I have been a bad blog friend as of late. I read your posts and comment some, but there are days when I can't stand to read about all of the loss.
I am nearly a week away from the point in pregnancy that I lost Zoe. It's hard to imagine getting past that point.
We've been putting the baby's room together and I try to talk myself out of believing it's a bad omen. Money doesn't allow me to prepare once/if he gets here. As new things go out of and into his room, I can't help but imagine the heartache of taking it down again. I don't remember who took down all of Zoe's things. I only remember being in the hospital and mentioning how I couldn't bear to do it myself. When I came home, it was all gone but the lavender walls. There was something bittersweet about watching those walls being covered in primer and later being painted a pearl white and olive green. It felt like I was letting her be erased. It felt a lot like moving on. I didn't speak any of this out loud.
Throughout my many appointments lately, my history has been asked over and over. I find myself speaking of Zoe and hear her referred back to me as some random fact, some note in my chart. I wait for the nurse to say they're sorry or something, but only one has. They keep going through their list. It hurts. (*note to all prenatal care nurses: When you ask a patient for their history, and it involves the death of an infant, take a second and say something. An 'I'm sorry' is quick and it's better than nothing)
The MFM has decided to do the delivery. He is sympathetic and seems intent on making sure the baby and I come out ok. He does an ultrasound every two weeks and checks cord blood flow and everything else that may could prevent the same result as before. He's the first doctor that cared about what happened and did some digging around as to why this occurred. There is no concrete answer. The clotting disorder could have been the cause, but there is no way to know, only ways to try and avoid a repeat.
I told him about my fear of the cesarean and he offered to put me to sleep for it. His nurse (and everyone else) has tried to convince me that I can get through the first few minutes, see my son alive and then get a fat dose of anti-anxiety meds to knock me out while he ties my tubes and sews me up. I don't seem to have the confidence in me that they do.
When I told him about my anxiety, he mentioned that I didn't seem overly anxious to him. I have had this problem (especially concerning medical professionals) since I was eleven years old. Perhaps I am just good at putting a calm mask on when I have no choice but to confront those fears.
I believe a lot of my fear (besides the medical) comes not only from the traumatic experience I had with Zoe (which could have been lessened had someone even tried to comfort me or tell me what was happening) but from being raped when I was eighteen. Something about being flat on my back and exposed during such an intimate time, and add to that, cold metal and needles and being shaved and prepped and catheterized, and I don't know how I'm going to do it. Then I think of the doctor saying the word 'resuscitate' when referring to the sleepy state of babies being born under general anesthesia and my blood runs cold. I don't think anyone knows me deeply enough to help me with the immense fear I will have either way. I don't know how to be strong for myself either. I only know that this boy is coming out one way or another and I daydream about it being over, healthy baby in tow. That also seems like a far-away possibility and I have to remind myself that it is possible for that to be my reality in about eight and a half more weeks.
So, the choice I am facing now is:
#1. Go for the general anesthesia knowing I will go to sleep and wake up and either have a healthy baby boy that gets to come into my room and be snuggled by his sleepy mother or be ushered into the NICU or worse because he couldn't breathe and it would be my fault.
#2.Go through the epidural and the prep. and try like hell to not freak out, not knowing for sure that I am even capable of that, and see my baby boy born and then go to sleep.
Of course #2 seems like the obvious answer but I just don't know if I can do it. I am so good in a bad situation concerning other people. I do what needs to be done and break down later if I need to. I can't seem to dredge up that strength for myself and my boy and it hurts me. I feel so weak.
So there you have it. I have been going through my days in a trance of fear and optimism. I have passing thoughts of doing crafty things and never do. That bird mobile I was working on is completely ready to put together. It would take me a half hour yet it sits in pieces still on my dresser, taunting me.
I've taken pictures of the snow here and of the bread I find myself making at least once a week and of the new additions to the baby's room and the beautiful yellow calla lillies that Kenny brought over on Valentine's Day. (How's that for a run-on sentence)
They were meant to have posts all their own, but it's too late to put them in any orderly post. I've decided to just jumble them all into this one. A re-cap of last month in photos if you will:
I know how lucky I am to have one perfectly healthy, beautiful child, and I've learned not to take that for granted. It's amazing to me that she's already eight years old, as of last Sunday. I feel like I was a baby myself when I had her. I was so naive. I would never have believed that I would go on to lose her sister, and that I would have to explain to my five year old why she would never get to see her baby sister alive. It still breaks my heart, but I know that without her, I wouldn't have had such a strong will to survive after Zoe died. Ivy saved me in a way.
She's been waiting to be a big sister for a healthy sibling for a long time. I hope that in just a couple of weeks, she gets that. She deserves it after all...
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