A year ago, I woke up pregnant.
That was my first thought of the morning. I'm pregnant! I'd known less than a week, and it consumed my thoughts in from the moment my eyes popped open until the moment I fell to sleep.
On this morning that thought was quickly followed by foreboding. The night before I'd found the telltale sign that every pregnant woman dreads, a tiny drop of blood that turned into several spots a couple of hours later.
But am I STILL pregnant? I wondered.
I'd woken up several times during that long night. Each time, I'd roll over on my left side and pray. Please God, please let my baby be ok.
I tried to rationalize my fear away. It's no big deal. Just your uterus stretching. Completely normal...exactly what happened with my daughter, and she was fine!
Still the worry and anxiety were eating at me. I prayed, I rationalized, I bargained. I made all kinds of promises to God. If this baby is ok, I PROMISE I'll be a better person. I'll be more patient, I'll be more understanding, I'll be a better listener. I'll be a better mom, partner, daughter, friend, neighbor. I won't yell at other drivers in traffic, regardless what they do.
Along with prayers and thoughts of rationalization and bargaining that crowded my brain, two emotions crept in. Sadness and anger. Why is this happening to me? What kind of sick joke is this? Why ME?
For years, I'd suffered from secondary infertility, and now after a bad bout of the stomach flu, I was pregnant and I hadn't even tried. I was 36 years old, and I'd made peace when I was 30 that my childbearing days were over. Yet here I was, unexpectedly pregnant, something I didn't think was possible. It was supposed to be time of happiness. Instead, I was terrified my baby was dying, and I couldn't do anything about it. It was a cruel twist of fate. An unexpected future was gone as quickly as it was first imagined.
Bracing myself, I took that short trip to the bathroom, hoping for a good sign. Instead, I found a steady trickle of blood, and I knew. My body was rejecting my baby. The womb that was supposed to nurture my child had decided to abort him. Spontaneous abortion... it was such an ugly term. My body had failed me. I was a biological failure.
I'm not going to go into all the emotions I felt in that moment. If you've experienced loss, you already know. If you're one of the lucky ones, the 3 of 4 who haven't experienced it, nothing I can say will make you understand. I was devastated. It felt like I died...part of me DID die.
The next few days were a blur. My doctor confirmed what I already knew. I was no longer pregnant. All I remember is the pain, the grief, and the tears. The hollow feeling that part of me was missing. As much as the physical pain of miscarriage hurt, it didn't compare to my heartache. Contractions, heartbreak, and tears defined me.
The following day, after a few hours of contractions, I passed our baby. As I looked down at that tiny perfect sac and embryo, I felt my heart shatter and I knew I'd never be the same person again. I was grieving for an unknown, unattainable future. My baby died before he ever had a chance to live. Nothing about this was fair.
At first I didn't tell many people about my miscarriage. After all, it's not something we're supposed to talk about, right? We shouldn't even mention we're pregnant until it's "safe," but a loss mom will tell you there's no such thing as a safe time in pregnancy.
Why is the subject of loss taboo? Dead babies make for uncomfortable conversations. It goes against the natural order of life. Children are supposed to outlive parents, so as a society, we try to ignore it when the opposite happens.
It took months to open up about my loss. Most people were sympathetic, and phrases that I'd always thought were trite like "I'm sorry" and "I'm thinking of you" suddenly meant a lot. Some of the things people said to make me feel better had the opposite affect. Their words stung. I hated hearing things like "It's for the best. What if he'd been born severly disabled?" Or my personal favorite, "It's better that it happened now before you got too attached." I already loved my baby. Why couldn't they understand that?
Still, it was someone I loved who suffered a loss at the same time who hurt me the most without even realizing it. Instead of mourning together, she pushed me away, lost deep in her own grief. "You weren't even trying," she said. The words crushed me. My heart hurt so much I couldn't breathe. Until then, I never thought that some babies mattered more than others. Both of us were mourning the future we'd never have, but I felt like my baby didn't matter. It made me physically ill. I don't know if I'll ever forget how I felt at that moment. My pain and grief were amplified until I felt like my broken heart would split me completely in two.
It was clear to me that I was the only one who would ever love and mourn this baby the way he deserved. He was worthy of so much more. It wasn't fair the way his life ended before it ever began. It didn't feel like anyone else cared. Life went on. It didn't crash to a stop like it should have. I vowed to myself that he WOULD matter. His life and death would matter to someone besides me and my family.
It was a lonely time, but I found solace with others who had experienced loss. It helped me find a way to cope with my grief. Somehow seeing what these women had experienced and survived made me hopeful that I'd be ok, and slowly I did start to feel more like myself again. I'd find myself humming a song or laughing out loud at a funny thought. It was followed by crippling guilt. How could I be happy when my baby was dead? But for a brief moment, at least, I felt normal.
These periods of time grew, and my guilt lessened. After all, I had two sunshine babies who deserved a mom who wasn't crippled by grief. I should live for them, and I should live for the baby who never had a chance to experience life.
Slowly, normalcy crept back into my life, but just as it was returned, my world spun out of control again. For three days, I woke up sick and exhausted. I'd drag myself out of bed only to vomit several times before I could begin my day.
I did the math, and I was late. There was NO way I was pregnant again. I refused to be pregnant. I couldn't be.
For almost a week, I tried to ignore the obvious, but the not knowing started to wear on me. One night I was home alone, and my curiosity won out. I peed on a stick, and when it came out positive, I sat down on the bathroom floor and cried.
I cried tears of sadness for my dead baby, and I cried tears of fear for the new baby growing inside me. I was so afraid my body was going to kill him too. I cried because I didn't think I was strong enough to survive another loss. There were no tears of happiness, not then anyway.
Happy tears did not come until the day my Optimus was born and I knew he was alive and healthy. Honestly, I don't think I really BREATHED during the entire pregnancy. I was so afraid something would go wrong. I held my breath in silent anticipation. Each doctor appointment was torture. I prayed and hoped for a happy, healthy rainbow, but I feared that I'd lose him too. Joyful tears and the ability to breathe only came the first time I heard him cry.
Pregnancy after loss is not an easy journey. It's full of fear, anxiety, happiness, and guilt. Sometimes it's just one of these feelings, and at others, it's all of them at once. Emotions hit fast, and they hit hard.
I wish I could tell you the negative feelings go away, but I don't think they ever do. Once you've experienced loss, it becomes a part of who you are. And it didn't just affect me, my fear and anxiety were contagious. As my due date approached, my kids made plans for our new life, but their statements always started with "if" the baby comes home, not "when." It was heartbreaking to see their worry and to know that they lived with the knowledge that babies could die. It could happen anytime and without reason. Life wasn't fair, and it could be cruel.
The whole time I was pregnant, I struggled with guilt. Now that my rainbow is here, I still struggle. My pregnancies were close together. There were only two months between my loss and finding out I was pregnant again. Anytime I felt sad about my miscarriage, it made me feel like I was taking my rainbow for granted.
How do you mourn the loss of one baby when you know that your other baby wouldn't be here if the first had survived? It's sick logic, but it became a normal part of my life as I struggled to process my feelings. I mourned my dead baby on his due date even as his brother kicked and jabbed my insides, reminding me that he was alive and would be here soon. The guilt that I was betraying both of them was strong. The struggle of finding a way to love both of them without guilt, of wanting both of them, will continue, probably forever.
I mourn the baby I lost on the first anniversary of my miscarriage. I'm so sad that I never got to hold him or kiss him and that I'll never know if he has my eyes. Yet, as I sit here wondering about the baby I never knew, his little brother Optimus is swaddled in my arms, nursing. I look down and see his sweet face. His fat baby cheeks are the same ones I had as a baby. He has his daddy's ears and hairline... and his scowl. He has the laid-back personality of his sister, and he sucks on his hand, not his thumb to self-soothe, just like his big brother did at his age. He is a perfect blend of all of us.
I'm so thankful, so blessed to have him. My heart swells with love every time I look at him. At times it seems like a dream that he's here and that he's mine. For the first time in a long time, I feel lucky, but it doesn't make today any easier. It doesn't make me miss his sibling any less. And it definitely doesn't make the guilt go away.
I don't know how to explain what I'm feeling. It's a riddle I haven't solved. How do I mourn the baby I lost when the only way I could have him here with us means my precious Optimus wouldn't exist? And how do I go on and enjoy my sweet baby boy without feeling like I'm forgetting, or worse replacing, his sibling? The more I try to make sense of it, the more guilty I feel and more confused I become. I'm not sure if I'll ever figure out.
In the meantime, I'm going to enjoy every moment I have with my sunshines and my rainbow...and I'm going to remember their sibling and wish he was here too. I'm going to pray the guilt lessens. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that life doesn't stop even if you feel like it should. Life is precious, and we never know what the future holds, so we should remember fondly and live fully.
A year ago, I lost my baby, and now I'm holding a rainbow. Somehow, I survived everything in between. I didn't think I would, and l couldn't have done it without my family, friends, and those women I met along my journey.
A year ago I vowed to myself that my baby's short life would matter. He may no longer be here, but he led me to a strong, courageous group of women in the loss community. Pregnancy After Loss Support helped me through my emotional journey of pregnancy after loss. And now, every woman who I help reminds me that my angel is the reason WHY I'm here... and in that way he lives on. And for that, he will always matter... to me and everyone.
