"The human being is a surprisingly resilient organism. We impel toward health, not sickness. Your spirit, as surely as your body, will try to heal...So you should not fear tragedy and suffering. Like love, they make you more a part of the human family...They are the fire that burns you pure."
~ Kent Nerburn, Simple Truths
We lost a second angel this year.
The circumstances were eerily similar to the previous baby we lost. I found out I was pregnant by the 5th week. Had an ultrasound by the 6th week to check on the heartbeat; cardiac activity was detected, but so was a subchorionic hemorrhage. After two weeks, back to the sonologist to check on the size of the SCH and the baby's development. The size of the SCH decreased, but the baby's cardiac activity revealed only a flatline. Early embryonic demise at about 7 weeks AOG.
Over and over, the good doctor tried to look for a heartbeat. But for each flatline I saw, my spirits continued to sink. I knew what he was going to tell me. And before he could even say, "I'm sorry," I was already lost in my own personal abyss. Yet I was still able to tell him, "Yes, I know." By then, I had already successfully put on my most convincing poker face. I took it matter-of-factly.
But the truth was, my world stopped for a while and continued on in slow motion, as if I was in a drug-induced stupor. I heard him ask me if it was okay to call in my husband, and I found myself mechanically nodding my head and thinking, what else can you say that can change things? Seeing my husband walk in with a shit-oh-no-here-we-go-again look, and the pain in his eyes when the doctor showed him the baby's heart, silent and still.
We went back to my OB Gyne to show her the results, not talking, just holding hands. There were no words. Only that grave, familiar feeling that we wished we never knew.
I am putting my thoughts and feelings out here not to ask for comfort, or advice, or reasons. Because there is no comfort right now. Because I don't need advice. Because there are no reasons that I can humanly fathom.
Only feelings. Of anger. Of sorrow. Of bitterness.
I feel angry at the laboratory that processed my blood tests. Yes, I know they said results will be in two to three weeks' time, but have they never heard of a life-and-death situation? I insisted twice on getting the results early, twice I was told the same thing...yet when my OB gave them hell, they were able to produce the results in 15 minutes. But it was useless. She was already holding the second ultrasound result. At some point, I wanted to blame the lab. I am angered at the life I had lost and at their incompetence and insensitivity. I could have been given the proper treatment to save my baby's life had they not wasted their time sitting on their motherfucking slacker asses. I am angry that I am so helpless.
I am deeply sorrowed for another beautiful life lost. A life we eagerly anticipated would bring more happiness and love into our family. I am sad because I was powerless to do anything to save him (Yes, I know in my heart that I carried a little boy). I am sad because I was not able to save his sister, either (I also felt in my heart that the previous one was a little girl).
I am bitter because I feel like I failed my husband and my son. Yes, I know it's not my fault, it's nobody's fault. But that is how I feel. I saw other mothers at the hospital that day, with their big bellies and their expressions of bliss and I think, why could I not do that again?
The most difficult part of this ordeal was in breaking the news to my son. We told him we lost the baby, and he said, "Again?!" He leaned on my shoulders and hugged me, and it took all the energy in my body not to break down in front of him. I couldn't do that to my son. I gave him a rational answer, though rational was the last thing I felt at that time.
Whenever I see images of siblings on books, on the internet, on TV, anywhere...I feel a knife going through my heart for what my son couldn't have. I long to give him a brother or a sister, because I know how lonely it can be without one. But I can't. And it hurts like hell.
Dear reader, don't tell me there is hope yet. Don't tell me I can try again. Don't tell me that God's plans are not our plans. I know all that. But I don't want to hear it.
I just want to feel. I am allowing myself this, for the moment. I lost another life and I have every right to grieve, and no one has the right to tell me otherwise.
I will see you someday, my little ones. Mommy owes you both some hugs and kisses.
2 comments:
Perhaps it was just right that after months of what happened, I am responding to this blogpost only now. Losing someone even if that someone happened to be just a few weeks inside your womb will always leave a void that won't be filled even if someone new comes along. It will just be there. It may take a backseat especially if something good happens to us but there will be many instances when you would think of the what ifs and what could have beens. The only thing, I guess, we can do, is to hope that we will be able to cope after some time.
When I wonder what could have happened if we didn't lose our own babies (two of them, too), then I think, too, that we wouldn't probably have Jem and Cassie. It would be two different babies instead of these two that are bringing so much fun into our lives. So I go back to God and thank Him for giving us two angels who I would be happy to see in another lifetime because I also know that God willed for it to be this way. I may not understand it now but someday, when I am no longer here on earth, I would probably see why.
Hugs, dear. I won't tell you it's for the better, or that there is hope yet, or that you can try again, or that God's plans are not your plans because I have been there too. Nevertheless, allow me to tell you that I am here for you. We may not be together all the time but I hope you know as I know in my heart, that we will always be there for each other.
I am thankful for friends such as you who, one, understands my need for silence and, two, would give their support even without saying anything. I am comforted by the mere presence of such friends in my life.
You're right, there is that void. I'm mostly okay, but there are times when the feelings come back (which I expect). I even felt guilty when I did not remember to light a candle on the day I was supposed to give birth to him; I did that for the would've been 2nd baby. But it doesn't mean he is forgotten.
For all I know, they're happily playing in their heavenly garden and laughing at silly old mom for entertaining sad thoughts. But I am still blessed to have one precious child with me, the sweetest, most thoughtful boy I could ever ask for. He is more than enough for me in this lifetime. Whenever our conversation touches on the siblings he has lost, he always tells me, "It's okay, Mommy, you and Daddy are more than enough for me." :)
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