Is all pain the same?

Last night I did my regular email check to find an message from a dear friend in the US. She was a grad school friend, I haven't seen her in 5 years, but we've remained closely in touch.

Her wedding is Saturday coming.

The email read.... I apologize for sending a mass email but I needed to let you all know ASAP.... our wedding has been canceled.

She didn't say why. My initial thought was a death in the family, an accident, somebody must be sick. Upon closer inspection, I wondered why she said "canceled" instead of "postponed". Why is she talking about returning gifts?

I sent her a quick reply and then sent an inquiry to a mutual friend who is much closer to her her geographically. His reply was waiting for me this morning. It's bad, he wrote. The groom called it off. Call me.

I sat in front of my computer this morning in shock. My dear sweet friend, C., who only days ago had emailed me pictures of her wedding dress, was so excited about finally fulfilling her dream to be a wife and hopefully a mom someday. My heart broke for her. C is a beautiful person inside and out, any man would be lucky to call her his wife. Why has her fiance done this to her? Why 5 days before their lavish Southern wedding, with guests flying in from all over the world, with the band booked and the food ordered and gifts arriving everyday, why now? Why not a couple of months ago when she could have saved face?

I can just imagine her today, in the aftermath of it all. Aunts and cousins addressing proper wedding cancellation cards (is there a name for those?), people trying to hide wedding gifts and cheer her up by pretending that it is better now than later. The chaos of wedding prep without the wedding.

I want to call her. I want to give her a hug. I've never been where she is, I've never even suffered a really bad break-up. But I feel like I know where she is. I think I know what she's feeling today. Confusion, grief beyond words, sadness, despair, hopelessness. She has lost her planned future. So did I. I know what that feels like.

I still don't know the details. I don't know if he cheated on her, if he just got cold feet, what the situation is. All I know is that her heart must be broken. Poor, sweet C. No one deserves this.

I wonder if she's looking at couples today, wondering how it is ever possible that someone gets (and stays) happily married. For weeks after Charlotte I thought, every time I saw anyone, how amazing it is that that person was once a baby. That I was even one, once. And they grew. I grew. And lived.

I wonder if she's able to look beyond the next couple of days to a new future ahead; I wonder if seeing wedding cakes and dresses and happy couples will cause her the same pain that seeing pregnant women and babies causes me. I wonder when she'll feel ready to go to another wedding.

And, this all leads to the title of my post; Is all pain the same?

I really believe that losing a child must be one of the most painful things in the world. Having your adored fiance cancel your wedding 5 days ahead? Definitely pretty bad too.

While working through my grief I've always had in the back of my mind that should I ever have a friend lose their baby, I might be able to help them. I might, by then, be able to have words as someone who's "been there" and lived to tell about it. I never thought that another situation would arise where my experience in "pain management" would apply. I think it does here.

I don't have her number; she's at her parents' house for wedding week. I emailed and asked her to send me the contact info b/c I'd like to call her. I need to talk to her.

I hope I can help her.

Slump.

According to our psychologist, M and I are in somewhat of a slump.

I feel like I'm in a slump. We're heading into the normalcy of fall and I think that's what's doing it for me. Soon summer will be over, all the faraway friends will return home to their lives, and we'll still be here.... waiting for nothing.

More and more invitations arrive that we turn down. Yesterday it was the invitation to our godson's first birthday party. I mean, no way. There is no way I can go to that. When I was pregnant one of the first people I told was his mommy, my good friend, and she was so excited that she cried. We anticipated this party, thinking of all the little ones that would be arrived by then, how full her house would be of babies. The rest of them are now here. Charlotte's not.

Babyland is a really gross place to be when your baby is dead.

For anyone who's been here/is here/may be here, how do you handle this? What do you do when your whole social circle is baby-obsessed and not only do you not fit in, but it is physically painful to participate? How far should I be pushing myself with this?

A good friend from high school is in town; I haven't seen her in almost 10 years. I'd love to see her, but, she's toting her six month old baby girl with her. I don't know if I can do that. I've been avoiding the Facebook plans for a high school reunion of us girls, I haven't participated in the comments of when and where we should meet because I don't know if I can. I read everyone else's exclamation of Can't wait to see that baby! and I think, no, not me. How can I sit a barbeque with these 4 or 5 girls and pass around that baby and not be reduced to tears?

Yesterday, our psychologist said it sounds to her like we've been locked out of our lives. It feels that way. As I graciously turn down invite after invite, I wonder when they'll stop coming.

The summer has been somewhat of a relief. My single girlfriends have all been in town- there've been drinks at martini bars, shopping expeditions, that sort of thing. It's been distracting, and fun. As summer ends so will that, then the only social events will be in Babyland, and I'm dreading it.

Sometimes I think, ok, you won't die. Just go. Do it. Move in with them for a week if that's what it takes to get over this hurdle. But in the first few moments of "trying", when the tears start coming and that ache starts in my chest, I have to get out. I can't do it.

Any advice, wisdom or experience welcome please. I need assistance here.

Physical Evidence

Yesterday, M and I were doing some "spring" cleaning.

Of course, we're pushing into late summer/fall now, but the events of this spring made the task impossible, so we're tackling it now. Yesterday the room of choice was M's office, which was supposed to be Charlotte's room.

We were just getting ready to empty it out before I was hospitalized. The paint was chosen, the bedding decided, the furniture researched. All ready to go, although none of it actually purchased quite yet. M had already started complaining about having to repaint the room- the current dark navy paint not suitable for a baby of either gender, although great as an office.

Of course, we never made it that far.

Even though the room was never officially Charlotte's, even though the pastel paint never made it to the walls and the office clutter remained intact, I still find that room hard. It held so many possibilities. When I was pregnant I would wander in there from time to time, imagine the desk replaced by a crib, imagine the rocking chair in the corner, and think of all the magical moments I would share with my baby in that room. Last night as we finished shredding documents and filling files, I found it hard to leave. M turned off the lights as he left and I just sat on the twin bed, thinking.

In many many ways I am glad the room wasn't baby-ready. That would have been much much harder. That said, it would have made Charlotte more real. To have a physical place prepared in our home would have at least given me a place to grieve, especially in those early days. When I first came home from the hospital I found the house so hard- nothing reflected a baby. The few purchases we had made had been put away by well-meaning family during my hospital stay. There was no physical evidence, aside from the heparin bruises and the purple scar on my tummy, that there ever had been a Charlotte. I remember the most intense feelings of loss and disorientation in my own home, wandering around from room to room thinking What now? That, I believe, was the worst of all.

Oh, I miss her. Sweet baby girl.

A couple of nights ago M was puttering through some digital photos on a memory card, displaying them on our TV. They were winter shots; huge piles of snow in most of them. Suddenly an inside pic shot up, my profile, side on, quite pregnant. I was adamant that no pictures be taken of me when I was pregnant, so I didn't think there were any.

The picture was taken at my parents' house, less than two weeks before Charlotte was born. So, I was 22 weeks or so. I looked really pregnant. I looked further along than I actually was, the effects of how much weight I had gained. I didn't realize how pregnant I actually was.

M was surprised by the picture as well; he had forgotted he had taken it. He rushed to turn off the settings before the picture rolled around in sequence again, but actually managed to get the shot stuck on the screen, so for ten or fifteen long seconds, my pregnant belly was displayed on our TV.

It made me sad; yet at the same time I'm glad it's there. Charlotte was alive in that picture. I was still in babybliss. The picture was probably prefaced by conversations of showers and cribs and breast vs. bottle. In that picture I was normal, and I had no idea of what the next two weeks would bring.

I told M to print it for Charlotte's memory box. One more piece of physical evidence that I had a baby and she was real.

Home again

We got back from San Francisco last night. Good trip, went by way too fast.

I think we both needed the change of scenery more than we realized. It felt, so free to be away. I could stop worrying about friends in BabyLand, I didn't check my email, I didn't have to cook or clean or buy groceries or any of those things. It was nice. We could slip into an easier mode, pretend our life was not really our life, and blend in with the throngs of tourists fighting to get on a cable car. It was refreshing.

M had to work, of course, the reason for our trip. But even that was a refuge for me- having those solitary hours to wander around a new city, take in coffee shops and bookstores at my own pace. Sometimes I just sat and thought, staring off into space. There was room to think in that crowded city.

I did not want to come back. Each leg of yesterday's flight brought us closer to our home, and with each leg I felt the sadness and heaviness returning. I'm tired today, from the timezone shifts, the travelling fatigue, and the emotional toll of coming home. Here is where all the sadness is.

I'm getting mixed reactions from family and friends concerning our recent prognosis from the doctor. It's not the reaction I was expecting. I was genuinely expecting everyone to "look on the bright side", to play up the fact that we do have a 2/3 chance of walking away with a living baby next time. No one has done that. Not even the most optimistic of acquaintances. After hearing the statistics, everyone has grown quiet, and mumbled something about supporting us through whatever decisions we make.

I know there are options. None of them are good. We can gamble, make the most of what we have to work with. "Try again". I think we will, but I'm dreading it. The anxiety will be overwhelming. Should we end up with another dead baby, I have no idea how I will handle that. No idea. But, I didn't know this time either. Does anyone ever know? Does a high-risk lostbabymama ever get to a point where she can visualize repeating the scenario and picture herself coming out on the other side? I'm not sure.

We could look at adoption. We could look at a surrogate. We could look at living child-free. I don't know about any of these things.

I know our next step will be to "try again". See how that goes. Knowing what we know now I hope we'll be able to put our best foot forward, give ourselves whatever chances we have. I'm not in a rush though. Next year sometime, maybe.

When we started seeing our psychologist she gave us a list of "typical characteristics of grief". Listed in months 2-4 was Obsession to get pregnant again. We passed the 4-month mark while in San Francisco. Immediately after Charlotte's death I definitely fell into the obsessive category- the raging hormones and the intense grief all begged for a baby, yesterday, now. The mandatory wait-time seemed endless. I couldn't fathom waiting that long for a baby. I remember saying to a friend, If we wait a year before we even start trying, it'll be 2010 before we have a baby. Too long, way too long.

It still feels like forever, but I can honestly say I'm not ready to be pregnant right now. This is Charlotte's time. I need to give her this time. As things stand right now we're thinking February or March we may begin TTC. Then the horror will begin.

I know I'm not ready for that horror just yet.

For you other babylostmamas out there, when did you think about trying again? Did you ever feel you could handle another loss? Or did you just hope for the best?

Doctor's Verdict

This morning was our long awaited appointment with my MFM. I was looking forward to it, anxious to hear our prospects for the future.

Basically, I have a 66% chance of having some sort of hypertension problem in our next pregnancy. I have a 30+% chance of developing severe preeclampsia in the second trimester again, which, would ultimately give us the same fate as we had with Charlotte. Heartbreak, no baby. Or a severely premature baby, if we're lucky.

So, 1 in 3. Pretty shitty odds, if you ask me.

I wasn't surprised, based on what I've read and from stories from others who've had a similar ordeal. Still, it's hard to hear.

The chipper resident came in first, whom I had never met, listing off the characteristics of our pregnancy with Charlotte, in way too happy a tone. I didn't need to hear that. I was there, I remember what happened. I hated hearing it in such a clinical description, with all the emotion, tears and feeling removed, just a trail of facts remaining.

It was so much more than what's listed on the chart.

My MFM was much better; she remembers, she was there for the whole thing. At the time she cried with me, held my hand. Today she was encouraging, but there are so many unknowns. So much that medicine still has to learn. We still have no answers, really.

I mean, we know why she died. Prematurity, growth restriction. We know my hypertension lead to all of that. But there's no way to fix it, it seems.

She said the main thing we can do is take a baby aspirin and calcium from the very beginning next time. I didn't start those this time until about 15 weeks, when the problem was evident. Dr said there's been some evidence that starting from the very beginning can help. I hope so. Controlling my blood pressure with meds helps me, but doesn't take away the effects the hypertension has on the baby. How frustrating.

I mentioned heparin. My OBGYN said at my post-op in June that might be an option. This Dr didn't think it would be necessary. She said my risk for blood clots would still be lower than 2% and it wouldn't be needed. I'm going to ask the other doctors. When we try again, I need to know that I'm doing everything I can possibly do.

So, now I'm being referred to a hematologist. Dr #5 added to the mix.

I asked if there's anything I can do now. She suggested losing some weight, getting down to a BMI of 25. I'm trying! I've been picture perfect with my eating and exercising 5 or 6 days a week. It's not budging. I'm over 30 lbs away from that goal and it's slow slow going. I've been up and down the same two pounds for about 6 or 7 weeks now. Another frustration.

So, we think, even after all this doom and gloom, that we will try again. After Christmas, while I'm at the university. I think that will be ok.

It's all just so complicated.

Comraderie

I've been MIA. This has been a busy week; well, not so much busy as people-filled, with hardly a minute of privacy. This morning I'm finally alone, and have been looking forward to writing.

Here we are. This past week I've been host to an old friend, galloping around the city like tourists, doing all the little things we're known for here but that no one who lives here actually does. We've window-shopped, ate at flagship restaurants, walked historic neighbourhoods. Enjoyed the city. A nice retreat from the routine of living here, allowing us to see the familiar surroundings in a new light.

I had fun. I had moments of happiness, even. But yet it was still tainted. For a few moments here or there I could slip into another psyche- allowing myself to get excited over a beauitful raw silk purse at a downtown store or a delicious special at the cafe. In a way, I felt like an imposter in my own body. I would snap back to reality, where a nice purse is irrelevant, and I'm not hungry for the daily special. My baby is dead.

On Friday night another friend invited us to a beach for a bonfire, with her sister and two nieces, 7 and 10. I say "beach" in the strictest definition- no sand in sight, but the rocky shoreline is perfect for a bonfire. M and I headed down at dusk, to find them, fire blazing, amongst the other families with the same idea. M went to work adjusting the fire for maximum effectiveness, eagerly taking the traditional male role amongst all the girls. We all chatted. The little girls were running around, finding starfish and interesting rocks, demanding we host impromtu singing competitions and requesting to bake cookies the following day. They were sweet.

The sister is also a babylostmama, although I don't know the details. As well as I thought I knew this family, I never knew anything of this until Charlotte. I know the lost baby was a boy, in between the two girls. I found myself at ease with her even though I haven't seen her in years, There was a sense of knowing between the two of us, even though deadbabies was not a topic of conversation.

As the little girls chased each other up and down the beach, she was quick to call them back. The ocean, the fires, too many imminent dangers.

I can never just let them run, she said. I worry too much. I don't know if it's because.....

Her voice trailed off. I knew what she was thinking. I nodded in agreement. I wouldn't be able to either.

As dusk grew to dark and the beach was dotted with dozens of fires from cliff to cliff, the warm breeze (a true rarity here!) was comforting. I could have stayed there forever. It was the first time, in a long long time, that I felt like me. Not the put-a-smile-on-my-face-so-everyone-else-will-be-comfortable me, but really me.

I liked it.

Special Days are Not So Special

Well, I did it.

Yesterday M and I went to visit our baby friends. He had contemplated going for a while; yesterday when he mentioned it I was feeling strong, and said I would go too.

This was after I got home from church, where the much-dreaded first baptism took place. I was warned in advance; I had a substitute all lined up should I be too emotional. I wanted to get it over with. It's part of my job, I couldn't refuse to play for baptisms forever. I wanted to do it in the summer, when the organ and choir loft were mine and mine alone; I didn't want the inaugural baptism to be when the choir comes back after Labour Day, with twenty pairs of eyes fixed on me, wondering about my reaction.

So I did it. And it was ok.

It was a little boy, which made it easier. He was, maybe 3 or 4 months old. I tried to think about something else during the pouring of the water and the responses. When it was time to play the little baptismal song I pushed through it, tried to focus on the notes on the page, not the tune or the words.

The congregation sang, Oh, Ayden did you know, that you are very special.....

I tried not to remember Charlotte's funeral, where we sang the same song.

Oh, Charlotte did you know, that you are very special....

I made it through. I did not cry, although the familiar lump in my throat was present the entire time.

I was proud of myself. And relieved. Felt like I had conquered something, which probably led to my agreeing to visit the Baby Friends.

As we pulled onto their street and into their driveway, I got nervous. The same feeling I get before I go onstage for a big performance, a little breathless and light-headed, dizzy. I pulled myself together as M rang the doorbell.

Please don't answer with the baby in your arms. Please don't.

I got my wish. M's best friend opened the door and ushered us in. I managed an enthusiastic Hi and a big smile. The dog was let into the porch, he jumped up. Ordinarily I would have scooted away, yesterday I was grateful for the distraction. I pet him and talked to him as the new mommy opened the door to the living room to greet us. Still no baby in sight.

We sat down in the living room, now transformed from the last time we visited, pre-baby. A pack n'play now in the corner (is that a swaddled baby in there?), the ridiculously expensive baby swing we made fun of them for buying, half a dozen mylar It's a Girl balloons, partially deflated, the screen saver of rolling pictures: baby in bath, baby in hospital, mom and baby in hospital, baby with aunt, etc etc.

We sat. We chatted. Nothing baby related. The weather, our upcoming trip, price of gas. Purposefully avoiding the huge white elephant. Or rather, the swaddled bundle of joy 8 feet away. I was feeling pretty good. I can do this. I'm doing this.

Mommy jumped up, slapped her hands on her lap. So, do you want to see her? Too excited a tone. I nodded. Mommy walked over the the pack n'play and I said, desperate now, Oh, don't wake her. She scoffed. No big deal. She's awake anyway.

I stood to greet them, the two of them. The baby was swaddled in several blankets, the outer being the softest fleece. Her little hand was covering her face, her eyes opened. She moved a little.

Do you want her? Mommy asked me, as she motioned for me to take her. No. Please no. Do not give me that sweet smelling little bundle. I didn't miss the irony of the question. Do I want her. Yes, yes I do. But she's not mine, and if you give her to me I might not be able to give her back.

That's ok. We'll sit down.

She sat down beside me on the couch, baby in arms. M came over and stood by me, to support me, to see the baby, I'm not sure. I was glad he was there.

I'm a big girl, Mommy said, in a sing-song voice. I was 8 lbs 5 oz when I was born and now.....

I didn't hear the rest. The tears came, streaming down my face and I turned into M's jacket and cried that I wanted to go home. I couldn't breathe.

They handled it well. Mommy passed the baby to her husband with instructions to take her upstairs. I could tell this was their plan. They expected this. They knew I wouldn't be able to do it. She turned to me and gave me a big hug, talking in a soothing voice like I was six years old. It's ok. It's too close to home. A little bit at a time. She'll get bigger. It must be really hard.

You have no idea. You have no idea. You have no idea.

The tears subsided. Daddy came back downstairs. She was asking us what we had learned about our chances at a successful pregnancy. We still haven't seen our MFM. We talked about what we're expecting to hear. The baby's cries came over the monitor. Daddy muttered I should go check on her and went back upstairs. He didn't come back.

We chatted for another few minutes, my new job, our anniversary plans. Mommy said she had to leave soon, she was shopping for her future sister-in-law's bridal shower. We were glad to have a reason to leave.

I came home and went to bed. I was done.

M feels that he's going to lose them as friends. Not because of them, I really do think they're trying to handle this as delicately as possible, but for us, it will never be the same. I don't know if I'll ever be able to be in their company without seeing their baby as a parallel of what Charlotte "should" be. Yes, she'll get bigger. Will that make it easier? I'm not sure. This couple is the center of our social circle. They host the parties, plan the trips. The next birthday dinner is in a week. I don't think I can sit through a 2 hour dinner with that baby there. After that we're looking at all the holidays, the weddings we're all invited too, Christmas parties, New Year's, etc. Even when I was in the hospital, in the shock of Charlotte's death, I was worried about our future relationship with the Baby Friends. I knew it would be so hard. It was only yesterday that M realized it too.

One day at a time, for now.

Before we went over there I had been feeling pretty good. Still heart-broken and sad, but somewhat accepting of the fact that my baby is dead. That's our reality. I hate it, but there it is.

When I got home yesterday, it was like,

My.

Baby.

Is.

Dead.

I forgot how great this is supposed to be.

Today is our first wedding anniversary, and also Charlotte's due date. Ha ha ha.

I'm technologically illiterate but I'm going to attempt to post a couple of pictures from our wedding.

Leaving the ceremony:

This was taken my one of the bridesmaids during our first dance- what I wouldn't give to be happy like this again.