wanted to post, but for some reason, finding the space in my life to do so has been hard.  How can this be when I am staying at home and should be having more free time?  I have to be honest....I am struggling with staying home.  I miss continuous train of thought.  I get testy about not being able to accomplish in a day what I would like because instead of just running errands and accomplish tasks I have to take into consideration the needs and wants of a 2 and 5 year old.


We are nearing Mackenzie's birth day.  I cannot believe a year of my life is gone. I can't believe it's been a year since he's been alive. I feel more distant from the intense grief of those first few months, but I also feel more distant from myself.  I wake up some mornings to nightmares about not knowing who I am anymore or how I happened to find myself living this life.  I'm so far from who I thought I was 1, 2, 5, 10, 15 years ago.  This isn't what I imagined for myself, for my career, for my family.  I feel rudderless and have no life purpose or goals.  It's disarming for me, the ultimate planner, to be so adrift.  I miss goals and having a vision for the direction I want to head.  At this point, my only goal is to have this baby.  It's not even a goal that I am that excited about.  I feel terrible writing that...but I'm mostly scared.  How am I going to handle this?  I still don't even really believe the baby is going to come.  I have made some progress in getting ready....I washed some of Nugget's clothes and bought a few new things.  I bought a bunk bed for Nugget and Baby Girl so that Baby Girl can transition out of her crib to a "big girl bed."  I started thinking about baby boy's nursery, but haven't implemented anything.  I figure I can keep him in a bassinet for the first couple of months.  I should probably pull the bassinet down.


We still have no names for the baby boy.  I just don't feel drawn to any names.  Suggestions accepted gladly.

23 Weeks; On Passing Mackenzie's Pregnancy

This past week was emotional.  At 22 weeks, on Easter Day 2013, I felt some strong, painful cramps.  They went away and I didn't bleed or anything, so I figured that I was just a little over-run from preparing the Easter meal and running around like my type-A self.  Plus, a little part of me didn't want to interrupt our happy Easter day with a four-hour trip to the ER where they probably wouldn't find anything wrong.  I also had a doctor appointment on Tuesday and I figured we could check out the cramps then.  Except at that doctor's appointment on Tuesday, at 22 weeks and 2 days, we found out that my baby boy died.  I'll always wonder about those moments on that Sunday.  Had I gone into the ER that day, would my baby have lived or would he already be dead?  On 22 weeks and 3 days, my dead baby boy was born into this world.

A Picture of Mackenzie's Little Feet

The little baby in my belly this time was active this week.  Kicking and definitely more active after I would feed him copious amounts of sweets (just to make him move around more).  I checked his heart beat at least two times a day this past week.  Reassuring, but never enough.  I kept thinking this whole week: "I'm so pregnant.  My belly is so big.  This is how big I was when Mackenzie died."

23 weeks, 1 day Pregnancy #4

Today, I am 23 weeks and 1 day and this is my belly.

After my last post, I got a lot of comments asking whether I was seeing a therapist.  I am and I have been since the week after Mackenzie died.  A lot of people have asked me this in the days since Mackenzie has died.  I'm not sure what to think of it.  I generally accept that this is how people express concern when they feel helpless and don't know what to say.  Sometimes, though, this question makes me angry. (Please don't feel bad if you asked or suggested this. I did want to talk about why this is a typical response.  I welcome the perspective of others!)

Is this person implying that I am not handling my grief and anger well?  That I'm not "resilient" enough?

Do I appear to be a crazy person that isn't managing my life and being a good parent to my living children?

Am I not allowed to be angry and to grieve his loss?

Should I hide my emotions? 

Is the only acceptable form of grieving mother one that is positive and waxes poetic about how thankful she is for the little time she had with her child?

For me, grief is angry and raw.  Grief is waxing and waning.  Grief will dissipate for hours, days, and then sneak up on me with all-consuming force.  Despite it all, grief never, ever goes away.  It is a thorn in my side whose presence is always known.

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Two months after Mackenzie's death, I was talking to a friend at a birthday party.  One of her best friends had lost a daughter at full-term after years of infertility.  My friend told me that her friend had never been the same.  I was horrified.  I thought that surely that wouldn't be me as I felt I was coping fairly well with Mackenzie's death and was positive despite it all.  I couldn't imagine a life of continued acute grief.  I didn't want that to be me.  I realize now how naive I was.  I thought I was coping well, but I was just beginning my grieving life.  I didn't understand the depths of my grief.  I was probably still in shock.  I know better now...

How Do I Do This?

And.....I'm back.  Long hiatus from blogging.  Between finishing up my class (which was SO much work, but SO much fun), fitting in all my Christmas shopping/wrapping/decorating/baking/card-making the week before Christmas, dealing with the emotional aspects of the Holidays, two weeks with my son home over Christmas break, etc., etc., I haven't had much space in my head to come here.

The holidays were hard.  Actually, anticipation of the holidays were harder than the actual holiday.  On actual Christmas day, I was so absorbed in watching and enjoying the kids tear open their presents and go crazy with their cousins that the gravity of the day didn't hit me until the day after Christmas.  Once the presents were unwrapped and the stress of doing ALL my Christmas shopping in one week (NEVER AGAIN) was over, I took a good hour and a half to sob and miss my baby boy.  I guess I had packed away a "baby's first Christmas" bib last year for baby boy with our Christmas stuff...because at that point I was 8 weeks pregnant with two babies and not knowing what the year would hold.  To find it again this Christmas just wrecked me.  To be pregnant AGAIN this Christmas was awful.  To see my sister's baby born just five days before my little boy was disassociating.  Her baby was chubby and round, smiling at everyone.  My baby is a bit of matter burned up in an incinerator in the hospital morgue.  Not even a freaking grave for my baby boy and his tiny toes.

Today I am 21 weeks and 4 days pregnant.  Only 5 more days until I will have reached the length of my pregnancy with Mackenzie: 22 weeks 3 days.  I am so pregnant, you guys.  An undeniable belly.  I finally made myself go out to the shed where my husband had hid all of the baby stuff I had thrown out in a rage and pulled out my maternity clothes.  Fucking maternity clothes.  I've been wearing jeggings (YOU HAVE to buy a pair of American Eagle jeggings--only $30 and they ROCK!) and big sweaters, but those jeggings are starting to cut off circulation in my belly.  It's time to pull on the droopy butt maternity pants (why can't they fit, ever?) that will make my pregnancy unquestionable to all those around me.  I'll have to endure strangers excitedly asking me "is this your first" and "when are you due" and all sorts of normal, happy people comments.

I need to find a way to be excited about this baby.  I know that is awful to say.  I just feel like he'll probably die, too.  Because shit happens and it happens to us.  I'm pissed to be pregnant.  It doesn't make any rational sense to me.  I don't want this baby.  I want the babies I was supposed to have.  The babies that should be 5 months old now.  The babies that should be smiling and sitting up on their own and interacting with the world.  I'm trying to make myself figure out the sleeping situation as we only have 3 bedrooms upstairs.  Do my living son and daughter share a room?  I just can't bring myself to paint over my baby girl' pink nursery.  I was SO excited for her.  I couldn't wait to decorate her room and buy her clothes.  This baby?  Meh.  I don't want two boy rooms.  I don't want to buy little baby clothes.  I don't want to think about names.  AGAIN.  I had to psyche myself to think about this stuff during Mackenzie's pregnancy because I was so adrift.  This time?  I'm not even registering that I'm pregnant.  I figure if the baby lives then I can buy him something.  In the mean time, I'm just going to pretend like this isn't happening.  I even feel resentful towards this baby that he isn't a girl and now I have to redo my sweet girl's pink nursery.  I'm not saying these are justified emotions.  They're clearly not.  I'm being a brat.

What is wrong with me?  Will my maternal instinct kick in?  Will I be so depressed after this baby's birth that I won't bond with him?  Will I love him?  Will I look at him with anything but resentment for not being his brother and twin?

I find it hard to come to blogland.  Where do I fit in?  I'm not a happy infertile pregnant woman as I should be.  I certainly can't read other pregnancy blogs by happy pregnant women.  Or blogs by anyone as most blogs are written by people with normal, non-drama filled, lives.  What is it like to be those people?  To not be so tainted with failure and pain that the possibility of picture-perfect even exists.