Rebuilding Myself

You could say that I am sarcastic by nature … probably bordering too often on cynicism.  Losing the girls only added to this, although I do try to curb it as much as possible.  There is only so much sarcasm and cynacism that can be tolerated before people start running in the other direction.

Today I did myself proud.  I held it back, I walked away … swallowing a million different remarks I could have made.

While registering for a fall yoga class I had to mention that I was pregnant.  The assistant’s face lit up as she beamed at me.  “Congratulations” she gushed, “We can’t wait to watch your pregnancy develop”.

Oh the things I could have said.  Instead I gulped them down, thanked her, and walked away.  Somehow I don’t think my dead babies fit into her wold.

Somebody get me a cookie, I think I definitely deserve one for that display of lovely socially correct behaviour.

One year ago today, we shared the news of our pregnancy with my family.  They were ecstatic for us … although we rarely talked about it, they knew we had wanted children for awhile.  It was my nephew’s birthday and we were all so excited to think about the next party we would have for him.

Today the table felt empty.  I hosted the party and couldn’t help the “if onlys” from streaming in.  If only there were two more at the table, if only I was too tired out to coordinate napkins, balloons, and plates, if only I was holding my own and not my newest nephew.

And yet, as they left I help my hand to my stomach and felt the first glimmer of hope.  Just maybe next year will be different.

I hate the forms.  The ones at the doctor’s office, the “medical history” ones.  I used to fly through them, I don’t anymore.

The pregnancy loss section got me this week.  “Abortion”, “Miscarriage”, “Stillbirth”.  Those were my three options.  Horrified as tears started to fill my eyes, I stared at the box I knew I should check.  Miscarriage.  It seemed too small.  It can’t capture the devastating loss of our girls at 19.5 weeks.  It doesn’t explain the perfect babies we held in our arms.  It is to clinical for the months of pain that followed.

I know they don’t care, they just need a term.  But I couldn’t do it, the box was too small.  I finally settled for a small sentence crammed between the boxes “lost twins at 19.5 weeks due to TTTS”.

It shouldn’t be this hard.

November through December were hard.  January brought a glimmer of hope.  February through April were the darkest months I have ever experienced.

The only way to explain it is that I felt like I was drowning, with no one to help.  Not only that, but people were watching, commenting on how well I could swim.  Anger boiled inside me, all I wanted to do was yell at them for not seeing my pain.  And yet, I kept it inside.

Finally, one very astute friend realized where I was at and brought me to the doctor.  His diagnosis shoke me to my core, and challenged my belief that I was strong enough to face anything.

Severe Major Depressive Disorder.  I wasn’t ready for that, I didn’t want to admit I couldn’t pull myself out on my own.

However, I was finally at the place where I did, and honestly my anti-depressents were exactly what I needed.  I look back now and can’t believe how much I struggled before finally asking for help.

But now I am being weaned off my meds due to my new pregnancy.  And I am scared.  I am terrified to be back in that place, but torn because I want to do everything possible to keep this baby safe.   

I have built up a small network around me who know of my meds, and know of the plan to go off them.  I only hope that I am strong enough to cry out for help this time if I need it.  And I cross my fingers, hoping that this will all be worth it.  That mid-April will bring a small squalling bundle into our lives that will be worth everything we have been through.

At only 4.5 weeks pregnant, already this pregnancy is completely different than my first.

We are ecstatic, please don’t misunderstand me … but the naivete is gone.  There aren’t the excited late night talks about our baby’s due date, the blissful ignorance has been removed.  I am not counting down until the end of the first trimester, when our baby will be “safe”, I now know there are no guaruntees.  

Instead, I find myself willing this child to survive, and pleading with it that if it is going to die, to please do it soon.  I don’t think I can handle giving birth to another 20 week old.  I don’t want to tell anyone about this little one, I don’t think I can take telling them another died.

In my heart, I don’t really believe this pregnancy will end in a child.  Last night I woke up with stomach pains.  I found myself immediately assuming the worst – even though logistically, it made sense that the pains were from eating too much pizza the night before.

I plead with Bug every day, asking him/her to be strong, wishing back the naivete I lost back in November.

9 months ago my heart was ripped out of me and broken into thousands of pieces.  After our girls died I felt as if I was carrying my heart in my hands, and everyone could see the fragments left behind.  It wasn’t protected, and occassionally people poked and prodded in ways that broke it even further.

The last 9 months have been a journey of trying to put it back together again, even though it will always look different.  In the last couple of months I have finally felt as though my heart is growing a protective layer.  I can control how people affect me again, raw emotions aren’t quite as familiar as they used to be.

And I have been proud of this … happy to again be in control.  This weekend I was given a rare and difficult choice. 

I could continue to hold my heart close, keep building that protective wall.  Or I could choose to let it go.  I could love like my heart hasn’t known deep pain, choose to believe that even a moment of that kind of love is worth months of the rawness that could follow.

I chose to let my heart go.  Welcome to this world Bug – right now you are just a second pink line, but I already love you, no matter how long you get to stay.