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.

Right where I am 2012: two years, two months, eighteen days

Angie at Still Life With Circles has once again asked babylost parents to speak about our grief, where we are right now in it. I didn't participate last year, but this time I'm giving it a try.

This time last year, I was about 22 weeks pregnant with my Rainbow baby. I remember seeing Angie's post about Right where I am and thought it was a great idea but I was trying to hold onto my hope instead of focusing on my grief. I was still not guaranteed the life of my unborn son, thus my reason for trying to ignore my negative thoughts. Nonetheless, I was still very anxious, being just three weeks away in my second pregnancy from the week I lost my Avery. And being pregnant again brought me back to what it felt like for Avery to be alive. After a while, all I could remember was her death and her absence. It swallowed up her short life so quickly. Her being alive inside my womb felt more like a dream. Being pregnant with Jude brought it back to me. I could remember again how happiness and life felt.

Now, this year, Jude is ten months old (eight months adjusted). My grief is better in some ways and worse in others. I healed so much in the year after Avery's death and stillbirth. It had taken so long for me to forgive God and not blame Him. It had taken months to recover any semblance of normalcy or to even function without any debilitation. Now, the grief has changed. I have times of bitterness and anger.

When Jude was born nine weeks early (via emergency c-section) so much of my healing wounds were torn open. Jude was supposed to be my Rainbow after the storm, not the calm before another storm. What took Avery nearly took Jude as well (I have blood clotting mutations) and I nearly died of pulmonary embolisms just four weeks after his birth. That and the four and a half long weeks in the NICU were so emotionally taxing.

All of these complications led my doctor to strongly advise that we not have any more children. Since then, I have been mourning the children I always wanted to have, their names already on a list in the back of my journal. All I ever wanted in life was a house full of children. But I have to erase my dreams of them and forget the names I love and will never get to use. Jealousy creeps in when I see siblings together, since Jude's only sibling is dead and we can't give him another. I fear he'll grow up feeling alone. And sometimes that makes me feel guilty.

I wanted so badly for my pregnancy with Jude to be perfect and successful. Since it wasn't, it took the wind right out of my sails and set me back a ways. And it's a different path than I was on before. The old path was raw and new but it held a lot of hope for the future. This new path is so final and dark and I have to fight my way off of it. My faith has been shaken a lot. I struggle in my walk with God. I don't know why He allows these things, and especially to me who deeply desires exactly the opposite. That is a daily struggle for me.

So is the struggle against bitterness. I find it so hard to watch other women have typical pregnancies and births. I feel so cheated of a full-term pregnancy and a normal, exciting delivery. I wasn't even there for Jude's. I had to be put under because of bleeding issues. And with a stillbirth, well, that's just not a normal birth at all, needless to say. So when I hear people cringe and complain over how many hours they were in labor for and how awful it was to push out a living-screaming-breathing- healthy baby that they get to take home in just a couple days, I just want to scream my lungs out. I didn't get any of that. I would give anything for it. Same goes with pregnancy. I am paralyzed with anxiety when I hear some women complain about the discomforts of a healthy pregnancy when I feared death all through mine, while enduring daily injections to keep him alive. That, there, is my bitterness. I desperately want it to fade away. I don't want pregnancy and childbirth to be a sore topic for me. But right now, it is.

I still consider Avery my daughter. When so nosily prodded by strangers in public, I answer that I have two children, and I am never afraid to let them know that one of them is in Heaven. I just cannot deny her existence. Maybe there will come a day down the road when I won't count her to meaningless strangers, but for now, I can't imagine doing so. She is waiting for us in Heaven, after all, and we, and all of those that deny and forget her will see her face to face.

I'm also in a place in my grief where I am angry. I'm angry that my only daughter is not here and that it doesn't appear that many people care. I've been informed of some very ugly comments that have been made in the past by people who've known me my entire life. I am angry that I have to justify how I've gone about my grief (considering my own flesh and blood to be my own flesh and blood) and how I handled the most devastating and horrific situation of my life (that I actually saw and held my daughter when she was born, just like countless other mothers of stillborn babies).  I resent that other people, who have absolutely no idea what it's like think that they have the right to give their opinion. That we should have to abide by their timeline and what they think is "normal" for such a tragic event. It wouldn't hurt them to love and support. If it makes me happy to rightfully consider Avery my daughter, then they should consider her my daughter as well. It wouldn't affect them at all, but it would make my life a lot easier.

People around me actually make my grief worse. Those that don't support me or who have obviously forgotten Avery just make it harder for me to heal. If they would just embrace what's happened to our family, I wouldn't feel so alone. I would feel less empty because Avery would be remembered and I'd feel like she meant something.

On the other hand, I am happier than I have been since Avery was alive. Jude is beautiful, healthy, and smart. He is the joy of my life. He is my love. I cherish him, every little thing about him. I am reluctant to watch him grow so quickly, but I'm so grateful he has the chance to. I practically mourn each piece of clothing he grows out of, as well as each precious stage he surpasses. It seems as though I'm constantly in a happy/sad state. So happy to be sharing these amazing and priceless moments with my sweet boy, but so sad that I'll never experience these moments again, with him or anyone else. I savor each second of his small body in my arms, his chubby cheek resting on my chest, and I thank God he is here. I marvel daily that Jude is mine and that he made it... that he came to stay.

And that is where I am, grasping onto the beauty in this life. I still miss my sweet girl. I'm in awe of my little boy. And oh, how I love them both.