Ninja be damned

Yesterday was Evie's 7 month birthday.   People say that time flies; I don't think that's an accurate analogy.   It doesn't fly it sneaks by unbidden like a ninja, stealing away valuable moments in the darkness of shadows. Yesterday we enjoyed Christmas with my in-laws and in those precious moments of family Evie turned 7 months old and I never realized 7 months were already stolen away. And now in just 3 days the new year will begin, I have been putting some thought into what I want this year to bring and I realized I don't know when I last made plans for a year, but that's a lie; I do know.   

3 years ago when I was pregnant with Gabbie we made plans.   We made plans to have a baby girl.   We made plans to sell our house to buy a 4 bedroom house in the suburbs.   We made plans for the year.  But time,  like a ninja,  stole those plans in the shadows of a night in April,  and I awoke and all those plans no longer mattered.   That 4 bedroom house became a series of apartments, a place to suit the need of a place to stay. Sure we made them home,  but it's always been a borrowed home.

But now,  I've been thinking again about the future and that ninja. I want the girls to grow and know a place to call home.  I want them to think about the events that time steals away with fondness and have a home as the backdrop for those moments.   I want them to grow up in a house that is ours.   I want to steal back those moments.   I want to give to Evie the moments that Gabbie will never have, and resume with the plan that has been on hold for the girls for the last 2 years 8 months and 3 days.  I want to make plans to buy a house like we had planned to do when we had Gabbie. The thought brings tears to my eyes that roll gently down my cheek.

As I say that though, as I think about making a true plan to buy a house, I have terrible anxiety. Time is a ninja: a dangerous threatening shadow that steals away dreams and moments and life. My inner defenses say that if I make plans I'm setting myself up for heartache, disappointment, pain. But life cannot stop for fear of something that is always there. Time may be a ninja but often it just stands silently in the recesses of the moment and observes. I cannot always fear it.

My heart is in my throat.  Let's proceed with the plan, ninja be damned.

Marching on.

I have things to do and instead I'm blogging. Christmas is just around the corner. I didn't cry this year setting up the tree, or shopping for gifts. It makes me melancholy to think that I'm handling the grief better.

33

I was right. School started and it's been a collection of days which progress to weeks which smush to months.  I am an automaton going about my day. Each day preparing for the next. My mornings set me up to prepare for the day: Shower, get dressed, do makeup, do hair, brush teeth, get G dressed, prep the coffee, get breakfast, load car, wake Evie, put her in her seat, drive to the babysitter's and then to work to start my job. Throughout the day I teach, prep lessons for the next day, leave work, get the girls, make dinner, make lunch, lay out clothes for next day, go to bed. In the routine are moments when I get to sit for a minute if I'm lucky to pretend time is not marching onward and enjoy the girls. For just a minute. Maybe two. If I want more time to cuddle, to play, to just hold them something else must suffer. Sleep? Prep? Dinner?  I was right time is marching on and I am spending it just getting through each day and I'm losing my battle against it.

I went to the Walk to Remember on Sunday. I brought Gabbie's flag project. I watched the 57 flags fluttering in the breeze. I cannot believe that my first year I had 33 the day before the walk and now there's 57.  It's my third year there.  Some day it will be my 33 Walk if still they do it and I will still go.  It has been 2 and half years of time passing by without her. So much of that time seems missing somehow. Now I have Evie and time keeps marching and she's 5 months old. She smiles, giggles, rolls over, cuddles, blows raspberries, and kisses. But while I'm working on trying to balance life and raising three girls I sometimes feel like I'm somehow missing out on them. I'm so caught up in trying to be prepared and to remember things that I'm losing the time I have right now. Evie is my last and holding her, especially at night it's almost like the time I have with her is tangible.  S sits in the front seat of the car now, she's 11 and big.  I can see her starting to mature. He wishes for things like trying Starbucks or owning a Northface are real and telling; she's becoming less of a little girl and more of a young woman.  G and I had to have a discussion about strangers because in her innocence she thought that if a stranger told her they were taking her to me she should go with them.  She knows now that she should run and scream.  It's things like that that make me realize the world forces us to steal their innocence.  And time required them to know things, to grow up before I wish they had to.  Time is stealing my babies away.  Or perhaps I've only just been lent them, they were never really mine.  The thought makes me sad.  

But I digress. I went to the Walk by myself, I'm perfectly ok with that.  I do not expect nor wish for company, not even D. We grieve differently and simply put, that is perfectly ok.  I do not get to celebrate her birthdays or her milestones, and her flag project is important to me, so I went. One woman waited by Gabbie's sign to hug me and thank me for the project and the page on FB. It humbled me. We talked for a few minutes. After she left I stood there by her sign by myself and cried quietly. I miss my angel's face so much. I cannot even picture who she'd be today. I wish I could. A woman touched my shoulder and asked to give me a hug. She wrapped her arms around me and told me Gabbie was right beside her angels in heaven. I have no words.  Friends of mine I met in a support group walked by and stopped to hug me too and take pictures of me at her sign.  The goodness in hearts is astounding. I was never actually alone. When I was looking at the flags the photographer mentioned how beautiful they were. I told him the project was mine and he commended me in it's beauty. Again I had no words. 

There is so much I want to say, to her, to the girls, to people but there are no words. I do not miss her less. I miss her all the same, still to the deepest parts of me. It doesn't hurt less it just hurts differently. I will always count her in my kids when people ask me how many I have. I will always explain I have 4 beautiful girls. When they ask me how old they are I'll tell them the ages of my earthly beauties and that my angel in heaven would be 2, and someday 3 and someday 33. 

I will continue to collect flags. I will bring them to the remembrance days even if going to the Walk made me sad. Someday maybe I won't cry. And if not, well then I'll cry every year and be ok with it. But the flags give people peace. They make me proud to be her mama. They make me humbled by other's love and sadness and gratitude. And if collecting the flags and displaying them as often as possible raises awareness about pregnancy and infant loss to just one person then it's one more person that will talk a bit more kindly, hug a grieving person longer, and live a little more in the knowledge that not all babies come home from the hospital and it's okay to say their name. 

I know she can see what we have done together. I know she watched the flags on the wind sending the prayers to other angels. I hope she is as proud of me as I am to be her mama. I am the mother of an angel and 3 beautiful flesh and blood girls. And no matter how time falls away, passes by, or matches on, to my very last breath I will make sure that they know how much I love them and am so proud to be their mama. 

holding on

Evie is home, and safe, and beautiful, and smart.  She was born with her cord wrapped around her neck, and not breathing but she's here and okay.

She's starting to smile now, and giggle.  Her giggle is funny.  It's sort of airy and then when something is really funny it cracks a high pitched hiccup sound that surprises her and makes her stop laughing.  She grabs on now and cuddles up.  I hold her.  A lot.  I put her down too.  But I hold her.  A lot.  My favorite time is in the darkness.  She cries for me and then eats.  After her bottle she get so tired that she fusses quietly some. Her little arms and legs move and she pouts her bottom lip big.  Rocking back and forth, the chair silent in the night I hum to her the song from "Three men and a baby".

Goodnight sweetheart, goodnight

Her little face always turns toward me in the darkness, her eyes glossy and sparkling.  She stops fussing and her body softly relaxes and her eyes get heavy.  Sometimes I hold her after she's fallen back to sleep even though I'm tired because the idea of putting her down is painful.  Sometimes I hold her in the moonlight and cry because somethings are too beautiful to see and have and hold, and until you have something so invaluable, something you've prayed so hard for that your knees have brush burns, you can't possibly understand.  It is so beautiful it hurts your soul.

Depression is a sneaky beast.  Most of the month it lies quietly dormant and sends me images and thoughts of Gabbie and how all this time and love I give to the girls, but especially Evie are moments I'd have had with Gabbie too and I brush them aside.  But realistically, and D reminds me on occasion, we probably wouldn't have Evie if Gabbie had stayed.  How ridiculously unfair that one should be swapped for the other.  During the month being busy with Evie and the girls I can put the thoughts away.  However I've noticed that I don't often look forward to things, in fact I can't remember the last time I've looked forward to anything.  My temper is often short.  I find myself being snippy with the girls.  The sad thing is I hear them mimic me sometimes to each other.  I don't like it.  The worst of it is the anxiety.  I cannot ride as a passenger in a car.  I can't breathe.  I see pictures in my head, flashes of accidents.  Those flashes flip on at home too.  I see the girls tripping, or falling down the stairs.  I warn then to be careful, to hold on to the railing, to hold hands in parking lots, and then when they do get hurt I get annoyed because they didn't listen to me.  I don't care for this quick-to-snap self.  Then pms makes the sadness so much harder to handle.  I am weepy and volatile.  My emotions are all over the place and the dreams are evil.   My doctor is pretty sure that, although I can usually control the sadness, the anxiety is part of PPD.

This month not only am I getting my period but I'm returning to work.  I'm not nervous about where the baby will be during the day, her babysitter is fantastic.  I'm just sad that I have to leave her at all.  I want to keep holding on to her, to not let go. What if school does what school always does and marks the year by the humdrum passing of each month?  Before I know it she'll be a year and my littlest and last will be big.  I need to hold on tighter.

New beginnings

Tomorrow D has his procedure.  And our ability to have babies ends.  I'm sad.  What makes it worse is it is also the same day that my cycle ends.  I look at Evie and know she is my last, that the rainbow after my storm really is it.  I know my body can't handle anymore pregnancies, and to even think about more would actually be cruel to me, to my girls, and to D but I'm stubborn and proud and don't like to think that I won't make anything so beautiful again.

That being said, I can't get enough of Evie.  I don't mind the feedings, the late night hours, I love the one on one time with her.  And time is so fleeting.  She's only 2 months but so big.  She won't be a baby much longer and I know it isn't fair but my time with her almost has to count for 2 times.  I still feel so robbed.  With the girls, S and G, I didn't know what I had.  I was selfish, and young, and naive.  But with Evie, it's different.  I feel guilty knowing how much I didn't know with my two sweet older girls.  Yes they are precious and now more precious still.  But it is not the same. My naive nature when I had the first two is tragic.  Not having anymore beautiful babies somehow means I can't share what I know with any other babies.  I don't know.  Maybe I'm just a hormonal mess.  I can't have more.  I know this.  I'm sad.  I'm ok with it.  I have to be.  Just like I have to be okay with so many other things.  I guess this picture I found today is even more meaningful...

Perhaps it's time to plan time for me and D.  Of the 5 years we've been married, I've been pregnant for 3.  Maybe it's time to focus on us.  It's time to focus on my girls and making the best use of time I have with them while I still have them everyday, while they still want to spend time with me.  Perhaps it really is time to trust in new beginnings...it doesn't mean I have to be okay with the past, it just means I can look forward to the beginnings and take the rest as they begin: One beautiful day at a time.  I owe myself that much and somehow this picture makes me know Gabbie would agree.  It didn't appear on my newsfeed on FB today by accident.

How dark the darkness

I have not handled this recovery well. I have lacked grace and patience. I am shamed by my attitude. It is easy to say "well look at the beautiful result" and much harder to step outside this body that created her and be at peace with the consequences of her arrival. In the darkness of night with this baby on my shoulder whose name actually means "life" I realized why I've lacked such grace. My most recent comparison for recovery should be no comparison at all, the darkness I was in after Gabbie made everything else pale by comparison. 

Two years ago after the arrival and departure of Gabbie I remember very little about the hospital and the physical pain except the heartache because at that time the grief was a physical heart-skipping-beats kind of agony. I could not tell you who visited us there except for a small few including some family and a friend who also suffered a loss like ours. I had had a c-section with Gabbie also. I don't remember anything about it aside from what happened in the hospital. 

Two weeks after I delivered her beautiful body, we said goodbye officially. I stood for hours at her funeral and hugged and cried with so many. I stood for hours split from hip to hip with deep pink around the mostly unhealed incision, perhaps with my stitches still in. I'd even gone shopping with my sister to get a dress that was appropriate to wear. I did it without thinking about the incision, without thinking about the pain or perhaps even noticing it. This time I couldn't even get out of bed two weeks later much less walk through a store and I definitely couldn't stand for hours wrapping my arms around anything but myself and my own physical pain. I see the me of two years ago in my memory and I realize that the darkness that consumed me then was so complete it made me blind to everything inside me. 

The point of comparison is almost apples to oranges. My heartache washed everything else away. Where as then I struggled to get out of bed because the darkness of grief, like night, was all around me and blinded me to everything else, this time the darkness is only within. I can see the outside. I just can't seem to get there. 

I went to the dentist yesterday. The same one I had gone to just after Gabbie was born. Then the women in the office made a big deal about me having her without ever asking how it went.  I had lied then at the end of the appointment and said she was fine after sitting quiet too weak to set them straight while they told their beautiful stories of their healthy babies. I was emotionally scarred from it. I have not returned in two years and now I probably need a root canal. The dentist scolded me for not taking care of my teeth because he presumed it was out of laziness that I had not returned more often. I did not explain the real reason though I wish I had or could. It was his staff and their sincere naive and blind pleasure in my delivery that made me not return. That is not easy to explain nor understand. And then when I finally was up to going back in I'd been pregnant and couldn't get X-rays to have a thurough check. But I'm there now and that should count for something however people presume too much and now again I don't want to go back because I've been made to feel small. Perhaps this is where I should note.... Doctors, if someone comes to you after an extended absence or even a forever absence seeking help, don't scold them for not coming in sooner, instead be gracious that they are there. You'll only make them wish they never came. 

So my point about the dentist is that when I could have returned to get X-rays between pregnancies the pain of a tooth was so far from my mind that, like the physical pain of a c-section, I could not feel it in the darkness just after Gabbie. It is another example of the strength of grief. Now I see and feel enough to at least attempt to take care of me physically. That is a stride, it is evidence in the stages of healing my heart. 

But now, two years removed from that pain that I could not feel, it is the most recent point of comparison. The only thing I remember about then was the self loathing at the perceived reason for losing her: my own body. My body created the water that allowed her room to move. My body did not tell me she was leaving. I was not aware she needed saving nor was I mentally aware enough to do the things that might have saved her. And yes I'm back to this...  I still have levels of that self loathing for a body I feel failed her and me.  I am more accepting of the fact that I had no control but acceptance is not forgiveness.  A part of me had hoped, I think, that this c-section would redeem my faith in my own body, that somehow this recovery would make up for the things my heart (not my rational mind) perceives as fatal flaws. But I've again been disappointed. My body is falling terribly short of whatever standard I had unwittingly and unfairly set for myself. I am again disappointed by my physical capabilities or lack thereof. I am struggling through a recovery that is more "there", more harsh, more complicated than the most recent comparison. It is as though now I am hurting enough for two surgeries because I never physically felt the last one. And I feel I am not handling it well and I am now ashamed that I have handled it all with such a lack of grace. 

In all the world I am my own worst critic. I have so little control over what my body does. I'm a soul inside a vessel set to sea; sometimes I can steer it and other times I have to go where the tide takes me. What I do have is my reaction to it and I have even fallen sadly short of the standard I've been striving for. I'm trying to redirect the thoughts of disappointment in myself and my experience to something more positive and self affirming. It's is not easy but I risk the darkness in me becoming darker if I don't. I have good qualities. I need to focus on them more. At least now I have stepped from the darkness enough to know I need to find better ways to take care of, love, and forgive myself for whatever wrongs against my soul I have imagined. 

I should be

I'm not sure why I'm here today.

I feel as though I'm waiting today.  Or maybe sad.  Or tired (always tired even when I get decent sleep.  I mean she slept 6 straight hours the other night twice in a row but still I was so tired when the sun rose). Or maybe I'm troubled.  Pregnancy hormones attempting to return to normal leave a sort of deep emptiness.  I have her, my Evie, and she's healthy, and ok, and I'm thankful.  But somehow I'm still sad.  And anxious and short tempered. I can't explain why.  I know that I should be happy.  I have a beautiful family and a healthy little girl to hold.  Yet I look at her sometimes and cry.  She doesn't fuss and only cries when she's hungry or wants to cuddle.  She's easy. And beautiful. And healthy. So why am I sad?  Why am I waiting as if for something to happen?  Why do I have anxiety about things happening?  I'm afraid to put her to bed in her crib--- what if I don't hear her?  Or what if she leaves me in her sleep?  I'm afraid to leave her with a babysitter (even people I trust totally). I'm afraid to take a shower while Evie sleeps and G watches TV, I think of things that could happen while I'm in there (from one of them choking to a stranger coming in the front door and taking them) though I know most of the scenarios are so unrealistic, but what if? I find my patience to be much shorter.  Two times of saying something, anything, is one times too many and I get irritated.  I can hear how quick I am to be snippy but it's always too late to take back the harsh retort.  It's not all day nor all the time but it's often. 

I just feel off.  Off and sad and anxious and tired.  And I see all the things I missed with Gabbie and I feel robbed. I should be okay with that for now I know what I have. Shouldn't I be?  But I'm not okay with that. At all. What's wrong with me?  I feel like a zombie just going about the business of living; it's a business of breathing, eating, sleeping, and hopefully taking care of my family existence with a smattering of life mixed in. But I cannot remember the last time I really (and I mean really) looked forward to something with excitement and child-like anticipation. Nor do I think I even remember how to. 

the finality of never...

We went to the doctors today to have my staples removed.  On the way I asked D what birth control he thought I should go on if she asked.  He said none because he's going to go in and have a vasectomy so I don't have to worry any more.  He said we shouldn't have anymore.  And I'll be honest I don't know if I want anymore either: this pregnancy was so hard and the delivery nearly killed me. I will not take the risk of being lost forever to my girls for a chance to have another baby, or be so selfish as to make D worry like he did the past 9 months and even more the last two weeks. And seriously, the universe has been pretty adamant in its opposition: an angel in heaven because her cord was wrapped, a beautiful baby born who needed a puff of air because her cord was wrapped, the same scenario in both pregnancies with polyhydramnios, terrible pain, the worst recovery I've ever had, loss of half my blood volume, dangerous anemia, transfusion, fear, anxiety.

So I look at Evie and love her so far beyond words, and I look at the girls and feel so much luckier to have them than is describable, and I feel sad to think I'm done, that I'll never make anything as beautiful again.  I eat up my time with Evie holding her and being so needed by her knowing that the time is fleeting, and hanging with the girls is so wonderful. To think that I'll never be able to make another like them makes me sad.  It feels like I'm missing something by making that choice.  But how can I miss something that isn't even there, or thought of, or conceived?  And then I wonder if the sadness and "missing out on something" mentality is derived from the fact that what I'm missing is not what could be here but what never will be here.

It is not, nor will it ever be that I am not thankful for the blessings I do have.  I will never take them for granted.  Ever. It is more that now, that we're talking forever, it is a finality:  I will never make another beautiful baby, they are my greatest achievement, pride, honor, blessings, and love. And perhaps I had thought (though it was not a conscious thought) in some avoided corner of the former me, that having Evie would somehow help me find the same happiness that I lost when Gabbie left; but Evie is not Gabbie.  The happiness I get from Evie is Evie's happiness not Gabbie's.  Evie created a part in my heart that is all hers including happiness and sadness and pride and love.  So that means while I enjoy and revel in the happiness that my girls have been providing and that Evie has just created I am still deeply missing Gabbie forever.  And right now it's so obvious what I missed out on two years ago and am missing out on still.  A sob catches in my throat, the girls are sleeping cuddled up on me for an afternoon nap and the duality of my love for them and the sadness of never being able to share this love with Gabbie or any other baby ever again, now that that we're really talking about being done forever is.... heavy, like flying with the lightest and loveliest wings and carrying a ballast of the most tragically beautiful and heaviest sadness that I just will not put down.

I know that I cannot, should not ever even consider having another.  I just have to get used to the idea.  Change in all forms is so complicated.

Homecoming

The night before we went into the hospital D was woken from a sound sleep by a voice calling "Daddy."  When he got out of bed and went to check the girls they were sound asleep and so his nerves were put in edge. When we woke up and the baby inside was not moving as much as expected, the nerves from the night had him prodding me perhaps more than he would have to just go to the hospital just to be sure instead of waiting until lunch. He didn't tell me this until the doctor had already said we were staying. Thank goodness we went in. For all the complications with the delivery and then after I just don't know.... And can't think about it, I'm so thankful for little voices that whisper something's wrong.

And as it turns out I had to get a blood transfusion.  I'd lost half of my blood volume during labor. My blood volume after my c-section was a 7.5 or so.  By the next morning it had fallen to 5.9, which is dangerously low.  I had terrible time breathing and staying awake.  I was dizzy when I sat up and had a pounding sound in my ears.  My complexion had an awful white pallid appearance, even my lips had no color. Sometimes choices are made for us without us really having any opinion in it.  So I spent 6 hours on Thursday getting a blood transfusion from a donor.  

By Thursday afternoon I had more color, more energy and the room stopped spinning. By Friday morning the pounding in my ears was gone, my chest didn't hurt to breathe in the smallest gasps of breath, and I wanted to go home. The doctors however were not consenting and now Evie was starting to look yellow with jaundice and her bilirubin levels had risen some. 

By Saturday, today, I was ready to leave with strict orders to start piling on the foods rich in iron and to "do nothing" for at least 2 weeks. Evie has been released to go home but a nurse has to visit our house in the morning to check her levels again and she already has a doctor appointment for Monday morning. 

After we signed the discharge papers for Evie I cried. She really was coming home with us. A butterfly flew up to my hospital window and fluttered across the window pane and off again. She'll forever have an angel. In my wheelchair chariot out of the hospital with Evie in her car seat on my lap I cried again. The combination of happiness at the reality of bringing Evie home and memory of leaving Gabraella behind there is something that cannot be given words. How can such extremes of relief, happiness, anxiety, anticipation, sadness, and thankfulness be present in a heart at the same time?

Sitting in our recliners at home with her in front of us sleeping peacefully the relief caught both of us, and the anxiety we had from this week ran for just the briefest of moments down both our cheeks. Nothing about any of the last 2 years has been easy. I'd go anywhere and do anything with him.  

I do want to mention that the care and kindness of the nurses at Sisters Hospital was absolutely beyond any standards I had previously set. 

Evie J Swader, my rainbow

38 weeks and a day.

She was quiet this morning. D and I were nervous. She was moving but not the same. So I called the doctor. 2 hours of trying to kick count and she was so slow. The doctor sent me to L&D. And then they didn't send me home. Not because I was in labor but because my doctor is done. And we are done. She has decided that the risk of keeping her in is more than taking her out. I ate breakfast trying to wake her to get her to move, so we have wait until I've processed it but they aren't sending me home. I'm having a baby. Today. Surreal. It is the same day in pregnancy that we lost Gabbie. 38 weeks and a day.

So they prepped me for surgery.  We sat all day and then the nurse came in and said, "I have to get you ready to go in 10 minutes."  10 minutes!?  I cried.  For 9 months I prepared for this day.  And now it was here. D was anxious too.  His eyes gave him away.    I was to be cut open so they could get her out and given a spinal anesthesia.  The spinal went off ok.  They got me on the bed in that position of the cross.  The nausea arrived, and so did more drugs.  Then D was there.  Right by my head holding my hand.  A procedure that normally lasts a half hour to 45 minutes took 2 hours.

Having an 8lb baby who is squeezed into your insides from hip to hip presents problems.  She got stuck and they, four doctors, had to push down on me to dislodge her.  Four doctors pushed, nearly standing on the table over me but she was stuck and the cord was wrapped 3 times around her neck.  They bruised her leg pulling on her to get her out and for an eternity of a millisecond she didn't cry. The anesthesiologist had asked D if he wanted to be told at just the right moment to look and see her born.  He never told him to look.  He must've known something wasn't right. I heard the anxiety in D 's voice when he asked if she was ok.  It all came down to a held breath while she was given a puff of air when we heard her cry and the doctor said she was fine.  I sobbed.  The most beautiful sound in the world is a baby's first cry.  She was good.  I asked so many times.  But me, I was not so good.  I'd lost a lot of fluids.   She had so much fluid again that it soaked the floor, the bed, and filled the bottles. It all could have been a repeat of how we lost Gabbie.  But it wasn't.  It took over an hour to get me patched back up and an extra day lost to recover before I could get out of bed.  There was talk of the possible need for a blood transfusion because of severe anemia.   I don't want one so it looks like I'm going to be tired for a while.  I have never been so scared before and in so much physical pain after any of my other pregnancies than I am with this one.  And, after all of this, I am done and cannot do any more.

Evie J Swader was born by the grace of God and help from angels, especially her big sister, Gabbie into this world on May 27th.  It was the exact day in pregnancy that we lost Gabbie, 38 weeks and one day.  Evie weighed 8lbs 3oz.  She is healthy and beautiful.  And the rainbow after the horrible storm.  She does not take away the pain but she is a beautiful light in my sky.

and so 37 weeks ends and the 38th begins

My breath escaped me on the way, Thursday, to camping. I thought it was because we towed the trailer in busy traffic and I could see D's anxiety as we tottered and pulled in the wind. But then we got here and I was so worn out I rested some in our bed but couldn't sleep and the anxiety clung to me like most of my clothes, too tight and often just slightly revealing.

And then there was bed. By the time I got comfortable and slept it was late and then D came in and I was awoken because, realistically, who can stay sleeping in a camper when others are moving around. I got comfortable once again and must have fallen asleep because at 2:30 I sat up in bed gasping for air, my whole body wound so tightly. I rearranged my 10 pillows and propped myself up higher but as I drifted off again, more than an hour later, I still could not get it under control. I took slow breaths. I counted up. I counted down. I listened to the rain on the roof. I tried to reason out the "why".  Somewhere between listening to the rain and counting the deep sleeping breaths of D I finally fell asleep. 

Friday went ok with cold and rain and relaxation, at least when I woke up the anxiety was gone and the baby moved.

Saturday our friend stopped by at the campsite to visit her parents and the mass group of campers.  Her twin boys were already there, but in tow she had her baby girl that's 4 months older than this one inside of me and the baby's older sister A. A is one month older than Gabbie would be. She is so sweet. She dances with her little legs baby-bopping to music, feeds the dog ice cubes with little red frozen hands, smiles shyly and shares her snacks with the world. She would have been such good friends with Gabbie. But no. I fought tears back a few times, like when D turned to me after A cuddled up to him for a minute sharing Goldfish with him, and his pout expression said exactly what I was thinking. So sweet and beautiful, a reminder of what we don't have and how precious it is.  Watching her is so painfully bitter sweet.  

Then we had some scares steeped from my own anxiety. Twice it took me a while to get a good kick count and Derek had to wake her with a raspberry blown on my belly. I'm nervous. Kick counts that don't go so quickly make me nervous. Babies who are noticably quiet make me nervous. Movements that are getting less frequent lead me to my to dark places.  Those dark places were pushed away by the beautiful blue skies filled with butterflies fluttering by, a husband who blows sweet raspberries, and the frequent movements of a little baby. 

Sunday was quiet. But the baby was not. She rolled and kicked. And so many friends shared in her movements with me, fascinated by the rolls and and bumps and hiccups.

Today is Monday. 38 weeks. Memorial day.  Ironic, I think, that this 38 week marker should fall on a day titled as such. She was very quiet this morning, and though she was moving it was very hard to feel and had long spans of time between each.  It took until lunch time for me to count ten kicks in an amount of time that made me comfortable. D had even asked me if I wanted to go to the hospital.  He has been holding his breath too.  He doesn't want to take any chances.  Better to go and be sure than not and risk it all.  It wasn't that I couldn't feel her at all, it was that I didn't feel her the same or enough for me.  This anxiety and preoccupation with her movements is powerful.

It is 38 weeks.  I wonder what this week will bring.  I can't breathe in anticipation and I'm ready to get off the edge of my seat.  A week from today they will take her out.  I wonder if then, I'll be able to exhale.  Perhaps when I finally hear that cry.  

I don't think this is about patience

Yesterday, the baby failed her test.  She's not ready to be delivered.  I'd so hoped to hold her and feel her warm body today and touch her soft pink cheeks and count her toes.  I wanted to hear her cry and watch the rise and fall of her little chest with breath.  But her lungs aren't ready.  So even if she came she'd struggle to breathe.  I don't want that. I know.  I'm so scared of missing something, of messing up and losing her because of it.  The longer she's in the stronger she should be is true.... or the longer she's in where we can't see her or help her the more could go wrong.  Good things do not always come to those who wait.  Gabbie never came to us and we waited for her.  And patience is a virtue but the early bird catches the worm....  that's right, in most instances patience is something coveted, desired, but if you could Carle Diem wouldn't you?

I wanted, want still, to hold my baby today more than anything in the world.  I wanted to know for certain I was bringing her home.  I cried all afternoon yesterday for disappointment, until my eyes were big and puffy and were so tired I fell instantly into a dark sleep once my head touched the pillow.  I woke up with tears in them still and puffy eyelids, and even now, as I blog, I cry.  I have never had such prolonged anxiety, and real salty fear.  It is not about patience, it is about strength and stamina.  Everyone who truly knows me knows that the length and encompassing nature of my patience is almost inhuman.  Given normal naive circumstances, I could wait, and in fact can wait even now.  But given circumstances as they stand, waiting requires strength of heart and faith, in the universe, in myself.  This is not a lesson in patience.  This is a schooling.... how much strength and courage does it take to have a baby after you carried the last one to term, her heart stopped in utero, she never took a breath, and you held her, a perfect but silent 7 lb 15 oz tiny person?  How much faith in oneself can be found after the person had a loss like that and "it was no one's fault but happened inside of her"?  I am not naive anymore.  I know I have too much fluid.  I know she still has room to move.  I know there are cord accidents and other causes of death, some that cannot ever be explained.  I know that there are babies that are born at 37 weeks and do just fine.  I also know that she's not ready.  This is not patience.  This is fear of unknown. Fear of what could happen literally inside me with me having zero control.  This is not fight or flight mode, there is no way to run. This is the kind of fear that hurts your knees while you pray like hell, has you counting kicks even in your sleep, knowing your heart will not beat normal again until after you've read the last page of this book, your breath will catch with anxiety maybe forever, has you holding on as tight as you can to the man who won't leave your side and swears that with this you can do no wrong but who is just as invested in the outcome as you, has you hugging your kids closer because you know how lucky you are to have them, has you crying in the shower because the hot water will mask some of the tears, has you taking advice from your four year old: "you have to be big and strong mama, want me to show you how to be brave? Close your eyes hold your breath, count to ten, and let it out... now see don't you feel braver?"

So that is what I'm doing today.... being braver with my 4 year old:  holding my breath, counting kicks to ten, and letting it out.

on the fourth day of anxiety... the inner truth would be....

I slept awful the night before last.  My feet are swollen and D thinks it'd be best to get them higher.  So I sat in my glider rocking chair pushed all the way to our bed, then elevated them by sitting in the chair with my legs up to my knees on the bed.  It only worked for a bit.  I got so uncomfortable I ended up trying to sleep back in the bed.  That worked for a while, maybe an hour or so, then I was back in the chair with the ottoman.  None of this lack of sleep really bothers me.  I still function and I think I'm pleasant.  I am also not complaining.  I'm just explaining.  Last night I slept more, though not soundly, through the night in my rocker, probably because of the lack of sleep the night before, and woke up hurting in my hips.  It's the kind out hurt that requires someone to help me to sitting because I couldn't move them.  Between the pain and the uncomfortableness I've had a plethora of time on my hands watching my husband sleep in our bed from across the room.  I love that man... I can't wait to actually sleep back in our bed with him.  He'll miss the extra room I'm sure.  :)

When one doesn't sleep well the night provides a dark backdrop for memories and worries. Realizing I may have only 4 days until delivery I am finding it harder to think of anything else.  The what ifs tumble out. They are not as bad as the memories. The memory of the last time I had a c-section floods back.  I try to avoid the specifics.  It's futile.  If she isn't ready I will have to wait.  At 38 weeks Gabbie stopped moving.  That's when they MIGHT deliver if she fails her test.  My water never broke with her.  I never went in labor with her.  But saying she does pass her test and I get to avoid that 38th week and the days leading up to it, the c-section thought and inevitability makes my heart palipitate and my breath catch in a lump.

When Gabbie was gone they tried to induce labor.  They wanted me to push her out instead of having the c-section so that the recovery would be shorter.  But, as I said, even with drugs to induce and attempts to break my water it never happened.  What did happen is hours of contractions and a c-section anyway.  Once they got me on the table in the OR I had to sit up to have the spinal put in and all the drugs they'd given to me previously had me so sick, the anesthesiologist had to wait until I could stop throwing up before he could give me anything to stop the pain.  Then I remember the pop of the spinal tapping in.  I hate that sound.  Then laying on the table, I remember wanting them to be wrong. I wanted to hear her come out of me and cry.  I held my breath and waited. But it was silent.  No one spoke.  I could hear sniffling, the sound of people trying to cry softly.  I remember watching tears roll down D's face.  My poor strong husband.  I felt I failed him. The beeping of the machines I was hooked up to was the only other thing I remember hearing.  This is my last memory in the OR for a c-section.  This is what I have inside my head when I go in again.

I know it's necessary and I'm ok with it but the anxiety is so high.  And then if she doesn't pass the test then that anxiety gets put on a back burner and I have the anxiety of the approaching 38 week mark. Here's the thing... you can tell me it's not my fault and the rational side agrees.  But if in these couple days or the following week something were to happen, no matter what, it'd be my fault even if it's not my fault.  Does that make sense? No of course it doesn't, because it's irrational.  It is up to my diligence to protect her and every decision that gets made by me might effect the outcome.  It is a real fear, my greatest fear, that I will fail again. (Even if I didn't "fail" the first time.)  I will feel as though I failed my husband, my girls, everyone.  Please don't get into how it's not my fault... I get it.  I do.  But wasting your breath to convince me otherwise in my irrational hormonal extremely tired and pregnant state would be an exercise in futility.

I try to take these one day at a time.  I look at my beautiful daughters and know I succeeded twice with God's grace to have two beautiful healthy sweet girls.  I know no one blames me for losing Gabbie and that I shouldn't blame myself even if this one becomes an angel.  On most days I have myself convinced she'll be fine.  A part of me is skeptical that I'll actually come home with a baby and then I tell myself that there are handful of doctors who want to succeed as badly as I do in the birth of a baby girl who is healthy.  I am well watched and well taken care of by an excellent team of ladies.  I know my husband has faith in me too.  I know a lot of people have faith that she will come home.  So I really rely on those thoughts to beat off the negativity and deep deep fears of failure.  And in an attempt to not worry I agreed to go camping with my family this weekend.  Maybe nature will be good for my soul. Maybe it'll renew my faith.

So here's the deal with myself... for the rest of the weekend I will focus on positive thoughts as much as possible.  My girls will have fun camping, we finally picked a name, Monday I'll breeze through the amnio and perhaps on Tuesday I'll have a beautiful baby girl to hold.  Right?  Right!

If......

It really is all about time and support.  In less than a week I will have an amino to see if this baby is ready to come out.  Part of me totally believes she will arrive safely.  Part of me is still so afraid to anticipate her safe arrival. The undoing of the nursery after Gabbie didn't arrive safely was so hard.  To think of having to do it again is painful.  Everyone is praying for her arrival, and although I believe in the power of prayer to a degree, I also know prayers don't always get answered.  So while I sort of prep for her arrival, I also steel myself for the possibility that it may not be.  Each kick, each roll (and there are many), each tap are carefully monitored.  The cherry blossom decal is on her wall, her clothes are in the dresser.  She has a cherry blossom and butterfly pattern set for her crib waiting for her to come.  Her crib, however, waits in pieces in the basement for that first cry that tells of her safe arrival.  That cry, the one I dream about hearing, is the one that gives me so much anxiety that I might never hear.  My husband and I decided it best to wait for the crib.  Neither of us are willing (capable?) to take it down if... well just if.

I know that my body has again, inexplicably produced too much fluid.  It is hard to not be nervous.  She, even at 36 weeks and over 7 lbs according to the sonograms, still has too much room to move.  With a sonogram every 4-7 days, she had not yet been in the same position as the one before.  Working her way around my womb in a sort of clockwise pattern she has now spun around nearly two full rotations.  At the last sonogram I asked the sonographer to see if she could tell if the cord was wrapped around her neck, like Gabbie's was.  Her answer was "no" thank goodness.  Had she said yes, I don't know what I'd have done.

Thinking over the past two years, I can honestly say I have some of the most understanding and sympathetic, support network anyone could ask for. And I'm so thankful. My friends provide encouragement and share links and stories with me of butterflies and others who understood the loss of a baby.  And if they have grown tired of my relatively vocal "missing" of my baby girl, no one had voiced any concern.  My family understands what it means to me that she is remembered, acknowledged and talked about.  They know how she affects me still, and most likely forever.  They understand that even when (or if) this baby arrives safely it doesn't mean that I'm "over" Gabbie.  This baby inside has three big sisters.  Just as S, my eldest, will forever have three little sisters.  I will continue to talk with my girls about Heaven and Gabbie, like I do now.  I don't think S and G would have it any other way.   I'm so much closer to my husband than I ever thought I could be, even now, he is my rock.  He worries with me over her.  He scolds me for doing too much around the house but then understands that if I don't stay occupied I worry myself into anxiety.  He talks me down from hysterics, and tells me that I'm beautiful despite the fact that my mascara is often run, my ankles swell in the heat of May, I can't sleep laying down anymore, and my belly is too big to be covered fully by most of my shirts.  He makes me feel beautiful, and makes me laugh, and loves me even when I'm acting irrationally and crazy.  I can't imagine holding anyone else's hand when I get the news about whether she is ready at 37 weeks to be born, or if I'll have to live through the anxiety of 38 weeks if they make me wait because she's not ready.

I am looking forward to meeting this little girl, and although I fear it will not be a sweet pink face that I see, I am beginning to believe it will be.  Mostly.  Maybe.  And regardless, I know I have people around me who will cheer her safe arrival or cry with me and hold me up if by some chance she... just if....

When she doesn't move--- panic.

I'm going to preface this by saying, "She's ok."

Every morning for weeks now, being 34 weeks and a couple days, I kick count before I even rise from bed. Sometimes I could count before I've barely opened my eyes. They are 10 of the most valued movements.

Last night I was exhausted and I slept the best night of sleep that I've slept in weeks. My usual, almost hourly waking was cut to waking just once at 3 am for the briefest of moments. This morning I woke up and her usual movements were absent. Noticably so. 

So I got out of bed, and drank a large glass of juice thinking she'd just needed a boost. Nothing. And then I ate breakfast. Still nothing. And then I began to panic. 

I'd stayed at my in-laws house and D had been gone for the night. I sent him a message. 

"I'm waiting for baby to move. She's quiet this morning."

I went to rest in bed hoping I could coax her to move. Quiet motionless belly.  Tears. Fear. Another message. 

"She's still so quiet. I'm scared."

He started on his way to me. 25 minutes away I'm sure he did at least 70mph.  

I didn't want to scare the whole house. So I sat in the bedroom and stared down at my belly, big tears dropped to my shirt. Please move. Please move. Please move. 

D's mom found me this way, and then she didn't leave me until he'd come. I didn't want the house to panic.

On the way to the hospital he held my hand.  I cried.  I tried not to cry.  He said he was scared too.  I said I just want her to move.  We made small talk.  I talked about how if the flutter I felt when I sneezed was her, it still isn't right.  She's not the same. She was usually so active, moving my whole belly.

When we arrived at the hospital I said I hope they just hook me up right away and tell me she's ok.  He held my hand tightly, told me to breathe. I'd never been to Suburban.  They had no information about me other than what my doctor had told them when she called ahead, and they were great.  

They took very little information before connecting me to the Doppler and sonogram machine, wasting no more time than it took me to get undressed.

The sweetest sound on earth is a baby's heartbeat. The relief on D's face mirrored the flood of it in my heart.  And I cried.  And the nurse got tears in her eyes.  And she reassured me many times that the heartbeat we heard was the baby's and it was perfect.

After a sonogram, the doctor confirmed that apparently in the night, she had flipped completely around.  Transverse, her head was now the only thing not beneath my anterior placenta.  Her position was a "c" curling towards my spine and because of the extra fluid and the nerveless placenta any movements she made were nearly undetectableble deep in my belly.

I cannot explain the fear this morning.  The sheer terror that it was happening again is irrational, consuming, and intense.  The 2 hours of expecting movement and finding none produced a panic that is so raw.

But the instant quick and steady heartbeat of a very alive baby girl in my womb is also equally unexplainable.  Perhaps, it is alike what seeing a glimpse of heaven through the cloud.

This morning was sobering, and perspective drawing.  I've been much more sad lately at the thought that this pregnancy is drawing to an end.  I want to know the ending but have been afraid to skip to the last page.  I've been contemplating being done having babies after this.  But this morning, the decision has been made so clear.

When my husband brought up getting a procedure himself after this (something he's been adamant against), and the smile on his face when he heard her heart too was brilliant and soft and glistening, I knew, this had to be it.  I cannot do this any more, I cannot watch him go through this fear anymore either.  If, and mostly when (I say with trepidation) this baby arrives safely in our arms, she will be our last.  

My strength can be found in sweet girls.

Gabbie's angelversary was Friday. We spent it with butterflies. She visited me as a wounded and beautifully flawed Blue Morpho butterfly just as last year. She sat on my finger and softly fluttered. And I cried. Because I miss her.  Because I love her.  Because I still don't understand. Because I'm afraid that it's getting closer to 38 weeks with this baby and I don't know what I'd do if next year I have to visit with two butterflies. 

But we had a nice day at the conservatory and lunch, and then shopping for G's birthday present at build-a-bear, and then for her party goods and the balloons for her and Gabbie. But it was raining too hard to release them Friday night so we waited. 

Friday night D got very sick and he and I were up all night. He slept all Saturday while I prepared for the G's party on Sunday. All day G kept asking to release Gabbie's balloons to her but I told her we had to wait until daddy was better so he could do it too. She was so good all day and so excited for "the best birthday ever". 

Sunday came and D felt better. We assumed it was just food poisoning so we went on with the party. 20 people. 

Sunday night we released the balloons to Gabbie. S said she wished that the balloons would bring Gabbie back down from heaven. When I tucked G into bed Sunday night she asked me, "mommy do you member when we went to church and they talked about the man who died and went to heaven?" 

"Yes baby, his name is Jesus. "

She said, "mommy what if Jesus loves balloons and tried to take one from Gabbie."  

"Oh baby, Jesus loves Gabbie, he wouldn't want to take her balloons. He is taking care of her until we can see her again. He wants her to be happy just like us."  

She thought about this for a second. "You know what mommy?  I bet Gabbie would give him a balloon If he wanted one. She got two and she'd share if he really liked them."  

"Yep I bet you're right, now close your eyes birthday girl and go to sleep. Did you have a fabulous birthday?" 

"Mommy I had the best birthday ever!"

"I'm so glad. Love you baby."  

I thought then how much I was blessed. But that night I came down with the virus D had had. I feel terrible that we had all those people over. I hope no one gets it. It took only about 4 hours for me to become dehydrated. I ended up with contractions less than every 7 minutes. So needing fluids I went to the hospital to be treated in L&D and then I came home and slept. Literally almost unable to move because my body aches so bad the girls and D took care of me. G was so excited to bring me flowers home with her bright yellow daffodils, and S took care of her sister without a word. The house was quiet all day which almost never happens. At bedtime G came in my room and peering over the footboard of the bed with big worried eyes she said, "Mommy do you think you'll feel better tomorrow?"

"I hope so baby."

"I really miss hugging and kissin you."  

"I know peanut. I'll try to be better ok?"

"Ok mommy. I love you."  And she went off to bed. 

I wonder now, and often, how did I raise such caring sweet babies?  How did I get so blessed to have girls who care more about others all the time?  Perhaps it is for this reason that I was strong enough, brave enough to try again for a baby?  Their sisters, Gabbie's and the new one, give me strength. I don't know what I'd have done without them two years ago. They are part of the reason I got out of bed when it felt I'd left my heart behind in the hospital. 

All this talk of butterflies

A couple months ago I bought a new car.  I was so excited.  I sent a message to a couple people with pictures of the car and said, "now it just needs some butterflies."  I always thought that driving someone else's car was awkward because you were unfamiliar with pretty much all of it.  Everything from where the lights could be found to turn them on and instead the windshield wipers start going, to parking on the wrong side of the gas pump and having to get back in and weave around the lot like an idiot to get to the right side always make me feel inept and uncomfortable.  It was so long since I had a newer car and in fact I've never owned a new-off-the-lot car that it felt so good to be excited and tell people.  Butterflies would make my new ride feel more like home not because I wanted the adornment but because I still wish I'd be driving 3 girls around instead of two and that was my way of making sure she always rode with me.  Most responded with the same excitement as me, but one person responded with the comment that "butterflies don't go with everything." Now anyone who knows me knows how much butterflies mean to me, and as for the  motivation of the comment itself  I've moved beyond it.  Maybe I got them on a bad day, at a bad moment, I don't know it doesn't matter any longer.  I don't hold grudges or hurts because life is too short.  Since then, I'm coming to conclusion that however ill-spoken the comment was at the time, and although it hurt me when it was said, the message of the comment is true.  Butterflies do not go with everything.

Butterflies do not go with broken hearts or sadness or death.  Once the person is gone, no amount of butterflies can go together to have that person hug you or smile at you or hold your hand. She may be my butterfly but I'll never hold my 7lb 15 oz baby not watch her turn into a silly and beautiful two year old.

Over a year ago I ordered a bear from a website ran by another grieving mother.  The website is a legacy to her daughter.  They created weighted bears that are as heavy as the childwas that had gone to heaven.  They are as heavy as your physical loss.  I received my bear in the mail yesterday and it is absolutely beautiful and perfect.  G wanted to sit with Gabraella bear all day.  She sat next to it and watched tv.  She wanted the bear to ride her rocking horse and play cow girl with her.  She called her "she" and "her".  We had to go to the bank and she wanted to bring her with.  When I said no she then wanted me to leave the tv on for Gabraella Bear so she wouldn't feel lonely. (I obliged, when a little girl asks a question like that, of course you say yes.).  When we got home she wanted to play dress up with her.  I told G we didn't have clothes for bear.  G's response was to tell me it was ok, since the bear was little still she would show Gabraella Bear what she could do when she got bigger.  She told me how heavy the bear was, but then went on to say that a big sister is always strong enough to carry something so heavy.  And I watched and listened. And while my heart was warmed by the antics of an almost four year old little girl, it also broke into tiny fragile pieces.  How terribly wrong that she should play with just a bear with a butterfly bow and not her real sister.

• 

Butterflies do not go with playing dress up.  Butterflies do not go with play time. Butterflies can not serve tea or ride like a cowgirl.  Butterflies cannot sing along with "Frozen" on tv.

But... as was shown today, butterflies can stimulate love, and joy, and conquer fear.  We went to the butterfly conservatory in Canada.  G couldn't wait to point them out to me, S kind of wanted them to land on her, sort of.  I just wanted to be visited.

Sky was petrified about hurting them until I got her to hold one.

 

And her fear was conquered with a smile.  My heart soared, I'm so proud of her.  

And then there was G.  My fearless loveable warrior of light and spotter of butterflies.  She doesn't have much but she'd offer me her world while she sweetly and proudly pointed out every butterfly in it.

And then there's Gabbie.

And as we walked around and had to be careful where we walked I came across a wounded butterfly sitting in the middle of the path.  A Gabbie butterfly.  So I helped her up and there she sat.

On my finger safe from feet.  And she visited with me for many minutes.  Flapping softly her wounded wings.  Wounded just like my Gabbie.  And beautiful, perhaps to beautiful in its wounded state to be from this Earth, just like my Gabbie.  

So, no, butterflies don't go with everything,but if they conquer fear, bring joy, and closeness to all my babies I'll make sure they are everywhere.  Butterflies are a constant reminder of how quickly life can skip away, and they remind me to enjoy the people who mean anything to me, because you literally never know when they are going to be gone.

Because butterflies have brought me closer to some of the most wonderful people.  Butterflies have given me some peace where often there is darkness. 

So today, on the day you left us, 

We miss you sweet baby, so much there are no words to express how much.  

You'd be 2 today.  So happy second birthday in heaven.  

two sides, one huge mess

I have been sitting on this blog for a while now.  I'm tired.  I'm not ready.  I'm beginning to feel rushed, as though I'm running out of time.  I have a list a mile long of chores to do.  Chores that  don't need doing but "need" to be done, if you get my drift.  I must be nesting.  I'm moody and irritable.  I'm defensive.  I'm teary.  I must be nesting and a complete inner disaster.

I cried the other day after I posted on FB a status about how important it is to count kicks.  Why didn't I count kicks before? Every.  Single. Day.  Why?  I know I'm not supposed to blame myself, but after two years I still do.  Now would have been the week two years ago that if I'd really been counting instead of just "paying attention" to her movements I might have saved her.  Me.  Her only bridge to help.  And I didn't.  I'm a fuck up.  I'm a self centered, self indulgent, person, and perhaps I don't deserve another chance.  That's how I feel today.  Inside, that's how I feel many days.  Some days I don't care very much for parts of myself, or even like those parts. And that's sad.  Even I'm sad for that pathetic "me", the other "me," the confident, sweet, responsible, intelligent side of me is sad for that sorry "me".  

It is as though I'm two.  One half knows rationally that I try my best, and like most parents wonder if my best is good enough.  That same half knows how unlikely it would have been for me to save her, that 1 in 4 pregnancies end in miscarriage or stillbirth and none of those women did anything wrong.  One half, the rational half understands how important it is to like yourself, to show growing girls how to be strong and love themselves.  Rational me understands how breakdowns, though necessary sometimes, need serve a purpose.  So the rational half often puts a proverbial reassuring hand on the other's shoulder to calm the crazy half down.  

But then there's the side two.  The side you saw a few lines so.  Side two is still a mess.  Side two blames herself, carries around guilt in a transparent bag and her heart, red and raw on her sleeve if you take the time to look.  Side two wants to cry frequently and throw self indulge in pity parties.  Side two is a quiet voice in the back of my head who repeats herself over and over like a subliminal message tape and if rational me isn't careful enough the pitiful rubs off and strong, rational me loses it.  But then quietly, with whatever dignity the strong side has left, I quietly gather the pieces of myself back together pick them up, brush them off, put them back in place and carefully so as not to shatter again, and then retreat until the glue dries and I feel presentable.  

Gabraella's angelversary is one week away.  I miss her so much and it is unfathomable to me that we'd be weeks away from trying to bring her baby sister into this world.  I'm trying all I can to do this right, to be a good mom, and a good wife, to be worthy of this tiny little miracle's love.  But the balance is not perfection and its so hard to let go of all the control.  Maybe that's why I feel this insatiable urge to control the aspects of this house.  Maybe that's why the nesting and prep is becoming obsessive.  Originally I wanted nothing to do with prepping for her, for fear of have it all prepped and then have to see it all of she doesn't come home. That part of me still exists, I think it's the safe part, but the rational post knows that if it's not done now it'll never get done by the time the need to have it done arises. So on some days I want to control the house preparation for her to the most minute detail.  It's all because I can control that much at least.  

Wow am I a mess.  I wonder if I'm even doing a good job at the facade of normal.  

So what did we learn today from this crazy rant?  I need to talk nicer about myself, . If I were my friend I'd have left myself a long time ago.  I need to find a better balance.  I need a clean house. (Ha... that's funny and becoming totally true.)  I need a plan so I can control the controllable better.  I need to learn to listen better to myself, both sides and clean up clean up this huge mess.

distractions

April is coming.  To most April means sunshine and warmth, an end to a long winter.  To me... it's a celebration of the birth of three of the most important people in the world to me.  My husband and best friend (yes this refers to the same person), my childhood friend who has always been there for me, and my 2nd child (G, her smile brings me happiness).   But also it is the angelversary of Gabbie and marks a full two years devoid of watching a tiny baby growing and loving, passing milestones and learning, giving wet kisses and big hugs with little arms.  And I'm so sad.  And terrified.

If it weren't for this blog could you tell?  Would you know of the nightmares that wrap me in fear and leave me wimpering and sobbing in the darkness protected by the arms and love of my best friend? Would you know of the occasional breakdowns of my walls when strength is just depleted and I fall to my knees and cry and pray that this baby will be ok? Would you know of the brilliant flashes back to that April? I can't keep them out of my head some days.  I can't keep her little face away.  I can't keep the sound of the doctor's voice when she said "no I'm sorry" out of my head.  I can't keep the pictures of prepping for a c-section so sick from the drugs they gave me to try to induce my body into labor, but knowing it was going to be to have a baby that would never cry; I'd hoped with every molecule in my body that they were wrong.  I can't keep the fears away, they sometimes distract me.  Perhaps this is similar to post traumatic stress disorder? I tell myself over and over and am constantly reassured by doctors and nurses that we are doing everything to keep this baby, her sister, safe. I tell myself this.  I try to convince myself.  I know this.  I know that the only control I have is my reaction.  But some of my reactions are uncontrollable.  I can't stop the anxiety each time they try to find the baby's heart beat.  I can't stop the thoughts, they come so fast, so suddenly.  I push them away but sometimes the damage in my heart is already done.  I can't keep the nightmares away in the darkness. They are getting more frequent. I can't breathe when I think about scheduling a c-section.  Gabbie's was scheduled and only 5 days before it her heart stopped.  Independent events, I know but the anxiety is there.

I'm so afraid of disappointing the girls, especially G.  She's so excited.  So flippin' excited.

She wants so badly to walk the baby in a stroller and hold her.  What if the baby doesn't come home?  "What ifs" are dangerous things.  I can't prepare for her not to come home and I can't prepare for her to come home.  What if she does? What if she doesn't?  Is there something that was a sign that Gabbie wasn't going to make it? No.  There was no sign. No factor.  She wasn't sick.  My body gave her too much room.  I'm big again.  Is this baby sick? No.  Is there some sign that she might not make it? No.  But until I hold her pink and breathing in my arms I can't breathe, rest, believe. There is very little control over real fear and anxiety. The things that help are going to my doctor appointments and hearing her heartbeat or seeing her on the sonogram screen.  These good news-visits are a welcome distraction that break the anxiety at least temporarily.  Like today, the sonogram technician looked to see if the cord was wrapped around her neck.  I got to see a perfect curve instead of a cord between her ear and her should.  There was just a soft smooth "c".  And I thank God for this wonderful news.

I am thankful for these breaks.  And for all the pain of losing Gabbie I am thankful for what I've learned because of her.  I could not have ever fathomed the depth and capacity of love I am capable of.

 I will never take for granted my kids, or the love of my husband, his strength and compassion and my need for him.  I will be constantly reminded to never be selfish of my time because time is so limited.  I know now how very little control we have and that knowledge alters your outlook on life.  I understand the strength of fear; horror movies cannot possibly compare or simulate fear like this.  I will forever be grateful for the number of people who have reached out to us, who send butterflies (they always come when I need the reminder the most that we are not alone), for friends and family who worry too about this baby and pray for her safe arrival.  So, I smile. I stay distracted.

I play with G. I try to find ways to show S she's important. I try to document through pictures the beauty of pregnancy.

I enjoy the time I have right now with the kicks and taps of a healthy baby. I enjoy cuddling with D at night when she moves around beneath his hand on my belly, tapping out acknowledgement that she knows daddy is there.  I find strength in D who I know is anxious too, but he understands this loss and hope better than anyone else.

I'm turning 34 and have never felt more vulnerable to life, and circumstance, and possibility of pain.

There's 2 months left. There's 2 months left to enjoy what will most likely be my last pregnancy and to fear every second that one more of my children might make it to heaven before me. 2 months is an infinite amount of time and I'm struggling to breathe.

Spring time freeze

Spring is here. Sort of. It feels more like winter.  It looks more like dreary sadness.

 I am torn between wanting winter to end and not wanting spring to come.  It sounds strange I know, especially after the winter we had.  I am tired of dark, dreary, cold, and gray. Spring will come and with it the flowers, Sun, warmth, butterflies, angelversaries, 38 weeks and one day in gestation, and due dates.  I cannot stop it.  I can't stop time to today.  Today the baby inside me still moves. G is happy to sit here with me and relax. I am happy to sit here with her and feel her sister's kicks. But time will not stop for me, or G or this baby.  It will not freeze G as the crazy, fun little girl she is (and I guess not that I'd want it to, she has such potential for wonderful things), nor will it freeze the baby inside of me with her kicks and nudges.  I wouldn't want that either, I guess, since I already know what it means to have one baby forever frozen in time inside.  I also don't want to fast forward and miss these months with both of them, either.  However, the closer it gets to later the more flashbacks and sadness I have to fight off. The initial panic of "this baby has been quiet today," or the quick thought of "what if they don't find the heart beat" makes me sick to my soul.

Maybe with the return of spring the warmth will return to my insides. Maybe the sun will brighten the darkness I'm trying to avoid, ignore.  Maybe the butterflies will bring lightness and stronger faith that all will be okay but today... today I wish the first day of spring would freeze time.

Inside me

Inside me

My child lived

Inside me

She kicked and tapped

She sucked her thumb 

She thumped and bumped 

We saw her move from the outside

My child lived 

inside me 

She rolled and flipped and spun

She hiccuped

Her heart beat

We heard it on the outside

Because 

My child lived 

Inside me 

My heart still beats for her

Because she died

Inside me 

She will live as long as I do

Inside me

I hope

I had contractions the other night. They were irregular so I went to sleep. Sometimes exhaustion brings them on. I had more on my way into work the next morning and all day at work. I made the call to go to the hospital to be checked just in case. After an overnight stay and more testing, the doctors have since decided I have a dynamic cervix which is a cervix that changes with pressure applied. I've been ordered for bed rest. No more work. I have to be careful and hope I can keep the baby healthy until it's time. I hope my body doesn't sabotage this baby.  

An overnight stay in the hospital where we had found out that Gabbie was gone was,... Overwhelming to say the least. 

I listened to babies cry in the night. I walked the halls where we never held her. Nurses recalled our name and said how sorry they were then for the loss we suffered. The girl in Dietary taking my order was named Gabbie. No lie. Seriously. My heart skipped a hard beat when she sweetly asked for my order calling me by name. Sometimes before I go to sleep I hear a voice that calls me "mama" just before I hit dream land. It is neither S nor G. I hope it's Gabbie and not my imagination. 

I don't know if I want to deliver at that hospital again. The pinched look on Derek's face when they looked for this baby's heartbeat was enough to know I wasn't alone. I didn't imagine or create the anxiety. I could only hold my breath and pray her heartbeat was there. 

A message on my FB wall talked about not wishing the nine months away. I have to say that although the anticipation of this baby coming is powerful and I need to know if she will be ok, there is not a single stitch of my soul wishing for it to be over. I know that it may be the only time I get with her. It breaks my heart to think that today's kicks and bumps may at anytime be the last ones I feel. I can only hope it isn't. I dont wish for hours to pass I only hope for one more kick from this miracle I'm helping God to make inside of me. 

I had a nightmare last night. Derek, the girls and I were living in a house with a detached garage. We were getting ready to leave, the girls were loaded in, the car was loaded and running in the open garage. Derek and I were talking just on the side of the garage when we heard a loud crack.  Before we knew it, the car had somehow drove or rolled through the back wall of the garage and down into the house's yard behind us. We ran, but the hill was so big and it all happened so fast, and I was slower because of pregnancy, and before we could catch it, with my girls still inside, it hit the other house's garage and exploded. Derek turned and caught me and held me back from running to it as I was screaming for my girls and fighting against him. All I could do was scream, "no, no, no!" That's when I woke up with his arms around me trying to wake me an him kissing my sleeping face. He is my barrier against the fear and darkness. He tries to tell me how unrealistic they are, how fictional, and just a dream. I know this is true. But my greatest fear, just like with Gabbie, is my inability to stop disaster, to stop my girls from coming to harm, to be helpless. I hope each day is uneventful. 

I've been reading the Blue4Ben blog. I feel sadness to my core for that mom. I didn't watch my baby die in front of me. I didn't have 4 years with my Gabbie to see slowly slipping away. But I do know what it means to pray for a miracle with all your soul and beg to switch places so that the baby you grew inside you could keep growing. I do know the feeling of helplessness. I hope they get their miracle. From one mom holding onto hope to another, I hope God gives the miracle you pray for.