It's only natural to recap the year as it draws to a close. I know I have always done that, never imagining I'd have a year like this one. As 2009 ended, I was ecstatic about life. I had life growing inside of me. I was thrilled to enter our daughter's birth year. I could not wait to reach June and have our baby in my arms, to finally be a mother. My biggest dream in life. We had no idea things would turn out so drastically different in just a matter of a few months. It's sad to think about how excited we were, having no clue that our world was about to crash down around us and shatter into the millions of pieces that we are still trying to put back together almost a year later. I long for the first two and half months of the year. When life was still normal. When Avery was still alive.
2010 definitely goes down in my history as the worst year. I thought I had things hard as a teenager, but this year taught me that I hadn't seen anything yet. I can't help but count off all the things in my head that happened this year.
Even while pregnant, in January, I was struggling with high blood pressure and had to be put on medication for it. That was stressful for me. Also that month, we had a falling out with one of our best friends and it remained that way until about September. But I did love being pregnant. It was dream come true. I didn't care if I didn't feel well or if my back hurt. I was getting what I have always longed for.
February was a perfect month. We got to see Avery on ultrasound twice. I feel guilty when I think back to how disappointed I was when they couldn't see what gender she was at our 20 week ultrasound. I actually cried because I had been so excited to finally put a name to our sweet baby and know who she was. Ha, I was about to get a real problem. On February 22, we were told there was a 80-90% chance that she was a girl. We started saying 'she' and 'her' but for the most part, we felt like waiting until we knew for sure before we made any huge gender-specific purchases or remodels. At this point, we were considering Sawyer Grace as her name, but were afraid of what people would think... whether it was too masculine or not. But we went to Target and Babies R Us to register for all girl things and we enjoyed it so much. We were so excited.
March started out good. My younger brothers' birthdays are the 1st (Sam) and the 4th (Shaun) so it started out with parties and fun. On the 5th, Daniel and I went to Orlando with his siblings and his dad to go to an amusement-type park called 'Magical Midway' to celebrate his dad's birthday. Being pregnant, I wasn't allowed on anything so I had a lot of time to sit and think to myself. I remember feeling impatient for June, just aching to be with our daughter and have her with us. I could not wait. After that, we went to Hard Rock Cafe for dinner. I was always craving guacamole, so I was sure to get it with the fajitas. I always ate fajitas when I was pregnant. It was our joke that it was Avery's favorite food. (It took me until late October to finally have them again.) When it was time to leave, we walked through City Walk. I was feeling sluggish and had a hard time keeping up. I remember Daniel's sister, Amber, asking me if I had felt the baby kick yet. I told her I had and I remember saying, "It feels just like you think it would." I had no idea I wouldn't be feeling her much longer. In one week and one day, she would be born.
That's when March got ugly. The search for the heartbeat. The dreaded horrific words of "Your baby is gone." Going home and carrying your dead baby inside of you. Crying all night long. Being induced to deliver your dead baby, not knowing why she died, so you don't know if she will be deformed or disturbing to see. Being in pain all night and knowing you're not getting anything out of it. Having 16 tubes of blood drawn to try figuring out what happened. Delivering a tiny but perfect baby girl who can't look up at you, who can't cry, who can't grasp your finger. A baby girl who is cold and silent with death. Everyone passes her around but they're all crying with grief instead of smiling with joy. No one is cooing at her. No one is playing with her. There are no 'It's a Girl!' balloons or stuffed animals. The condolence flowers are being sent to your parents' house and the cemetery. You spend seven hours with your daughter... just seven. Instead of a lifetime. You know it's time to say goodbye when you have to stop taking pictures of her because her body is deteriorating too much. Her skin is peeling and her body is turning a deep bruised color. But you think she's beautiful. You memorize her face desperately and kiss her several more times, but it will never be enough. Reluctantly, you hand her back to the nurse, who lays her down in the bassinet and puts a blanket over her like a dead body. You don't get one last look as she is wheeled out of the room forever. You know the funeral home director will be picking her up but you wish you were taking her home. You recover a couple more hours and get ready to leave. You walk down the hall, hearing dozens of healthy living babies crying. Yours never will. As you reach those doors to exit, your arms are empty, painfully so, and you never thought you'd be one of those mothers. But you are. For the rest of your life. Mostly only strangers on your computer will understand. But for the most part, you will feel alone and left out, like a freak of nature. As if the hospital ordeal isn't enough, you have to plan your baby's funeral. You pick out the color of her casket (white) instead of the color of her crib or her nursery paint. You opt to design the funeral pamphlets and prayer cards yourself. Then the day comes and you just can't breathe.Your stomach is sick with devastation. The sun is shining but it's so dark. You sit in the first row, right in front of the tiny casket, knowing your baby is inside. She should be warm in your womb but she's about to go into the ground. The pastors speak but all you can do is sit there and fight to cry silently. You wonder if it's true that people can really die of a broken heart. You decide it's possible as you get up and touch the casket and you say goodbye along with your husband. You fall apart as two men pick up the casket and lower it into the ground. You think about how sick you feel and how unfair life is as you watch the dirt being shoveled over your baby, burying her. What did I do to deserve this? Why me? Why us? Why her? Each day soon after is just a blur of tears and headaches, sleepless nights, and pain. You are surprised to see how quickly everyone else moves on and seems to forget. But you can't. And you never will...
Suffice it to say, March was unpleasant. But April wasn't much better. Exactly a month and a day after Avery was born, I found myself in the emergency room. I had severe pain in my upper abdomen that was so excruciating, I thought I was dying. It hurt so bad, I couldn't breathe. It was scary. After eight hours of x-rays, ultrasounds that reminded me of being pregnant, and lots of waiting, we found out I had gallstones... caused by pregnancy. I could eat barely anything without getting an attack. It was awful. I quickly lost 25 pounds because I couldn't really eat and I was afraid to. My surgery to get my gallbladder removed was set for May 14th. I was actually looking forward to it. I couldn't wait to try being normal again... Well, my new normal anyway. I'm still not normal seven months later. To be honest, just about everything I eat goes right through me and I almost always have stomach aches and severe heartburn. I get sick from eating literally nothing some days. And it doesn't seem to discriminate. It happens with good foods and bad. I guess that's my new life as well.
In April sometime, I finally got all of my blood work results back and found out that I have both MTHFR and Factor II clotting disorders. That is the reason for Avery's death. A blood clot formed in her cord and cut her off from nutrients and blood supply. I try not to think about that. I don't know if she suffered. If she felt deprived... But now, knowing what is wrong with me, I am not guaranteed that this can't happen again. I try not to think about that either.
This is also when our landlords started being really mean. They truly gave me anxiety. Even until late November, dealing with them and even the idea of them stressed me out horribly. I didn't feel at home in my house. They took that away from me. It was an awful feeling. I think losing Avery has left me with that... More anxiety over things. Things bother me more, and more easily. Which reminds me... Also this year, around this time, I got to deal with "friends" that trashed me behind my back over the loss of my daughter, saying hurtful, awful things instead of being there for me. I must say that they made the death of my child worse. Nothing like being kicked when you're down.
This year has also been hard because we have been trying for another baby and it still has not happened. We started trying in June and it's been eight failed cycles. I don't know why it's taking so long. We've tried the 'determined' approach and the 'whatever happens, happens' approach. We're always waiting. Our first plans for our wedding died and so did our first child. I've spent my life that way, actually. Watching everyone else get what I want and having to wait much longer until I get to have it. And the waiting isn't just easy... Things have to monumentally not work out (ie. cancelled wedding, death of baby, etc.). I've never understood it. But I have to trust God. That's all I have.
A few good things have happened this year. Daniel got certified as a CNA and got a good job. I got a new car. We moved into a new house that we rent from my parents. It's a sweet little house that I adore so much. I finally feel at home now. I have made some dear friends online that have been a huge help during all of this. We got a Nikon D90, fulfilling my dream of having a DSLR camera....
And then my mind goes back and I can't help saying... but our baby died this year.
That overshadows everything. It's what marks this year. This year maims our life. Can't wait 'til it's over...
Friday, December 31, 2010
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Do they know?
Lately, I've really been struggling with feeling like people don't get it. I'm talking about the "normal" people out there. The ones whose lives haven't been ransacked and ravaged by the loss of their own child. I don't expect people to know what it feels like if they've never suffered through it, but I at least wish I knew for certain that there's understanding and remembrance. Acknowledgment.
Is this a projection that I'm forcing upon myself? Trying to sabotage myself into believing that those closest to me have forgotten the very thing that defines me? Yes, I am defined by the loss of my daughter. That's all I see when I look at myself. It laces every thought. It's always there. It doesn't go away. Right now, my life revolves around it. I'm not being pessimistic or dramatic. It's the truth. I am the childless mother. Everything everywhere points it out and re-reminds me constantly. And each month that passes and I'm still not pregnant, while so many around me find success, it eats at me.
Do people really know what goes on after the loss of a baby? It's so easy for everyone else to move on and return to their lives. But for Daniel and me... Avery was going to be our life. So what do we return to besides our empty arms? We buy Christmas decorations for a grave while the world around us buys 'Baby's 1st Christmas' bibs and onesies for their breathing, living bundles of life. We include our dead baby's name on our Christmas cards and we fear judgment and ridicule while others adorn their cards with sweet smiling photos of their chubby, thriving miracles. This is no longer "the most wonderful time of the year." It's tainted. Everything is. Someone is always missing. And it feels like no one remembers that. Why can't people mention Avery? Why can't anyone acknowledge that she should be here? Does anyone think about her without my mentioning her? Do people ever hug and kiss their babies and think of me, knowing I can't do that? Do they realize the blessing in their arms when they think of me? I don't think mothers like me are the only ones who appreciate their children. But I would like to think that those who know of what happened to our baby would be extra grateful for theirs. Or would give extra squeezes to their little ones after imagining themselves in my shoes. Maybe I would just like good to come out of something so wretched. If I can inspire extra gratitude... even a "Thank God I'm not Nicole" then that could be good, I guess. I think I just want to be acknowledged. And not for me. But for Avery. I don't want her to be forgotten, like she doesn't matter. Like she's not a part of this family.
I wonder if everyone thinks Daniel and I are okay. They see us laughing and acting like we used to. Do they assume we're "over it?" We have no choice but to act normal. Most times we like to avoid that awkwardness we're made to feel when mentioning our dead baby, though we do love to talk about her. We talk about her together all the time. We talk about what she should be doing, whether she'd be sitting with us or if she'd be napping. She's a part of our every waking thought. Why are people so afraid to bring her up?
But this is what has been plaguing me the past couple of weeks... Do people really know? Do they realize what a hell on earth this is? How much further than the funeral this goes? Do people just view me as 'not pregnant' anymore? Do they realize someone is missing from our family and always will be? Do they know when my husband cries because he misses our little girl, I feel incredibly guilty because it was something in my body that killed her? I know it's not my fault, but had he married probably anyone else, he'd have living children. I can't help but think about that. Do people understand the devastation this loss leaves in its wake? Just because Avery never took a breath in this world, doesn't mean we didn't know her enough to love her. I really believe that's how so many people view the situation. But those people also don't know that Avery was loved and so dearly wanted long before she was even conceived.
I don't know why I feel so defensive. No one has said anything ignorant or hurtful. Not many have really said anything. I think that's my problem. I really don't want to feel like Avery doesn't matter. She is our child. It doesn't matter how long she was here or how many people knew her or how much time passes since she died. We love her, she's ours, and that's all that should matter. I just wish I knew that people remember her and think about her. When you're in my shoes, acknowledgment is everything.
Is this a projection that I'm forcing upon myself? Trying to sabotage myself into believing that those closest to me have forgotten the very thing that defines me? Yes, I am defined by the loss of my daughter. That's all I see when I look at myself. It laces every thought. It's always there. It doesn't go away. Right now, my life revolves around it. I'm not being pessimistic or dramatic. It's the truth. I am the childless mother. Everything everywhere points it out and re-reminds me constantly. And each month that passes and I'm still not pregnant, while so many around me find success, it eats at me.
Do people really know what goes on after the loss of a baby? It's so easy for everyone else to move on and return to their lives. But for Daniel and me... Avery was going to be our life. So what do we return to besides our empty arms? We buy Christmas decorations for a grave while the world around us buys 'Baby's 1st Christmas' bibs and onesies for their breathing, living bundles of life. We include our dead baby's name on our Christmas cards and we fear judgment and ridicule while others adorn their cards with sweet smiling photos of their chubby, thriving miracles. This is no longer "the most wonderful time of the year." It's tainted. Everything is. Someone is always missing. And it feels like no one remembers that. Why can't people mention Avery? Why can't anyone acknowledge that she should be here? Does anyone think about her without my mentioning her? Do people ever hug and kiss their babies and think of me, knowing I can't do that? Do they realize the blessing in their arms when they think of me? I don't think mothers like me are the only ones who appreciate their children. But I would like to think that those who know of what happened to our baby would be extra grateful for theirs. Or would give extra squeezes to their little ones after imagining themselves in my shoes. Maybe I would just like good to come out of something so wretched. If I can inspire extra gratitude... even a "Thank God I'm not Nicole" then that could be good, I guess. I think I just want to be acknowledged. And not for me. But for Avery. I don't want her to be forgotten, like she doesn't matter. Like she's not a part of this family.
I wonder if everyone thinks Daniel and I are okay. They see us laughing and acting like we used to. Do they assume we're "over it?" We have no choice but to act normal. Most times we like to avoid that awkwardness we're made to feel when mentioning our dead baby, though we do love to talk about her. We talk about her together all the time. We talk about what she should be doing, whether she'd be sitting with us or if she'd be napping. She's a part of our every waking thought. Why are people so afraid to bring her up?
But this is what has been plaguing me the past couple of weeks... Do people really know? Do they realize what a hell on earth this is? How much further than the funeral this goes? Do people just view me as 'not pregnant' anymore? Do they realize someone is missing from our family and always will be? Do they know when my husband cries because he misses our little girl, I feel incredibly guilty because it was something in my body that killed her? I know it's not my fault, but had he married probably anyone else, he'd have living children. I can't help but think about that. Do people understand the devastation this loss leaves in its wake? Just because Avery never took a breath in this world, doesn't mean we didn't know her enough to love her. I really believe that's how so many people view the situation. But those people also don't know that Avery was loved and so dearly wanted long before she was even conceived.
I don't know why I feel so defensive. No one has said anything ignorant or hurtful. Not many have really said anything. I think that's my problem. I really don't want to feel like Avery doesn't matter. She is our child. It doesn't matter how long she was here or how many people knew her or how much time passes since she died. We love her, she's ours, and that's all that should matter. I just wish I knew that people remember her and think about her. When you're in my shoes, acknowledgment is everything.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Seven and counting
I've been feeling more down about our situation in the last couple weeks. I guess it's been since we packed up Avery's room at the old house. And yes, Thanksgiving was difficult without her and feeling like no one even realizes someone is missing in our family. I'm sure feeling down is also inevitable now that Christmas time is here. And Avery isn't. It's hard knowing that she should be here all cute and dressed in Christmas colors. She should be on the Christmas cards we'll mail to our loved ones. I morbidly joked to Daniel that we should use a photo of her grave, now all decked out for Christmas, for our cards. I feel angry when I think about how that's all we have, when last year, we thought we'd have her.
This month was another fail on the TTC front. That puts us at seven months and counting. Daniel and I took it extra hard this month. I'm not exactly sure why. I don't know if it's because I originally wanted to be pregnant for Christmas. I don't feel like that's it. This time, I really felt like I could be pregnant. I even finally refilled my folic acid prescription and started taking my baby aspirin again, as if I had some strange instinct. For the first time in several months, I took two pregnancy tests because I really thought this could be it. But I was wrong. And it hit us hard. I know seven months is not long for women who struggle with infertility. But I don't have fertility problems so I just don't understand why it has to take so long for me. My problem is that my body wants to kill my baby. How nice. I just wish I could get a break. My baby died, can it please not take forever to finally have another one? I know God knows when the perfect time is, and of course I don't. I have never chosen the right time and have spent half of my life waiting for what everyone else has. But I have to believe it's for a good reason.
I have noticed that several of my babyloss mom friends are pregnant now. I am so happy for them and I am keeping them in my prayers. But I do think it makes my longing to be pregnant even stronger. It's exhausting: all the trying and waiting and hoping and disappointment... I should not be trying to get pregnant right now. I should be cherishing each moment with my five month old. I already went through all the trying and more than half of a pregnancy. Now we have nothing. What really makes me feel bitter is knowing how hard we try and how desperately we want a baby. And if/when we do finally get pregnant again, we're not even guaranteed that that baby won't die too. I hate it. Of all the many many "normal" moms out there, why couldn't I be one of them?
This month was another fail on the TTC front. That puts us at seven months and counting. Daniel and I took it extra hard this month. I'm not exactly sure why. I don't know if it's because I originally wanted to be pregnant for Christmas. I don't feel like that's it. This time, I really felt like I could be pregnant. I even finally refilled my folic acid prescription and started taking my baby aspirin again, as if I had some strange instinct. For the first time in several months, I took two pregnancy tests because I really thought this could be it. But I was wrong. And it hit us hard. I know seven months is not long for women who struggle with infertility. But I don't have fertility problems so I just don't understand why it has to take so long for me. My problem is that my body wants to kill my baby. How nice. I just wish I could get a break. My baby died, can it please not take forever to finally have another one? I know God knows when the perfect time is, and of course I don't. I have never chosen the right time and have spent half of my life waiting for what everyone else has. But I have to believe it's for a good reason.
I have noticed that several of my babyloss mom friends are pregnant now. I am so happy for them and I am keeping them in my prayers. But I do think it makes my longing to be pregnant even stronger. It's exhausting: all the trying and waiting and hoping and disappointment... I should not be trying to get pregnant right now. I should be cherishing each moment with my five month old. I already went through all the trying and more than half of a pregnancy. Now we have nothing. What really makes me feel bitter is knowing how hard we try and how desperately we want a baby. And if/when we do finally get pregnant again, we're not even guaranteed that that baby won't die too. I hate it. Of all the many many "normal" moms out there, why couldn't I be one of them?
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