The other day, while waiting for the bell to ring to let students go to their next classes, a conversation between students caught me in my tracks. I stopped entering grades into the gradebook, my ears perked up, and my breath hitched. My heart was racing, and I felt like I was going to vomit.
I stayed calm and professional, of course, but everything in me wanted to just run out of the room.
"Yeah, I guess I'm the older twin. I mean I was born eight minutes before my brother. So I don't know, I guess you can call that older, but we're basically the same age."
Other students respond to that, but I can't hear them. Then he says,
"We were a MONTH early!"
When no one seems particularly impressed, he goes on, "I had jaundice too, which is where your skin is all yellow and they have to put lights on you."
Another student pipes in, as if to show him up,
"Well, when I was born, my umbilical cord was wound tightly around my neck. Like, a bunch of times. I was purple, and I wasn't moving or even breathing! Isn't that craaaazy?"
More responses that I can't hear, as I'm feeling dizzy at this point.
Then she says, "Yeah, they even put me in the stupid kid classes when I started school, because they thought I was going to be slow from not getting enough oxygen. But I never needed them."
Someone responds, "Uhhhh, no kidding, Ms. Straight A's!"
Laughter ensues.
I'm dying inside.
Friday, May 24, 2013
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Mother's Day
Very emotional on Mother's Day holding this little guy who came into being (unbeknownst to us) last Mother's Day. So overwhelmed with joy and gratitude that he made it here safely, that I could hold him in my arms this Mother's Day, that my gorgeous girl Evelyn is such a great big sister to him, and that his big brother Elias will forever hold such a special place in all of our hearts.
Sunday, May 5, 2013
International Bereaved Mothers Day 2013
For those of you who aren't on my FB page, I wanted to be sure to pop in here to wish you a day full of reflection and hope on this Bereaved Mothers Day.
It's exactly the space I'm in - one of reflection and hope.
Looking back at my post on this holiday two years ago, I just can't believe how different I feel today. I can't quite explain it. It might be what I've heard some people call "integration". I no longer feel the need to defend myself at every turn for loving and remembering my first born son. He will always be my forever baby, my son, my reason to look forward to heaven. I will always love him, always miss him, and that's just the way it is. He's part of me. Forever. And there's comfort in that.
I'm glad I took the time two years ago to write that post, to flesh out my feelings on the "holiday" that Carly Marie started. It is a necessary one. It stands in such stark contrast to the commercialized bubble gummy Hallmark holiday of Mothers Day, which undeniably recognizes a very different kind of parenting. Not the "delicate parenting" I describe in the aforementioned post.
And I still love this poem so much, written by the lovely Angie, my friend and fellow BLM, in honor of this sacred holiday.
I stumbled upon an article today and found this quote that I felt really resonated:
"The good news is that healthy grieving does result, at the time right for each of us, in an experience of integration. We take stock and say: I am changed by our loss, and I have changed my life as a result of my loss. And we are not shriveled permanently like a dry stick because of our loss. We can feel alive again…probably wiser, maybe quieter, certainly full of gratitude and a desire to contribute from what we have been through.
And all in good time."
~Elizabeth Harper, Ph.D
Looking back at my post on this holiday two years ago, I just can't believe how different I feel today. I can't quite explain it. It might be what I've heard some people call "integration". I no longer feel the need to defend myself at every turn for loving and remembering my first born son. He will always be my forever baby, my son, my reason to look forward to heaven. I will always love him, always miss him, and that's just the way it is. He's part of me. Forever. And there's comfort in that.
I'm glad I took the time two years ago to write that post, to flesh out my feelings on the "holiday" that Carly Marie started. It is a necessary one. It stands in such stark contrast to the commercialized bubble gummy Hallmark holiday of Mothers Day, which undeniably recognizes a very different kind of parenting. Not the "delicate parenting" I describe in the aforementioned post.
And I still love this poem so much, written by the lovely Angie, my friend and fellow BLM, in honor of this sacred holiday.
I stumbled upon an article today and found this quote that I felt really resonated:
"The good news is that healthy grieving does result, at the time right for each of us, in an experience of integration. We take stock and say: I am changed by our loss, and I have changed my life as a result of my loss. And we are not shriveled permanently like a dry stick because of our loss. We can feel alive again…probably wiser, maybe quieter, certainly full of gratitude and a desire to contribute from what we have been through.
And all in good time."
~Elizabeth Harper, Ph.D
Thursday, April 25, 2013
A Door Closed
I don't like to write about work here. It just doesn't seem like the place. But I have to say that I just fought like hell to get a different position that I've wanted for the past decade. I apparently wowed everyone with my interview, and yet somehow, I still didn't get the position.
This feels like such a grief trigger right now.
2013 has been a great year so far of redefining myself, settling in with our new family, focusing on what really matters. I was so looking forward to this new chapter career-wise, and now it just feels like the book has been slammed shut right in my face.
It feels like a betrayal. An unfairness that cuts deep to the core.
Why after all I've been through did I expect the world to be just? Of course it isn't. I'm deserving of this position, and I would have done a phenomenal job at it, but now it's out of reach. And it isn't because I did anything wrong. The world doesn't work that way.
I don't know where to go from here. It's not the kind of position that's easy to find.
I'm so sick of feeling like I do everything right just to get screwed over. Staying away from the pity party is going to be a challenge for me after this major setback. The past few weeks, thinking about my chances for this position excited and energized me at work. Now, knowing I lost my chance, I just want to stay in bed under the covers and cry.
Clearly not an option.
I'm just so sad that this didn't happen for me. I feel like I'm crashing from all the anticipation of thinking I might get to have a fresh new start. It amazes me that I actually got my hopes up that things would go in my favor. I know I have a lot to be grateful for, but I'm just really angry, and feeling like I'll never be okay with this or how it all went down. Feeling like I'll never be excited or energized about work again. Feeling burnt out on what I currently do. Wishing I had another calling to fall back on. Jealous of people who work their dream jobs every day. Jealous of people who still think that things work out for the best in the end.
This feels like such a grief trigger right now.
2013 has been a great year so far of redefining myself, settling in with our new family, focusing on what really matters. I was so looking forward to this new chapter career-wise, and now it just feels like the book has been slammed shut right in my face.
It feels like a betrayal. An unfairness that cuts deep to the core.
Why after all I've been through did I expect the world to be just? Of course it isn't. I'm deserving of this position, and I would have done a phenomenal job at it, but now it's out of reach. And it isn't because I did anything wrong. The world doesn't work that way.
I don't know where to go from here. It's not the kind of position that's easy to find.
I'm so sick of feeling like I do everything right just to get screwed over. Staying away from the pity party is going to be a challenge for me after this major setback. The past few weeks, thinking about my chances for this position excited and energized me at work. Now, knowing I lost my chance, I just want to stay in bed under the covers and cry.
Clearly not an option.
I'm just so sad that this didn't happen for me. I feel like I'm crashing from all the anticipation of thinking I might get to have a fresh new start. It amazes me that I actually got my hopes up that things would go in my favor. I know I have a lot to be grateful for, but I'm just really angry, and feeling like I'll never be okay with this or how it all went down. Feeling like I'll never be excited or energized about work again. Feeling burnt out on what I currently do. Wishing I had another calling to fall back on. Jealous of people who work their dream jobs every day. Jealous of people who still think that things work out for the best in the end.
A Different Kind of Loss
I've been on a sort of "high" lately. I feel very different. My skin is thick. My claws come out easily when necessary. I stand up for myself like never before. I'm fiesty. I fight like hell for what matters to me like never before. I don't anger easily, but when you cross that line, be ready to deal.
Because the universe has thrown me enough grief to last a few lifetimes, I will not willingly take any more than I have to.
Which means cutting people out of my life when I need to with minimal guilt, if any at all. It's a simple equation, really. If you detract from my life more than you add to it, then goodbye.
I have to look out for me, because, well, no one else does, and the universe, the gods, fate, they all don't give a flying duck.
If I can learn to live without my son, then I can learn to live without frenemies, right?
But.
What about the people who have just sort of drifted out of my life? This has been on my mind so much lately. One or two people in particular who have simply drifted away for no apparent reason. No blowout. No goodbye. No explanation. No sob story about why we just can't be friends anymore.
Just silence.
More silence in my life where there should be noise.
All the loss moms know what I mean.
I am changed. I am different. I am still figuring all the ways in which this is true. But one thing for sure I know is that I am a way better friend than I've ever been. And the people who have sort of just left me behind after my loss, well, it's too bad they don't take the time to get to know the new me. Because I'm fiercely loyal. I live in the moment more than ever before. I don't let anxiety cripple me like it used to, because life is just too short, and I want to live mine more fully. My sense of humor is better than it ever was. I've never understood gallows humor until my loss, but trust me when I say that it is a real phenomenon. People who have been put through the ringer in life just come out on the other side able to laugh more easily. Not when the grief is raw, no, but that phase gives way to one where you want to just suck the marrow out of life. Because you've gone so long feeling dead inside. Soak up every little piece of joy there is. Hold onto it for dear life. Balance that scale a bit where grief has for so long made things extremely lopsided and heavy in its favor.
I need that humor, that laughter, that mindless fun. I need the silliness, the shenanigans, the lightness that was so missing when I was in the raw days of grief.
But oh, you wouldn't know that, if you've walked the other way.
And I'm learning, still learning, how to simply be okay with the friends who have just drifted. No blow out, no goodbye, no explanation. It's easier to do with some people than it is with others, isn't it?
And the funny thing is that my life is so full. So very full with my family, my career, my hobbies, and the friends that I still have and new friends I've made. So much that when opportunities for even more friends arise, I just kind of shrug and say, "You know what? I think I'm good with what I've got." Not at all in an arrogant way. In a contented way.
Friendships are an investment. They say you don't want to put all your eggs in one basket, but on the other hand, you don't want to put your eggs in so many different baskets that you lose track. I find myself able to maintain and enjoy my current friendships, kindly, tactfully, gently turning away opportunities for more, yet I keep looking back at those one or two who kept promising to keep in touch, to write to me soon, to call me back, followed by months and months of silence. Not for my lack of effort, either.
I have this insatiable appetite for understanding others, I guess. And I will never understand turning your back and walking away from a friend when they are going through the roughest storms of their life. Or worse yet, making empty promises to stay in touch when you have no intention of following through.
It confuses and confounds me in ways I can't quite put into words.
I guess some people just assume that after you've lost a child, that becomes your entire identity, all that you are, and you are sad 24/7, wearing black clothes, sobbing in the candlelight. So they just walk away and don't even get a chance to see that the stereotypes they've built in their minds are horribly misguided.
Well. Just pile on the lack of closure, keep it coming. Because, you know, I don't quite have enough unresolved emotions in my life.
Looking to soon delete contacts from my phone and Facebook of people who obviously feel they are "above" staying friends with someone who has lost a child. I think I may just have to settle for that as being my closure to so much unfinished business.
Because the universe has thrown me enough grief to last a few lifetimes, I will not willingly take any more than I have to.
Which means cutting people out of my life when I need to with minimal guilt, if any at all. It's a simple equation, really. If you detract from my life more than you add to it, then goodbye.
I have to look out for me, because, well, no one else does, and the universe, the gods, fate, they all don't give a flying duck.
If I can learn to live without my son, then I can learn to live without frenemies, right?
But.
What about the people who have just sort of drifted out of my life? This has been on my mind so much lately. One or two people in particular who have simply drifted away for no apparent reason. No blowout. No goodbye. No explanation. No sob story about why we just can't be friends anymore.
Just silence.
More silence in my life where there should be noise.
All the loss moms know what I mean.
I am changed. I am different. I am still figuring all the ways in which this is true. But one thing for sure I know is that I am a way better friend than I've ever been. And the people who have sort of just left me behind after my loss, well, it's too bad they don't take the time to get to know the new me. Because I'm fiercely loyal. I live in the moment more than ever before. I don't let anxiety cripple me like it used to, because life is just too short, and I want to live mine more fully. My sense of humor is better than it ever was. I've never understood gallows humor until my loss, but trust me when I say that it is a real phenomenon. People who have been put through the ringer in life just come out on the other side able to laugh more easily. Not when the grief is raw, no, but that phase gives way to one where you want to just suck the marrow out of life. Because you've gone so long feeling dead inside. Soak up every little piece of joy there is. Hold onto it for dear life. Balance that scale a bit where grief has for so long made things extremely lopsided and heavy in its favor.
I need that humor, that laughter, that mindless fun. I need the silliness, the shenanigans, the lightness that was so missing when I was in the raw days of grief.
But oh, you wouldn't know that, if you've walked the other way.
And I'm learning, still learning, how to simply be okay with the friends who have just drifted. No blow out, no goodbye, no explanation. It's easier to do with some people than it is with others, isn't it?
And the funny thing is that my life is so full. So very full with my family, my career, my hobbies, and the friends that I still have and new friends I've made. So much that when opportunities for even more friends arise, I just kind of shrug and say, "You know what? I think I'm good with what I've got." Not at all in an arrogant way. In a contented way.
Friendships are an investment. They say you don't want to put all your eggs in one basket, but on the other hand, you don't want to put your eggs in so many different baskets that you lose track. I find myself able to maintain and enjoy my current friendships, kindly, tactfully, gently turning away opportunities for more, yet I keep looking back at those one or two who kept promising to keep in touch, to write to me soon, to call me back, followed by months and months of silence. Not for my lack of effort, either.
I have this insatiable appetite for understanding others, I guess. And I will never understand turning your back and walking away from a friend when they are going through the roughest storms of their life. Or worse yet, making empty promises to stay in touch when you have no intention of following through.
It confuses and confounds me in ways I can't quite put into words.
I guess some people just assume that after you've lost a child, that becomes your entire identity, all that you are, and you are sad 24/7, wearing black clothes, sobbing in the candlelight. So they just walk away and don't even get a chance to see that the stereotypes they've built in their minds are horribly misguided.
Well. Just pile on the lack of closure, keep it coming. Because, you know, I don't quite have enough unresolved emotions in my life.
Looking to soon delete contacts from my phone and Facebook of people who obviously feel they are "above" staying friends with someone who has lost a child. I think I may just have to settle for that as being my closure to so much unfinished business.
Saturday, March 30, 2013
The Heartache of Easter
Easter is always so incredibly difficult. The first one after the loss of Elias was filled with so many mixed emotions. And even with all of the progress I've made in my grief over the past 2+ years, I feel like holidays such as Easter just get more difficult to navigate.
Did I buy enough baskets? Candy? Toys? Should we dye eggs? Do the kids even care when they are so young? Did I take enough photos with the kids all dolled up? Should we go see the Easter bunny?
And aren't all of these things simply massive distractions from what the holiday is really about?
I think that's why I fixate on them. I need the distractions.
From the holiday and from my grief.
Many loss mamas express that they feel every day that goes by they feel further away from their babies. Further away from that last time they felt them kick, heard their heartbeat, kissed them, and held them in their arms.
I understood this sentiment in a way but not fully, as I never felt "further away" due to time passing. In fact, it's more like every day that passes I am possibly one day closer to Elias, as when my time comes I hope with everything in me that we will be together again.
I hold onto this hope.
Even still.
I do, however, feel that every day that goes by I am further away from God.
Two plus years out from when I still believed in Him with every fiber of my being. I miss that so much. I miss praying and not feeling silly about it. I miss going to church with genuine faith in my heart. I miss raising my voice in love and praise for something so much bigger than me.
Now, my prayers seem to be directed at my son. I prayed to Elias when things were going rough, and he seemed to be helping me through. I prayed to Elias to send me a little brother for Evelyn, and he did. I prayed for him to be healthy, to be born alive, and for a little piece of my heart to be healed.
The prayers I aim at my son seem to be heard much more often than the prayers I ever directed at God.
I say all of this very tongue-in-cheek. Obviously I don't really believe (nor did I ever) that people simply pray to God and get everything they ask for. If that was the case, there would be no poverty, death, heartache, or anything horrible happening in the world.
That doesn't mean I don't still find irony in how things have unfolded.
And it doesn't mean I'm not allowed to still be So.Freaking.Angry. at times when I reflect on how strong my faith had been during my pregnancy with the twins - stronger than it had ever been - and how betrayed I felt by God when my son was stolen so swiftly from me. I had been so worried about Elias, and people kept telling me, "Let go and let God."
If I had believed less in God, maybe my son would be here.
Biggest. Worst. Irony. Ever.
During family photos and holiday pictures, we like to have Elias represented somehow. He is and will always be part of our family, so it seems fitting. It helps to ease the pain of missing him, just a tiny bit. It's a statement to him that we haven't fogotten him, nor will we ever. In our most recent family portrait, we included a butterfly from Pottery Barn that my mom had purchased for his second birthday.
When Evelyn visits Santa Claus, we always have her holding a stuffed animal in Elias's memory (or wearing a butterfly clip in her hair).
Every Easter, Evelyn has her picture taken with the Easter bunny, and she holds this little blue stuffed bunny that we bought for Elias's remembrance shelf. It sits next to his urn except for the one day it gets to make an excursion out of the house to visit the Easter bunny.
It warms and breaks my heart all at the same time to watch her hold it, play with it, snuggle, and kiss it. I say, "Evy, will you take good care of little bunny today?" and she proudly proclaims, "YES."
I don't know if I will ever get back to that place of unwavering faith. I don't know how to even go about trying.
Tomorrow, I will be going to church.
I won't deny my children the chance to have the unwavering faith that I so miss from my own life.
Did I buy enough baskets? Candy? Toys? Should we dye eggs? Do the kids even care when they are so young? Did I take enough photos with the kids all dolled up? Should we go see the Easter bunny?
And aren't all of these things simply massive distractions from what the holiday is really about?
I think that's why I fixate on them. I need the distractions.
From the holiday and from my grief.
Many loss mamas express that they feel every day that goes by they feel further away from their babies. Further away from that last time they felt them kick, heard their heartbeat, kissed them, and held them in their arms.
I understood this sentiment in a way but not fully, as I never felt "further away" due to time passing. In fact, it's more like every day that passes I am possibly one day closer to Elias, as when my time comes I hope with everything in me that we will be together again.
I hold onto this hope.
Even still.
I do, however, feel that every day that goes by I am further away from God.
Two plus years out from when I still believed in Him with every fiber of my being. I miss that so much. I miss praying and not feeling silly about it. I miss going to church with genuine faith in my heart. I miss raising my voice in love and praise for something so much bigger than me.
Now, my prayers seem to be directed at my son. I prayed to Elias when things were going rough, and he seemed to be helping me through. I prayed to Elias to send me a little brother for Evelyn, and he did. I prayed for him to be healthy, to be born alive, and for a little piece of my heart to be healed.
The prayers I aim at my son seem to be heard much more often than the prayers I ever directed at God.
I say all of this very tongue-in-cheek. Obviously I don't really believe (nor did I ever) that people simply pray to God and get everything they ask for. If that was the case, there would be no poverty, death, heartache, or anything horrible happening in the world.
That doesn't mean I don't still find irony in how things have unfolded.
And it doesn't mean I'm not allowed to still be So.Freaking.Angry. at times when I reflect on how strong my faith had been during my pregnancy with the twins - stronger than it had ever been - and how betrayed I felt by God when my son was stolen so swiftly from me. I had been so worried about Elias, and people kept telling me, "Let go and let God."
If I had believed less in God, maybe my son would be here.
Biggest. Worst. Irony. Ever.
During family photos and holiday pictures, we like to have Elias represented somehow. He is and will always be part of our family, so it seems fitting. It helps to ease the pain of missing him, just a tiny bit. It's a statement to him that we haven't fogotten him, nor will we ever. In our most recent family portrait, we included a butterfly from Pottery Barn that my mom had purchased for his second birthday.
When Evelyn visits Santa Claus, we always have her holding a stuffed animal in Elias's memory (or wearing a butterfly clip in her hair).
Every Easter, Evelyn has her picture taken with the Easter bunny, and she holds this little blue stuffed bunny that we bought for Elias's remembrance shelf. It sits next to his urn except for the one day it gets to make an excursion out of the house to visit the Easter bunny.
It warms and breaks my heart all at the same time to watch her hold it, play with it, snuggle, and kiss it. I say, "Evy, will you take good care of little bunny today?" and she proudly proclaims, "YES."
I don't know if I will ever get back to that place of unwavering faith. I don't know how to even go about trying.
Tomorrow, I will be going to church.
I won't deny my children the chance to have the unwavering faith that I so miss from my own life.
Friday, March 22, 2013
"Our Secret", Part Five.
I don't think anyone really reads anymore, and I know I kind of ostracized myself by keeping so quiet about my rainbow pregnancy. Nevertheless, I still come here to write for my own sake, and I don't like starting a story and not finishing it. And before I finish our rainbow pregnancy / birth story, I want to say that one of my fellow loss friends did exactly what I did - HID her pregnancy (as much as she could) until the baby's birth. It was really validating for me to be able to talk to someone who felt the same way I felt. And when people had a strong shocked reaction to her posts on Facebook, she simply said, "It just didn't feel right to get everyone's hopes up." Yes. Yes, exactly that.
There is so much sadness and yet so much truth in that statement. I shed a tear when I read it, because I knew that feeling to my very core. That feeling of wanting to protect everyone else, shield them in case we happen to bring more death and pain into the world through our desire to build a family.
* * *
The beginning of "Our Secret" was much more fun. I think that's partially why I put off typing the end. We had a positive outcome ultimately, but oy, what we went through to get there. He is every bit worth it. But oy.
I posted in Part Four that I had a scare around 26 weeks or so. And, well, that wasn't to be my last scare. For some reason around holidays I would feel my anxiety really ramp up. I guess it's the pessimist in me, the Lindsay who feels targeted by the world, the side of me that feels beat up by life. Things would be going great, but then it would be Thanksgiving, for example. We always host Thanksgiving at our home for both my family and my in-laws, so it's a pretty big deal. I'd be checking on the turkey, mashing some potatoes, fixing my makeup, cleaning the sinks, and then suddenly start to PANIC. I'VE BEEN TOO BUSY TODAY SO SOMETHING HORRIBLE PROBABLY HAPPENED TO THE BABY WHILE I WAS DISTRACTED!
That thought went through my head every so often.
But then the baby would move several times, and I'd say, "Thanks, buddy." And all would be well for a little while longer, at least.
I think a little part of me figured it would be JUST.MY.LUCK to not only have lightening strike twice (well, it would be three times, technically), but that it would happen ON.A.HOLIDAY. Because the only thing worse than having the worst possible thing happen to you is having it happen on a day that's inherently supposed to be full of joy and celebration. And, well, my warped mind was having a pity party and figured that if my luck was going to take a turn for the worse once again, it would probably happen on Thanksgiving just to give me some more sick irony to add to all of the previous ironies with the loss of my firstborn son.
I definitely knew I had PTSD when on Thanksgiving night, I could not feel the baby move, and I really started to freak out. I started sweating and shaking and breathing fast. It was horrible. I lay awake for a half an hour, maybe forty five minutes, alternating positions, drinking ice water, doing everything I could to rouse him. It was the second time I really feared he was gone.
Finally he woke up and then wouldn't fall back asleep - he had such a dance party in my tummy.
I felt anxiety around the twins' second birthday, which is a given. I had an OBGYN appointment the day after their birthday, and when the doctor said baby was great, I said to him, "Now I know for sure that history isn't repeating itself at least." How irrational is that??? I had this fear that my baby might die on the exact date my son had died. Getting past that date was monumental.
Christmas. Oh, Christmas. This was possibly the worst Christmas ever (second to the one I spent in raw grief over the loss of Elias). Our two year old daughter had a fever over 100 degrees. It was terrifying. She was miserable. I actually thought, here we go again. How horrible is that? I thought, Here I am, weeks away from giving birth, and the universe is trying to snatch one of us away again so that we won't all be together. AGAIN.
It was a really rough three or four days, but then she was better, and we were ready to celebrate the new year and all it would bring. (Other than the anxiety of another holiday - and yes, you guessed it, New Year's Eve and New Year's Day royally freaked me out, in theory at least. But baby was cooperating with kick counts, thankfully).
We were set to have a c-section at 37 weeks (pending good amnio results). At 36 weeks and 2 days, I woke in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, and I could not feel the baby move. Once again, I went downstairs to lie on the couch and try different positions, drinks, foods, etc. After an hour and a half, I really thought he was gone. I can't quite put into words how that felt. I was panicked in a sense while also staying calmer than I ever thought I would be facing that kind of situation. It was the longest he had EVER gone without having movement I could perceive. I had to wake up my husband and our two year old daughter, because there was no way I could drive myself to the hospital. It was 4 a.m. I tried to feel him move the whole way there in the car but felt nothing.
When they got us in a room and put the monitor on, everything seemed to be going in slow motion. His heart tones filled the room, and I immediately started sobbing, and shaking, and praying that he would stay healthy. I heard the nurse say, "Mommy's crying happy tears, honey" a couple of times to my daughter, and I felt a pang of guilt that I hadn't considered how my reaction might upset her. But there was no room for that consideration, because honestly, I really thought I'd just lost another child.
The doctors assured me there was no reason to deliver at that point. I had another appointment in just two days. At that appointment, my OBGYN told me I could be seen daily to allay my fears, as I was so scared of 36 weeks and 6 days, which was when I lost Elias.
I made it exactly 36 weeks and 6 days at which point my blood pressure spiked and I had a black floater in my vision. I was sent to the hospital for monitoring, and my OBGYN met me there. When he saw my blood pressure had stabilized, he wanted to send me home. I could tell. He held my hand and started to murmur reassurances. I felt like I was going to crack. It was all too much. Thinking about going home and having to worry that something might happen in order to stay pregnant just for one more day did not seem to make much sense to me.
Right then, a nurse came in and yelled that they found protein in my urine, and that was the point at which my doctor looked at me and said, "It looks like we're gonna be having a baby today!"
I am eternally grateful that my OBGYN, Dr. G, did not take any risks and simply chose to deliver. I am also extremely glad that the on-call OBGYN, Dr. V, was there to assist with the c-section. She apparently had a talk with Dr. G and told him that if I had been her patient, she would have planned all along to take the baby at 37 simply due to my history, and with complications starting to brew there was simply no point in taking the risk of sending me home at 36 weeks 6 days. Dr. V was also the first person to show us our baby back when we thought we might be miscarrying very early on, and she was also the on call doctor when I had had a prior blood pressure scare (and had been incredibly understanding to our situation - not sure if I ever shared that here). How poetic is it that the doctor to show us our baby on an ultrasound for the first time was also there to deliver him (not being my OBGYN and being in a practice of several doctors!)? I thought it was pretty awesome.
Right before the c-section, Dr. G looked at me, put his hands on my shoulders, and said, "Maybe, for you, this is the easy part."
Yes.
The only part of the csection that was terrifying for me was after they gave me the epidural they were dopplering for his heart beat before cutting into me...And they couldn't find it at first, or even after five seconds or so, which is basically a lifetime when you're THAT close to delivery. Then a nurse yelled, "There it is! Nice and strong, not distressed!" and they cut into me right then.
When Dr. G pulled William out of me and announced, "It's a boy!!!" it was so bittersweet, but more sweet than bitter. Those moments truly belonged to my precious William, my second son.
My husband said it was that very moment that the light went back into my eyes that had gone missing ever since the fear had taken over.
My OBGYN had a tear in his eye when he delivered our son, and while nurses were still working on me, he walked over to me and kissed me on the cheek.
There is so much sadness and yet so much truth in that statement. I shed a tear when I read it, because I knew that feeling to my very core. That feeling of wanting to protect everyone else, shield them in case we happen to bring more death and pain into the world through our desire to build a family.
* * *
The beginning of "Our Secret" was much more fun. I think that's partially why I put off typing the end. We had a positive outcome ultimately, but oy, what we went through to get there. He is every bit worth it. But oy.
I posted in Part Four that I had a scare around 26 weeks or so. And, well, that wasn't to be my last scare. For some reason around holidays I would feel my anxiety really ramp up. I guess it's the pessimist in me, the Lindsay who feels targeted by the world, the side of me that feels beat up by life. Things would be going great, but then it would be Thanksgiving, for example. We always host Thanksgiving at our home for both my family and my in-laws, so it's a pretty big deal. I'd be checking on the turkey, mashing some potatoes, fixing my makeup, cleaning the sinks, and then suddenly start to PANIC. I'VE BEEN TOO BUSY TODAY SO SOMETHING HORRIBLE PROBABLY HAPPENED TO THE BABY WHILE I WAS DISTRACTED!
That thought went through my head every so often.
But then the baby would move several times, and I'd say, "Thanks, buddy." And all would be well for a little while longer, at least.
I think a little part of me figured it would be JUST.MY.LUCK to not only have lightening strike twice (well, it would be three times, technically), but that it would happen ON.A.HOLIDAY. Because the only thing worse than having the worst possible thing happen to you is having it happen on a day that's inherently supposed to be full of joy and celebration. And, well, my warped mind was having a pity party and figured that if my luck was going to take a turn for the worse once again, it would probably happen on Thanksgiving just to give me some more sick irony to add to all of the previous ironies with the loss of my firstborn son.
I definitely knew I had PTSD when on Thanksgiving night, I could not feel the baby move, and I really started to freak out. I started sweating and shaking and breathing fast. It was horrible. I lay awake for a half an hour, maybe forty five minutes, alternating positions, drinking ice water, doing everything I could to rouse him. It was the second time I really feared he was gone.
Finally he woke up and then wouldn't fall back asleep - he had such a dance party in my tummy.
I felt anxiety around the twins' second birthday, which is a given. I had an OBGYN appointment the day after their birthday, and when the doctor said baby was great, I said to him, "Now I know for sure that history isn't repeating itself at least." How irrational is that??? I had this fear that my baby might die on the exact date my son had died. Getting past that date was monumental.
Christmas. Oh, Christmas. This was possibly the worst Christmas ever (second to the one I spent in raw grief over the loss of Elias). Our two year old daughter had a fever over 100 degrees. It was terrifying. She was miserable. I actually thought, here we go again. How horrible is that? I thought, Here I am, weeks away from giving birth, and the universe is trying to snatch one of us away again so that we won't all be together. AGAIN.
It was a really rough three or four days, but then she was better, and we were ready to celebrate the new year and all it would bring. (Other than the anxiety of another holiday - and yes, you guessed it, New Year's Eve and New Year's Day royally freaked me out, in theory at least. But baby was cooperating with kick counts, thankfully).
We were set to have a c-section at 37 weeks (pending good amnio results). At 36 weeks and 2 days, I woke in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, and I could not feel the baby move. Once again, I went downstairs to lie on the couch and try different positions, drinks, foods, etc. After an hour and a half, I really thought he was gone. I can't quite put into words how that felt. I was panicked in a sense while also staying calmer than I ever thought I would be facing that kind of situation. It was the longest he had EVER gone without having movement I could perceive. I had to wake up my husband and our two year old daughter, because there was no way I could drive myself to the hospital. It was 4 a.m. I tried to feel him move the whole way there in the car but felt nothing.
When they got us in a room and put the monitor on, everything seemed to be going in slow motion. His heart tones filled the room, and I immediately started sobbing, and shaking, and praying that he would stay healthy. I heard the nurse say, "Mommy's crying happy tears, honey" a couple of times to my daughter, and I felt a pang of guilt that I hadn't considered how my reaction might upset her. But there was no room for that consideration, because honestly, I really thought I'd just lost another child.
The doctors assured me there was no reason to deliver at that point. I had another appointment in just two days. At that appointment, my OBGYN told me I could be seen daily to allay my fears, as I was so scared of 36 weeks and 6 days, which was when I lost Elias.
I made it exactly 36 weeks and 6 days at which point my blood pressure spiked and I had a black floater in my vision. I was sent to the hospital for monitoring, and my OBGYN met me there. When he saw my blood pressure had stabilized, he wanted to send me home. I could tell. He held my hand and started to murmur reassurances. I felt like I was going to crack. It was all too much. Thinking about going home and having to worry that something might happen in order to stay pregnant just for one more day did not seem to make much sense to me.
Right then, a nurse came in and yelled that they found protein in my urine, and that was the point at which my doctor looked at me and said, "It looks like we're gonna be having a baby today!"
I am eternally grateful that my OBGYN, Dr. G, did not take any risks and simply chose to deliver. I am also extremely glad that the on-call OBGYN, Dr. V, was there to assist with the c-section. She apparently had a talk with Dr. G and told him that if I had been her patient, she would have planned all along to take the baby at 37 simply due to my history, and with complications starting to brew there was simply no point in taking the risk of sending me home at 36 weeks 6 days. Dr. V was also the first person to show us our baby back when we thought we might be miscarrying very early on, and she was also the on call doctor when I had had a prior blood pressure scare (and had been incredibly understanding to our situation - not sure if I ever shared that here). How poetic is it that the doctor to show us our baby on an ultrasound for the first time was also there to deliver him (not being my OBGYN and being in a practice of several doctors!)? I thought it was pretty awesome.
Right before the c-section, Dr. G looked at me, put his hands on my shoulders, and said, "Maybe, for you, this is the easy part."
Yes.
The only part of the csection that was terrifying for me was after they gave me the epidural they were dopplering for his heart beat before cutting into me...And they couldn't find it at first, or even after five seconds or so, which is basically a lifetime when you're THAT close to delivery. Then a nurse yelled, "There it is! Nice and strong, not distressed!" and they cut into me right then.
When Dr. G pulled William out of me and announced, "It's a boy!!!" it was so bittersweet, but more sweet than bitter. Those moments truly belonged to my precious William, my second son.
My husband said it was that very moment that the light went back into my eyes that had gone missing ever since the fear had taken over.
My OBGYN had a tear in his eye when he delivered our son, and while nurses were still working on me, he walked over to me and kissed me on the cheek.
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