Right where I am 2013: three years, three months, eight days

Just like the past two years, Angie at Still Life with Circles, has encouraged us all to share right where we are at this moment in our grief.  My post from last year can be found here.

So, where do I stand in this up and down journey on this rugged terrain of grief? My grief has changed shape and size in the past three years, as life takes me down more paths that intertwine with this same road that I've trudged along. Right now, I am stuck. That's the only way I know how to describe it. Losing my daughter, Avery, three years ago at 25 weeks caused a ripple affect that has not seemed to cease. It's brought about so many other circumstances that I was never prepared to face, and now, I still face them everyday.

My son, my Rainbow Baby, will be two years old next month. As he gets older, my insatiable desire for more children gets stronger. Because of the unpredictable nature of my high risk pregnancies, I have been strongly advised to never attempt another pregnancy again. This has been a struggle that I still have never been able to accept. Right now, I am watching everyone who was pregnant with their Rainbows along with me become pregnant once again. Their bodies no longer fail them. They've seemed to be able to remedy what caused them to have their losses. But not me. Even those who have the exact blood clotting disorders I do have gone on to have healthy, full term pregnancies, and are having third babies now as well. My premature Rainbow was nearly lost as well, my body barely responding to what was supposed to fix it. All of this leaves me with so much anger. I don't understand why my body was not made for the one thing my heart has always longed for. I am grateful for my precious Jude, but I never wanted him to be alone.

When I had Jude by emergency c-section while on blood thinners, it caused me to develop blood clots in my lungs. I was hospitalized for his last week in the NICU, and it was one of the most traumatic experiences I've ever endured. I thought I would be over it by now, but it still haunts me. I have been left with a ridiculous struggle with anxiety. Because of the clots nearly two years ago, I am on coumadin and have to get my blood checked once a month (PT/INR). My anxiety has turned these routine finger pricks into horrifying moments to dread all month long. As they get closer, I am filled with fear. I know there is nothing to really worry about, but I cannot shake the feeling of dread over it. Things that never would have bothered me before have my stomach in knots now. I worry that I could lose my husband. I worry that my son could get cancer (ever since his febrile seizure seven months ago). I think about things no one should dwell on. I rob my life of the joy I should have by marring it with the fear of what isn't. I truly cannot control this and sometimes it consumes me.

Right now, I long for another daughter. I so badly want to be able to raise a little girl. I eat my heart out at the store, glancing over the sweet pinks and frilliness of the baby girls' section, knowing that the only baby girl clothes I'll ever buy are in a box in the top of my closet, purchased for a sweet girl that never made it home. I long for the little sandals and the dresses. The dolls and the bows. I love having a son, but I want a daughter again too. I was supposed to have that. I feel like there will forever be a gaping hole in my heart without a daughter to watch grow up. I'll never see my little girl as a bride. Never share girly heart to hearts or give mother-daughter advice. There's so much I can't have and I am dreadfully aware of that. I wish I didn't want it so badly, but I do.

I have a hard time with people who question my situation, just shrugging it off like I could just go to a specialist if I want another baby. They don't understand how serious it is. I almost died twice having my son. He almost died. My daughter did die. Since there are no guarantees at all when it comes to pregnancy for me, how could anyone think I should try going against the advice of more than one doctor? Then people nonchalantly suggest adoption, as if I've never heard of it before. That is not something that we can afford. And my heart aches for my child, so adoption does not heal what is broken. My dream is surrogacy, if that is even possible one day. If someone is truly selfless enough to give us the greatest gift imaginable. It's a huge deal. And very unlikely, but even so, I still keep a mental log of my favorite names... just in case.

I am convinced that if what happened to Avery was the end of our losses, that I would be a much better version of myself now. I grasp onto my loss more tightly than I would if we hadn't lost our future children as well. When I was pregnant with Jude, and everything was going perfectly, I felt at peace. I thought of her lovingly, without so much pain attached to her memory. I felt like I could survive and move past it, always carrying her close but never letting her death define me. But as soon as things went badly with Jude, and I lost all of his future siblings, a dark cloud moved in and it's hovered over me ever since. I'm stuck in the mud. I'm standing still while everyone moves on... But at least I'm standing.

Goodbye, Bailey

 

On June 10th, our beloved pug of 13 years, passed away.  He had been deaf for some time and his health was deteriorating quickly so it wasn't much of a surprise that it was his time to go. I always feared losing Bailey in all the years we loved him, but when it finally happened, it was admittedly not the tragedy I had pictured. 

I remember when we got Bailey. In January of 2000, my parents came to pick me up from school (I was in 10th grade) and when I approached my mom, she had something furry sticking out of her coat that she was trying to keep closed. I'll never forget when he popped his little face out and I saw him for the first time. He was so cute and tiny, almost silly to look at. I paraded him around to my friends, so proud of my cute new friend. 

It took us a couple days but we finally all agreed on Bailey's name (Parker and Cyrus were also in the running). I spent his first night on the floor outside of his cage while he cried in between sleeping. It didn't take long for Bailey to get his chubbiness that we loved, exaggerating his wrinkles even further. He was fun and sweet, chasing my little brothers around the house. He would come running the second you called his name. He loved treats and pizza crust the best. I loved how he always wanted to be where we were. If you left the room, he followed, just to be close by. 

Bailey was never aggressive, never threatening. He was the perfect dog for us. He lived with Daniel and me for 14 months after we got married. He was such a good sport, moving to a new place and then moving back home after our new landlords didn't allow pets. 

I always loved Bailey's snoring and I'll miss that. He was always wagging his tail... even up until the last minute. What a good boy. It's hard to believe he's gone now, the last piece of childhood faded away. 

Now, I have personal insight to the whole 'comparing losing a pet to losing a baby' issue that exists in the baby loss community. I have come across so many women who have had someone try to comfort them by saying they can relate since they lost their dog. I had that said to me as well. Now, after losing Bailey, I can honestly say that it is not the same thing whatsoever. Yes, I was sad losing Bailey. At times I felt like he was my baby, but that was before I ever had my own baby. It is very different to birth a child that is your flesh and blood, than to raise an animal in your home. Losing Bailey did not paralyze me in any way. Losing my daughter has marred me for life. It does seem that the people who try to compare it don't have children of their own. They must not, because then they would understand what they're saying. I hope that doesn't offend anyone, but I have yet to meet a bereaved parent who has not been hurt by that false sentiment. The life of our children cannot be compared to that of an animal or anything else. No two losses are the same. Comparisons are not necessary, no matter what they are.  It's okay for someone to consider their pet to be their child, but they cannot assume that someone else would hold their pet to the same esteem as their lost child.

So, with that tidbit of recently affirmed knowledge, I say goodbye to a dear old friend, who made life sweet and memories sweeter. We love you, Bailey!