Christmas 2014 - A new child doesn't replace a lost child.

I was chopping root vegetables this evening when it hit me that a year ago I was doing the same exact thing prior to leaving for my in-laws.

But everything was different then.

In 2013 with every slice of sweet potatoes, turnips, parsnips, and the like, the knife made a loud thud on the carving board.  I barely heard the loud noise, even though it echoed throughout the kitchen.  A stiff glass of apple brandy with an ice cube sat next to the cutting board, and I struggled to look through red, swollen eyes.  The bottle of apple brandy was my best friend Christmas Eve & Christmas.

Everything hurt and at the same time nothing hurt.  Occasionally my brain reminded me that I was supposed to become a mother the next day, and at those it took all my strength to fight back tears and keep my hand from wandering to my stomach.

I tried so hard to forget, to forget the baby boy that was supposed to grace my household at that time. Tried so hard to stop reliving that day at the perinatologist where one by one our dreams crumbled.  My husband having to leave the room to cry because he didn't want me to see the tears running down his cheeks, because he thought he had to be strong for me.  The single man in my life who never cried, who grieved the loss of olive for far longer than I, who was afraid to touch me for months because the pain was still so strong, and who spent every single day of my subsequent pregnancy in a pit of silent fear that history would repeat itself.  Attempting to comfort himself in statistics that had already worked against us.

December 1 2013 I went to my psychiatrist and told him I wanted to try getting pregnant again in the new year, and I had to wean off my meds.  Christmas without the meds that helped numb the pain of Olive's departure was difficult, hence the brandy.  Hence the hiding alone in the basement, or bathroom, to stifle my sobs so no one would hear them.  I surrounded myself with family that year, hosting my family and my in-laws, figuring that misery loves company.  We could all be miserable together. 

But this Christmas is different.  In January, in a drunken haze, I decided to "try" for a baby again.  One month later, after visiting a medium whose last words to me were, "Your grandfather wants you to know you should stop drinking coffee.", I took a pregnancy test; a second line glared back at me.

I sobbed.  and I sobbed. and I sobbed some more.

I won't detail the pregnancy here, I'll save that for another post, but it took me a week to tell C that I was pregnant.  I just couldn't do it.

So, this Christmas is different because as I was writing this, this face was staring at me.

There is no bottle of brandy this year.  There is no sobbing behind locked doors, or stiff embraces between me and Chris.  There's no numbness.  

A year ago today I was convinced we were doomed to spend Christmas alone.  I never would have dreamed that only a year later, our hearts would be swollen with a love that we never knew was imaginable.  I never dreamed the following Christmas would be full of baby snuggles, smiles, and love radiating from everyone.  

I never dreamed I would actually be a mother.

But I am.  And I was a mother last year also.  A mother who had been faced with one of the most difficult decisions in circumstances that no one should face.  

I type this with tears running down my cheeks.  I still cry for the son that I never got to hold.  That never got to feel the love of his mother.  Having S didn't eradicate that pain, and it never will.  The first few days after I brought S home I cried for the son I didn't bring home 10 months ago.  S doesn't replace Olive.  Nothing and no one will ever replace Olive.  He will always have a piece of me, and he will always be a piece of me.  He changed my life in ways much different than S did and ever will.  

And, since I'm hysterical now, I will end this here, to go and hold my son on his first Christmas morning. 

Maternal v. Paternal Grief & Judgement

Friday night C and I had dinner with 2 other couples.  Both couples suffered losses later in their pregnancy.  2 of the losses were TFMR, and 1 was an actually delivery and loss incredibly late in her last trimester.

While we feel alone, we are not alone.  We are never, ever alone.  Shame, grief, and deep sadness may keep us from sharing our stories, from being straight forward and broaching the statement.

I am a mother; yet the most important decision I made for my child was the decision to end his life before it even properly began.  This decision was the ultimate act of love, of compassion, of empathy that we could have given to him.  We ceased his suffering, and we made the decision to shoulder it on our own.  There is no shame in that decision.  There may be people who try to vilify C and I for decision; but those people do not understand.  You don't understand the position anyone who opts to TFMR until you sit in their shoes.  When you're laying on the table, or sitting in an uncomfortable chair, and expert after expert is telling you the same thing; that if they were in your shoes, they would end it all.  Do you know how hard it is to stare someone in the eye, and tell them that their 20 week old fetus, an amalgamation of two people so in love that they created a child, that their little one is missing a vital organ, or a piece of their brain, and will never, ever live a day on their own?  Or if that they do have the opportunity to breathe a few gulps of air, they will be in infinite pain and will remain that way until they pass ?  Do you know how difficult those words are to deliver to a couple whose hands are intertwined beyond belief, with tears running down their cheeks, their hearts in pieces on the floor, and their minds and souls on another world?  Until you have had to give or receive this information, you have absolutely no right to judge anyone sitting in those seats.  You have no right to judge or condemn the couple whose ultimate act of love and compassion is to opt to shoulder a lifetime of pain.

Millions of women cry every Mother's Day; women cry for the children they have lost, for the children they are yet to have.  Women cry for the children they desperately want; whether they be babies who never graced the earth on their own, or babies that couples dreams about daily, and hoping beyond hope to one day conceive.

These women cry in silence; grieve in silence.  Walk into the bedroom and shut the door, and sob either guttural sobs or silent tears for the babies that have been taken from them.  Babies conceived in love; fetuses only weeks or months old, already cocooned in the love, hopes and dreams of their parents and their grandparents.  Millions of tears fall on Mother's Day; millions of fake smiles are worn, nods of understanding exchanged.  But, these women push down their feelings, and continue with the day, continue with their lives, because if they do not, if they give into the pain, to the loneliness, than they lose the hope of becoming a mother.  And the loss of that hope, is a tragedy far beyond comprehension.

Many of these couples have other children.  They continue parenting their other children, despite the pain.  They push it aside and continue to be role models and pillars of strength for their other children.  But, when someone asks them how many children they have, they pause.  They count the number of living children, and this is the answer that the person expects, but some of these women desperately want to include the the children who didn't make it; the ones that live in on their heart, mind and soul. The children who may never run around the living room, but are constantly running around their mind.

Then there are the men.  The men who were waiting, ready to become fathers.  Whose chests once filled with pride as they told others of their impending new addition.  As they shared memories of their childhood, and what they couldn't wait to show and teach their sons.  Eagerly awaiting the chance to meet their little boy, to show him the ways of the world, to educate him and to help him become a respectable man of the world.  These men were also hoping to feel a tiny hand in theirs; and a little voice saying, "I want to be like you dad.".  Words that now are only a distant memory, and a hope for the future.

Some of these men were preparing for daughters.  For dresses, for pearls, or for softball, and field hockey; whatever their little girl desired.  They were already fiercely protective of their little angel from the moment they heard they would have a daughter.  Part of them changed.  Their protective, paternal instincts kicked in. They would look at their wives and imagine their daughters as mini-versions of their wives; intensely beautiful, inside and out.  And now, that image, is one that will be forever frozen in time; compartmentalized in the recesses of their brain, only to be opened in moments of weakness; perhaps on Father's Day.

I feel for C in a way I don't feel for myself.  I know our pain and our paths of grief are different. I carried Olive for 20 weeks; because we had lost before, C was reserved, and it wasn't until we passed the first trimester that he began kissing my stomach good-bye every morning, saying good-bye to his son.  He stopped doing that on 8/24, as it was late on 8/23 that we knew that our son was likely not fit for this world.  C witnessed my break down, but held my hand through it all.  Through every second consultation, through every visit to the ER when we thought it may finally be over.  He watched his wife be torn to pieces while in his mind his hopes for his son, his future of fatherhood, shattered.  The man even held my hand while the laminaria was inserted, as I sobbed, both from pain/discomfort, and from knowing that this very procedure confirmed the end of our son's life.

C had always imagined I would break his hand during delivery, while his son was entering the world around his estimated arrival date; he never imagined I would be doing it nearly 4 months early, when we both knew the baby would never survive.

The loss of a fetus, or a baby, whichever term you prefer to use, that brings you peace, is a record that doesn't stop; it's a soundtrack that is played on repeat; a symphony whose movements transition from joy and happiness, to sadness and despair in an instant.  And this song plays indefinitely in your mind, and it radiates through you, and it influences every decision you make; whether or not you even realize it.  Life changes.  Life is never the same.

Guilt

I often feel guilty for never speaking to my son while he was there.  In fact,  I recall sitting in the car, openly apologizing to him for my lack of verbal communication.  I told him I was sorry I couldn't find the words to speak or talk to him, but that I still needed confirmation.  I still needed to know that he was in for the long haul.  I told him these words when I "thought" he could hear, per the baby books of course, even though I knew he couldn't understand.  If he heard anything, he just heard the "blah blah blah"that the Charlie Brown characters hear whenever an adult speaks to him.

But still, I felt so guilty.  I would ask C if it was wrong of me.  At 18 weeks I was barely showing, it looked like maybe I ate an extra doughnut and couldn't button the top button of my Hudson's - so I bought maternity jeans - the only purchase made that put faith in my being in it for the "long haul".  I rarely ever touched my stomach, if I did, it was because I was uncomfortable and wanted to reinforce that there was, in fact, a baby in there.  Since he was a little small, it's possible I wasn't showing for that reason, or, it's possible I was bound to be a late shower.  My uterus did move up, so next time I may show earlier.

We went to Bellini, PBK, and I had planned a trip to Boston to go to RHB&C to look at nursery furniture.  There were a few other specialty shops on the list, but C & I went to Bellini & PBK together.  And I'll never forget the day.  He fell in love with a set at Bellini and wanted to buy it right there.  He was so ready, he was so "in".  But I wasn't.  My heart was still reserved and told him we had to wait.  The saleswoman assured us many times that the most we would lost if we canceled the order was $50.  What she didn't realize is that I didn't give a crap about the money.  If we were canceling that order it meant that it was because there would be no baby to sleep in it; that no baby would have come home.

I've told my therapist that if we are blessed with a next time, I won't be able to look at the ultrasound monitors or televisions until after the anatomy scan.  I won't be able to see anything on the screen.   A simple nod from the techs will be enough.  I waited until 14 weeks to start a pregnancy journal for this baby.  C put all the ultrasound pictures into the book, and put the book in the box, and the box is in storage.  All that is left of our son is in storage.  Whether or a storage unit, a hospital storage freezer, or recesses of our brans that we refuse to allow ourselves to enter.  That is where our son lives now.  C made the mistake of reading the journal before he put it in storage.  He was glad he did it while I was sleeping because he cried.  He cried at my words because my words told even the baby that I waited so long to write in his book, because I couldn't believe he was real, and that he would be coming home to us.  In it I wrote the story of the first time C heard his heartbeat via fetal doppler one morning at 9 weeks. We had had 2 ultrasounds at that point and saw Olive, but hearing his fast, strong heartbeat was a completely different experience.  C said hello to him and told him he sounded like a train.  and then nearly 11 weeks later, he said good-bye.

I wonder if I'll ever stop feeling guilty for thinking maybe I was at fault for not committing 100%; for needing so much to believe that my baby was healthy, and that in December he would be in my arms.  But now, with our ending, can you even blame me?