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.

Isn't That the Truth

An acquaintance of mine had a baby girl on Mother's Day (different friend than I usually mention- I am surrounded). I haven't seen her or the baby (on purpose), but in my self-destructive moods I lurk on her Face.book page, looking at pictures of her beautiful baby and reading the well-wishers. Today, there was this on her wall;

Isn't meeting your baby for the first time the most intense, euphoric feeling of love that you have ever experienced?!

Truer words were never written. And it's true even, no especially, when your baby dies.

How can "normal" people say things like this to a new mom and then be completely oblivious to the pain of losing a baby? Makes no sense.

But not much makes sense nowadays.

What I Really Want...

What I really want to do today is get a big tub of gummy bears and eat until I feel sick and my mouth is raw and pasty from the sugar.

What I really want to do today is go sit in a bookstore all by myself and read read read trashy books and magazines until I fall asleep.

What I really want to do today is get on a plane and go somewhere ridiculously warm and push my toes through sand on the beach and sip on a frozen drink with an umbrella in it.

What I really want to do today is cuddle in a blanket on the couch with a set of dvds of a TV show I've never seen but that's really really good, and watch episode after episode. With the above gummy bears. It wouldn't hurt for this scenario if a raging blizzard was going on outside.

What I really want is for a friend to call and ask, really ask, how I'm doing and want the real answer.

What I really want is to rewind time about 7 months and rush into my doctor's office and beg for heparin, lie on my left side for the next number of weeks and see if that makes a difference.

What I really want is to go back to the day Charlotte died and scream NO! NO! and beg for another solution when they said she had to come that day and see if that made a difference.

What I really want is to hold her again.

What I really want, more than anything in the world, is my sweet baby back.

And that's the one thing that I'll never have.

Mom

My parents visited this weekend.

I used to look forward to their visits; now I dread it, in a way. I hate tiptoeing around the white elephant in the room for a couple of days. I hate making small talk and hearing the latest gossip from home. The chatter never stops, even when I stop talking mom keeps talking to herself, assuming I'm still listening. My husband feels the same way, eventually he gives up and goes to bed. I stay, type on my laptop while she tells me how this couple is broken up and that one bought a new house.

She has seven sisters, my mom. We have since discovered that the Factor V Lieden gene that contributed to my hellish pregnancy is on mom's side. How this is possible, I don't know. All those sisters, each with 3, 4, 5 kids, all those cousins with perfectly healthy families of their own. Not even a preemie in the mix. Hardly a C-section. And then there's me. In deadbabyland. There are rumours of a distant cousin going through something similar but no one knows details, they do know the baby made it. I wouldn't give a shit about this gene if Charlotte had made it. But of course, she didn't.

I hated this weekend. I could overhear mom on the phone to sister after sister (of course she couldn't go 48 hours without checking in). They'd start the conversation by laughing and cracking inside jokes, mom of course telling them how she had rescued us by buying us groceries and dad helping M with an outdoor project. Then her tone would change. I couldn't hear both sides of the conversation but I could imagine that aunt asking, And how's Heather doing now? Mom responded, every time "Good, really good. It hasn't always been like this, let me tell you." She purposefully chose the generic wording, assuming I wouldn't know she's referring to me. She's as easy to read as an open book. I knew exactly what she was talking about.

As if mom has any idea how I'm really doing anyway.

I heard her say Charlotte's name just once; I think it slipped out. When she arrived in my hospital room two days post-Charlotte, she pretended nothing was wrong. Did her usual, made small talk and gossipped, drove me crazy. After two days I told her to go home. I couldn't take it. It definitely wasn't good for my blood pressure, and I felt like I was bursting inside. During her stay I did ask her to call the funeral home for me and I was so disappointed by her end of the conversation, telling the funeral home that her daughter had had a premature baby, actually, a VERY premature baby and to come pick up the little body. She wrote the whole thing off like a bad day, telling me over and over again oh but you're only young and moaning and groaning about their stressful trip cross-country a few days prior. She told me it would take me a whole month to get over this. It was a couple of months later before she said the word Charlotte, when referring to the monument dad was designing.

After that, she must have read something about how to handle the situation because she dropped the you're so young act. She told me she read about how grandparents have double grief, both for the baby and their own child's pain. Of course she liked that. It made it all about her again.

I learned quickly that when it came to this, it was easier to just fake it around her. She has not been a source of comfort, at all.

So, for the next number of weeks, I was reclusive and snippy. One word answers at best. Little eye contact. I was definitely putting out a vibe of stay away, don't talk to me. A couple of times I just got mad and hung up the phone. It's only lately that I've been some resemblance of my regular self, cooking and going to the gym and gardening. To the naked eye, sure, I'm doing really well. But who, in all seriousness, does really well in this situation? Really well compared to what?

I've had the days I spent in bed, because I couldn't think of a good reason to get up. I've had spells of sobbing in fast-food restaurants, the movie theatre, my doctor's office. I refuse to visit our baby friends for fear of the worst, most painful feelings rushing back and having to cope with that all over again. I've been forcing myself to spend hours at the piano because the act in itself occupies my brain enough to force out my regular dead-baby-thoughts. I force myself to the gym because it's supposed to make me healthier and hopefully increase my chances of not having a dead baby next time.

So, yeah, I'm doing really well.

All these aunts of mine, not one, not even one, has called me to say how I'm doing. I got flowers from most of them. I got generic sympathy cards with "Love and Prayers, X" marked on the bottom. My mom's closest sister saw Charlotte; she made the trip in that day because mom was across the country and couldn't. She saw Charlotte, held her, said how beautiful she was. Then she left, drove home. And I haven't heard from her since.

I guess they're all getting the formal report from mom, that I'm doing well.

Mom has told me, in my lowest moments when even she has to acknowledge that I'm upset, that so many people, aunts, uncles, cousins, church people, family friends.... they're all supposedly heartbroken over what happened to us, lost sleep being worried about me, ask about me all the time. I wish they would ask me. I wish they had the courage to call or even just email and ask me. I wish I knew first-hand that these people are thinking about us, how the gossip spread through our small town. I don't even know what they know. Mom has a convoluted record of events as she wasn't there. Information gets lost in translation. I've referred my version of the story to so few people; I'd be interested in hearing what they've heard.

Even some of my closest friends didn't realize that I even saw Charlotte, or that she was born alive.

Thanks mom. Thanks for spreading the word.