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.