Three times our life was thrown into disarray, put into a blender and turned on. Three times parenthood was taken from us. For the fourth time we tried again, and this time God said "I'm going to let you keep this one." This was the hardest and best decision of our lives.
"A circumstance to look back on and gain from. These babies are so much apart of our lives, and will continue to be."
A quote from one of our earlier blogs. These words still ring true. We are stronger and we've gained so much, but we also struggle. This post was written during our pregnancy and after, and expresses more of our thoughts and feelings.
We struggled with February especially. Our due date quickly approached and our emotions were quickly rising. Our due date came and went, and more days passed, and everyone was having their babies. The baby we were supposed to be having. Don't get us wrong we are over the moon ecstatic with this pregnancy, but you don't get pregnant and immediately feel better and forget about your past losses and experiences (what a world that would be if that were the case).
This pregnancy is different and this baby is different and this baby is not a replacement, we've worked really hard on grief counseling and being comfortable with where we're at. We've focused on forming attachments and grieving with each individual, baby/child/pregnancy.
This pregnancy is different, but there are some things that aren't.
We started fertility treatments, and told ourselves we were ready for whatever outcome be it positive or negative. And sometimes I think that negative might be easier to deal with, because we've dealt with it. We've dealt with the pain, depression, isolation and grief that follows. Now we deal with a heart beat, movement , a growing life and the unknown.
I don't know if Josh and I were happy about our confirmed pregnancy at first. I mean, it's what we wanted, what we had hoped for, and those two pink lines had held so much excitement and happiness before. I was uncertain and doubtful. Was this test correct, was the second? Yes they were both positive. But unlike the last times, I didn't cry tears of joy or happiness, I sat there in disbelief, and thought how I would tell Josh. Before you are so excited and want to come up with cute and unforgettable ways to share the news, this time, I just wanted to tell him, so we could both sit in disbelief, and stress about all the milestones to come and hope we get that far.
I didn't get morning sickness like before, and there were times I prayed sickness would come. Morning sickness became the friend I looked for to sit by on the bus, but at the stop longed to go our separate ways. When morning sickness quickly stops, it was usually the first sign for me each time that it was over. You long for this sickness to give you hope and keep you going.
Each time you wake up in the middle of the night to pee, you dread seeing spotting, for the first weeks you close your eyes, or try not to pay attention. But the weeks go by and it never comes, but it doesn't stop you from worrying the next time, and there are a lot of next times.
Every doctor's appointment, every ultra sound, every heart beat appointment you dread. You are so excited, but you dread them. The first time we heard and saw our baby we cried, we were so happy, we were so overcome with every happy feeling, it was surreal. But the moments and days leading up to this moment were pure stress. But ignored stress, because everyone and thing is telling you to not be stressed so you don't stress the baby. But you sweat, and your blood pressure rises, your heart goes crazy, and you can't think of anything else. And you hope and pray that everything will be fine. You see the tiny heart and the tiny hands, and the tiny erratic movements and your heart goes mad, and your mind is filled with pure euphoria. Then you leave, and all the stressful thoughts hit you. As long as you look at that tiny fluttering heart everything is fine, but the moment you stop looking every bad thought comes fluttering back.
Every appointment is always the same, your sympatheteic nervous system takes over and does it's thing. You try and sit in the lobby like you aren't terrified inside. You calmly answer the questions and listen to everyone tell you that the chance of miscarrying is almost 0, or at least the same as any other pregnant woman. You try and let their words penetrate your thoughts, but you still doubt.
Weeks go by and you graduate the first tri mester with flying colors, even though you weren't paralyzed with morning sickness.
You subscribe to all of the mommy blogs, so you get multiple reassuring emails about each week and each milestone. The next milestone is feeling baby for the first time. How exciting! You look up what it feels like, and you have a pretty good idea, and you lie awake at night connecting with your uterus. I mean really connecting, you and your womb are now one, you will feel any movement no matter how small. And you wait, and nothing. And you worry, because I mean even with an anterior facing placenta you should be feeling something by now, right?
Week 18, Week 19, Week 20?
And then while you're walking, or sitting, or generally minding your own business, you get poked from the inside. You aren't sure what's happened, or happening, indigestion, upset stomach, butterflies? Then they get stronger and you realize this little growing alien inside you is communicating. Every day you look forward to these tiny pokes, and eventually you have a routine. Our biggest movement times are between 7:00-8:00 am, right around 11, 3:00-4:00, 6, and right before we go to bed. Then you wake up one morning, and you wait for your morning greeting; a couple butt bumps, maybe an elbow to the bladder, and nothing. So you wait...and you tell your spouse, because if you don't say something you will lose it. And you look up every way to get this baby moving. You drink something sour, something sweet, something with caffeine, something warm, you eat something, you shine a light on your belly, you play loud music, you talk to your tummy, you do jumping jacks, you get nervous. And nothing. You panic, and on the way to the doctor you might even cry. And you will definitely question how comfortable you are with your grief. You get to the doctor, and let them know it's been 12 hours since your last movement. They check each quadrant and pick up a tiny slower than normal beat, but it's steady. But as they search every thought crosses your mind and as soon as you hear that tiny beat your mind goes blank, and the future is returned to you.
You find yourself envying expectant mothers who don't have these worries. Who don't constantly think about the eventuality that this could end in still birth, miscarriage, and maybe just maybe if everything works out perfectly, life.
Every person that you talk to you wonder what they'll ask. Is this your first baby? It always take me aback, and I always consider my answer. They want the polite answer of "yes, this is our first." But my mind masticates on what I want to say. "The first baby to make it this far? The first baby we've seen flutter and move about? The first baby you know about?" Yes, this is our first. "The first baby with an audible heart beat? The first baby we've fallen in love with? The first baby we've been excited about? The first baby we've stressed over and been nervous for? The first baby we've tracked?" No, this is not the first. To be honest, I still don't know how to answer.
When referred to specialists you stop listening to the Doctor's words. They go over your history and lecture you on miscarriage, as if this Doctor's words are the first we've heard on the matter, and he holds some genuine genius. As if telling us "a bad pregnancy will ultimately fail, but a healthy pregnancy usually continues," is reassuring or calming. How astute you are sir. But you sit and nod and think about all the things you'd rather be listening to; nails on chalk board, barking dogs, screaming babies.
We still have moments where we think of the lives that stopped, that never moved and what would have been. But the moments get shorter. Eventually you let yourself wash the baby clothes you've been storing, watch tutorials on installing car seats, toy with the idea of putting up a crib, and finally sign up for the birthing classes you've been procrastinating.
We still get paralyzed by some well meaning and probably innocent statements. "You only have a couple of summer babies before you stop making that mistake." "We wouldn't plan a baby around our birthdays." Five years ago us would have agreed. I've heard the nightmares of long hot summer pregnancies and the uncomfortable joy of giving birth on your birthday. The naïve couple we were years ago thought we could plan when we would conceive and have a child roughly 40 weeks later, how fun it was going to be to have a Halloween baby, and then a new years baby, and then a spring baby.
And then while you're walking, or sitting, or generally minding your own business, you get poked from the inside. You aren't sure what's happened, or happening, indigestion, upset stomach, butterflies? Then they get stronger and you realize this little growing alien inside you is communicating. Every day you look forward to these tiny pokes, and eventually you have a routine. Our biggest movement times are between 7:00-8:00 am, right around 11, 3:00-4:00, 6, and right before we go to bed. Then you wake up one morning, and you wait for your morning greeting; a couple butt bumps, maybe an elbow to the bladder, and nothing. So you wait...and you tell your spouse, because if you don't say something you will lose it. And you look up every way to get this baby moving. You drink something sour, something sweet, something with caffeine, something warm, you eat something, you shine a light on your belly, you play loud music, you talk to your tummy, you do jumping jacks, you get nervous. And nothing. You panic, and on the way to the doctor you might even cry. And you will definitely question how comfortable you are with your grief. You get to the doctor, and let them know it's been 12 hours since your last movement. They check each quadrant and pick up a tiny slower than normal beat, but it's steady. But as they search every thought crosses your mind and as soon as you hear that tiny beat your mind goes blank, and the future is returned to you.
You find yourself envying expectant mothers who don't have these worries. Who don't constantly think about the eventuality that this could end in still birth, miscarriage, and maybe just maybe if everything works out perfectly, life.
Every person that you talk to you wonder what they'll ask. Is this your first baby? It always take me aback, and I always consider my answer. They want the polite answer of "yes, this is our first." But my mind masticates on what I want to say. "The first baby to make it this far? The first baby we've seen flutter and move about? The first baby you know about?" Yes, this is our first. "The first baby with an audible heart beat? The first baby we've fallen in love with? The first baby we've been excited about? The first baby we've stressed over and been nervous for? The first baby we've tracked?" No, this is not the first. To be honest, I still don't know how to answer.
When referred to specialists you stop listening to the Doctor's words. They go over your history and lecture you on miscarriage, as if this Doctor's words are the first we've heard on the matter, and he holds some genuine genius. As if telling us "a bad pregnancy will ultimately fail, but a healthy pregnancy usually continues," is reassuring or calming. How astute you are sir. But you sit and nod and think about all the things you'd rather be listening to; nails on chalk board, barking dogs, screaming babies.
We still have moments where we think of the lives that stopped, that never moved and what would have been. But the moments get shorter. Eventually you let yourself wash the baby clothes you've been storing, watch tutorials on installing car seats, toy with the idea of putting up a crib, and finally sign up for the birthing classes you've been procrastinating. We still get paralyzed by some well meaning and probably innocent statements. "You only have a couple of summer babies before you stop making that mistake." "We wouldn't plan a baby around our birthdays." Five years ago us would have agreed. I've heard the nightmares of long hot summer pregnancies and the uncomfortable joy of giving birth on your birthday. The naïve couple we were years ago thought we could plan when we would conceive and have a child roughly 40 weeks later, how fun it was going to be to have a Halloween baby, and then a new years baby, and then a spring baby.
Then on a hot summers night after several induction techniques the contractions start, and you ride the waves and take a little breath because you've almost made it. You deliver a perfect soul in the wee hours of the morning and you bask in her glory and hold her tight to you, finally finally on the outside. You breath in the newness that is parenthood and baby. You let every emotion go and let love envelope you both.
You pick names and sign papers, learn how to clean and dress this tiny person. And you show your wonderful creation off to the rest of the world.
I Wish that having a baby erased every bad moment and memory and you were left with the pleasantries of raising a new life, but it doesn't always work that way. Miss Auda Mae is the best thing that could have ever happened to us, but you'll always remember every anniversary of what you never had. And we are still learning that that's okay. We can still be sad, because it isn't overwhelming, it's there in the back of our minds, and sometimes when we're driving we wonder what it'd be like to have a full backseat, or to have already experienced all of these firsts we are now experiencing.
Miss Mae waited until August so she could have her own month, and fill our summer with fun and sass again. Every day I look at her and this wonderful family and wonder how I got so lucky? And then I remember. We are very aware this story could have ended very differently, but we are so glad it didn't.
