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. 

Please

I bought a little lamb for a little baby that's expected to show her round little face in the end of May or beginning of June. I bought it for my baby. My rainbow. I also bought jammies. Little newborn Jammie's with a pink butterfly and "little sister" embroidered on them. They'll be her "go home" jammies. 

I put my faith in her coming home. I put my heart into believing it'll be okay. I put my soul into trying to protect her--- I'm so conscious now of each bump, and jab, and tickle, and ache; I count them all.  I breathe for her. Every moment I feel her, every tiny butterfly inside, so cherished. 

But I am so, so scared. Worse than any horror movie. Worse than any imagined fear. This is real. It's tangible. It's a smell in the air, feel it on my skin, breathe it out in shaky gasps, hold my girls so tight, dream of nightmares that terrify me less than life, feel my heart in my stomach kind of fear. What if the lamb and the pajamas are never used?  What if I go home from the hospital empty handed? 

Have faith, be strong, think positive. This IS all those things. I could not put them back once they were in my hand. But what if she never wears the jammies or never hugs the lamb? What if she has a box in my closet like Gabbie where her meager possessions she never used will go and a bear on my nightstand with her ashes inside?  What will I do?  What will I do?  

I'm on my knees. It's all that I can do. I cry. It's all that I have left. I'm on my knees. But it cannot end there.....

And so I pick my chin up, put my taped, tired heart back together. Dry my face. Stow her lamb and jammies away. And hope. And pray. It's just a little breakdown, a momentary lapse. And my fear recedes to the darker corners of my mind. It's time to make dinner, do some laundry and carry on, counting kicks. 

Who wants chicken?

Is there crazy on my face?

Maybe it’s the snow, or the cold, dark, dreary days.  Maybe it’s the headaches each morning and most of the day, or the fatigue that I carry all day.  Maybe it’s the sinus congestion, or the uncomfortable nature of pregnancy.  But I think I have some crazy on my face.  Can anybody notice?

I am thankful for this time with this sweet growing baby inside of me.  I am thankful for the slight movements I can feel.  I am thankful for the possibility of having a new miracle.  I am preparing for the worst but hoping for the best.  But I am terrified of the “inevitable” perceived (or imagined) dangers of life.  All I keep picturing (and trying desperately to ignore) is the possibility of holding this little one, still and blue in a couple months.  “Stay positive”, “smile”, “think good thoughts”, “be upbeat”.  These suggestions do nothing for me, mean little to me in fact, and, depending on the day, they make me kind of perturbed.  I think I am remaining pretty positive; I mean I still have mini daydreams about decorating her room or buying her clothes, about seeing if she looks like Gracie, or Gabbie, or Sky.  But these thoughts are stifled so quickly because of the fear of it being for naught.  I cannot un-decorate another nursery again, nor can I shop for a baby that may never come only to return the stuff later. Yet the idea of being unprepared is not comfortable either.   It feels like I’m starring in a horror story in which I can guess the ending but am helpless to stop the events from happening.  It’s similar to yelling at the TV “No! Why are you so stupid?” during a predictable horror movie in which you know that the killer is hiding in the room that the protagonist is entering. I hope I am pleasantly surprised but... who knows?

I have anxiety about absolutely everything relating to children being hurt.  Kids walking/running up and downstairs make my stomach lurch as I envision them tumbling down the stairs and me being helpless to catch them.  G chewing on a fruit roll up in the backseat makes my heart race as my imagination, unwillingly and much too quickly to stop, runs through a scenario in which she chokes and I would only be able to watch helplessly for an eternity of a millisecond before I can pull over to try and help her.  I picture cars colliding into mine as though in some action movie, and rattling everything inside me, shaking up the girls in the backseat.  I keep imagining terrible scenarios and cannot prevent them from coming unbidden into my minds-eye.  I quickly brush them away out of my thoughts but the instant they begin I cannot control them and the brief thought of “you don’t want the girls to live like this… hide it” is quick to follow.  But too late?  Anxiety is so heavy to carry.  Sometimes when I’m falling asleep I hear “Mama” called out in my room as if someone is in need of help but it is not Gracie or Sky.  I wake up and listen intently to silence or the whirring of the humidifier.  Then I go to back to bed, fall asleep instantly, and have full color nightmares of people trying to hurt me or us in any number of ways.  Then I wake up and sleep fitfully for much of the night, on and off with dreams, uncomfortable in my mind.  I check the time often in the darkness hoping, and yet not hoping, for more time to sleep. 

D says I’m becoming a “worry wart” but I cannot help it.  Is it crazy to think like this?   It's not that I react horribly, although repeated actions of these cause me to become short of breath.  If G goes too many times up then down the stairs I lose my mind a little.  I wonder if the anxiety is noticeable.  I was bound to change from losing Gabbie. How could I not?  But is there crazy on my face now? 

Safety net

So in a world where nothing is perfect fair or otherwise controllable, again, neither is pregnancy. 

When we lost Gabbie I didn't realize she was slowing down. I didn't realize she had stopped. Me. No one else. And though I know it wouldn't have mattered had I been able to tell she was leaving us because it was most likely too late I still know it was me that never noticed she was slowing down and slowly falling asleep forever. And say what you will, I mean seriously, if I can't entirely convince myself it wasn't at least partly my fault after a year and a half do you think there is something you can say that will?  Have at it. The guilt doesn't hinder my existence. I still play with my girls and am happy in life. I am not consumed by it. I feel fulfilled by them in the compartments of my heart that are theirs to fill. I laugh and dream and love and hope. The guilt is still there and will always be I think. It is now a part of me just as my girls' smiles and laughter and my husband's love is. 

I went to the doctor and had the anatomy sonogram. The baby is healthy and beautiful with its 10 toes and 10 fingers. This is wonderful. Something I by no means am taking for granted. While the sonographer attempted to find and record the blood flow I held my breath that it was all alright. And it was. I wait often as though on a cliff precariously waiting for a heavy gust of tragic news to blow me over the edge. But all is well. Except that at 18 weeks I have not felt it move. I was told the placenta is anterior and as such it provides a cushion preventing me from feeling it. It is a perfectly safe medical reason for not feeling it move and we will continue this way until it (the sweet baby) is big enough to take up more space. 

My issue is this: How am I to know the baby is still moving if I can't feel it?  How am I supposed to know I'm not failing again if I have no idea if it's active?  My safety net in my head has been stolen by my own body again and I can only wait and trust that it will be okay. And I know, at least there's a reason why I can't feel the kicks besides...  Besides death. Yes I know. But that gives cold comfort when I was so counting on being able to be the diligent observer of the baby's movements in my own body. It was the preparation in my head. 

"We can try again," I thought," I want to try again. And this time I will be so careful to make sure the baby keeps moving. I will keep track and maybe this time I won't fail for it. I will be able to be so much more careful."  

But now?  How?  How am I supposed to let go and hope and trust that it will be ok? It makes me angry at myself (which I know makes no sense because none of this was my fault and I do mean NONE.. Yet still...), sad, disheartened, scared, helpless...  I lost my sweet Gabbie because I didn't know and didn't keep count and now? I can't count and know even less. The safety net in my head is gone. I am so thankful it is healthy, and am so terrified I'll miss it moving (that I won't even have that, those kicks and flutters) and it'll stop and I'll lose it without even those precious little movements and then what?  Then what?