Coping

                       



When I first saw this movie, I was surprised by how good it was.  But now I've been watching it frequently.  I don't know why, but I need to be surrounded by people who experienced loss (even if portrayed in a film).  Something about being able to identify with specific feelings and thoughts when I can't articulate them quiets the relentless uneasiness at the back of my mind.  Some parents can't watch or read movies and books depicting pregnancy and infant loss because it triggers their grief.  But I'm the complete opposite.  Walking outside and pretending nothing happened is more of a trigger. Wearing clothes that now hug my post pregnancy pooch is more of a trigger.  Going to the supermarket during the day is more of a trigger.  Laughing at something my husband said is more of a trigger  Not talking about what happened and accepting that some people have to make difficult decisions while others don't is more of a trigger.  The OB/GYN I saw about conceiving again had no concerns that it would happen and her no worry confidence is more of a trigger.  But watching, reading, writing, and talking about pregnancy and infant loss kind of okays the moment because I don't feel alone.  I forget the despair and I feel somewhat normal without anger.

Breaking Down & Moving Forward

"Your absence has gone through me like thread through a needle.  Everything I do is stitched with its color." W. S. Merwin 

I don't think there is any real way of getting up after losing a child. No matter what the circumstances are surrounding such a loss there is an emptiness that lingers.  And unfortunately, the decision to terminate for medical reasons comes with personalized guilt. The culture we live in only adds to it and I've noticed it pins mothers against mothers (those who did not elect against those who did).  But we all lost someone we love and struggle to move forward.  Sometimes our momentum is slow and sometimes we lose direction.

I find listening to other women on support groups comforting.   When I'm up late worrying about a misdiagnosis or wondering if my baby could have been the highly functional 1% with minimal health problems, I go through TFMR boards on Baby Center. The stories there are similar to my own and I walk away feeling as if the women from each post are holding me up and helping me inch forward.

Because the thing is ... many people don't know how to respond to a friend or a family member mourning the loss of a pregnancy, baby, or infant.  Sometimes people don't understand how losing someone in utero or a stillbirth can be devastating   Or they simply lack words to convey their sorrow and stand back. So it's difficult to recover because you're isolated and overwhelmed with grief. And it feels as if you're experiencing this alone. That's why I turn to support groups and counseling.  The idea of better hasn't happened yet, but the only security I feel comes from knowing I'm making an effort to find it.  And that others are going through the same pain and many women have found a sense of peace despite it.

Walking a Non-Linear Line

Last week was bad.  I was all over the place.  It started by going to the doctor for a follow up visit. I had a mixture of emotions seeing my uterus on the ultrasound and speaking to the doctor about when I have clearance to conceive.  Not seeing a little bub was difficult to come to terms with. And I felt guilty asking when my husband and I could try again.   If it weren't for my age and where I am in my life, timing wouldn't be so important.  I waited so long to start a family I don't have the luxury to put my fertility on the back burner (especially since I had concerns when trying for Nahuatl - and I am almost a year older now).  But I can't help but feel like I'm minimizing Nahuatl's time on earth thinking about another baby.  And as I went from grief to this guilt, fear began to grow.  Fear that I would never conceive again.  Fear that I would never have a healthy baby.  

In my mind, my eggs are old and grey like the strands that creep through my hair.  I have a 1% chance that a chromosomal abnormality could happen again after having one trisomy event, but I need a professional to make me feel silly and give me hope.  Someone to tell me my age does not mark the end of my fertility and someone to make me see the 99% chance of having a healthy child.  That is the only way to control my anxiety.  So I made an appointment to speak to an OB/GYN about my egg count and quality.

I've also decided to take a year off from school.  Not only for financial reasons or to heal emotionally, but to find personal forgiveness.  The medical community does not know definitively why chromosomal defects occur.  My therapist assures me they are flukes and that I did nothing to make it happen.  But I can't help feel responsible.  That not having children earlier and letting myself live an unbalanced life did something to my egg.  School always came first.  It had precedence over my health.  My marriage.  My family.  And my baby.  Up late when I should have been in bed.  On campus when I should have been resting.  I pushed myself to study more, to sacrifice more, I let the stress overtake me.  And this loss has made me regret living like that.  Time that I can't get back and events that cannot be erased.  So I am going to spend this time finding peace and eliminating personal stress.  I am taking a meditation and relaxation yoga class in September to help. 

I made a promise to Nahuatl.  I told her I will never choose school over my babies.  I still want to pursue my goals and I will, but not in a way that sacrifices my health or relationships.  I will work my goals around my family not my family around my goals.  And I will never break that promise to her. 

Funerals & Cremations

After the T21 diagnosis, I grew accustomed to sleeping things off.  When I wake, it takes me a while to remember the current environment and the temporary confusion helps me deal with some of my emotions.  But some days are more difficult than others and sleeping resolves nothing ... like today.

Today I had to pick up my daughter's remains from the funeral home where she was cremated.  It was awkward walking in.  I was aware of every stride.  How I was posed.  I didn't want to talk or breathe.  Even letting the director know who we were and why we were there was forced.  The words "I'm here to pick up my daughter" were awful.  They sounded foreign and they bruised my tongue.  Their finality and coldness triggers melancholy.  But that is what I had to say to move forward.  

When the director left so that he could retrieve Nahuatl, we were in front and I saw all the different sized urns showcased on the wall.  They were overwhelming.  But it wasn't until I looked upon the tiniest urn that I began to cry.  I kept thinking urns shouldn't be that small.  My anguish increased when the director returned with a tiny little bag that had a tiny little tin can inside.  Nahuatl used to fit inside me and now she lives in a tiny little can inside a tiny little bag.  

I'm good at compartmentalizing my feelings.  Finding a space and never thinking about them again.  And that's all I want to do with today.  But my therapist says that's not the way people heal.  That the grieving process lingers when compartmentalizing.  That's why I'm allowing myself to feel this.  Well ... partly why.   I trust my therapist and I want to be happy again, but I also want to think about Nahuatl without feeling empty.  I have no stories to tell of her.  Just that she was a hell of kicker for having four toes on one foot.  And that I pictured her bouncing her head up against my uterus whenever I sloshed her around when running for the bus.  But I have no real memories of her life like where she spent her 1st birthday.  No pictures of her first laugh, her first experience touching water, or the first time she fell asleep in my arms.  She lived inside me for 5 months.  So I don't have any life stories.  But I have the life I dreamed for her, holidays, outings, travels, and I want to be able to think about them without feeling robbed.  Thinking about her keeps her from disappearing.  And that is important to me because her presence is every part of my family as my husband and I are.  She is very much loved and was very much wanted.  So I am hoping that allowing myself to go through this grief and loss will somehow get me to accept what happened so that I can think about her without growing silent.  

 

The Journey

I spent 5 years planning my pregnancy, 6 months trying to conceive, and over 5 months carrying my baby girl.  I was emotionally ready at 30, but financially unstable and in the middle of a career change.  So when my husband and I made the decision to finally start a family, it was a big deal for us (especially for me).  I spent two years preparing my body - tackling food sensitivities and hormone imbalances, going organic, starting a prenatal vitamin regiment, omitting certain ingredients in skincare, haircare, oral care, cosmetics, and even perfumes.  Then two months before my 35th birthday, I couldn't wait any more. 

It's funny because I spent so much time worrying about being able to get pregnant, that I was shocked by how scared I became once I did.  I was excited over my BFP, but I started panicking soon after.  We planned every aspect of this pregnancy yet I second guessed juggling medical school and motherhood, financially caring for a baby, and being a good mother.  The fears only subsided once I got my initial T21 analysis at 13 weeks (via NT and NIT tests).  At that point, all I could think was that they were going to take my baby away from me.  And it sent an indescribable ache through the pit of my heart as if someone was skinning me and touching my nerves.  I didn't want it to be true, but I knew the amniocentesis would confirm Down Syndrome.

Between 17-22 weeks, I agonized over what to do.  My daughter's kicks were pronounced and frequent.  And through them, I grew closer to the little person growing inside me.  That is when I became a mother and separating my emotions from reason became difficult.  I wanted the best for her.  I wanted her to have the best life.  Not a world full of hospital visits, on-going medical treatments, possible heart surgeries, leukemia, early dementia, or emotional and developmental challenges. I didn't want her wellbeing passed on to strangers when my husband and I died or make future siblings responsible.  I worried about her future, her livelihood, and her health.    But I also wanted my baby and thinking about letting her go was/is torture. 

Knowing what the best thing is for your child is not simple.  It isn't an easy black and white yes or no.  It's personal, varies between parents,  and comes with regrets no matter what choice is made.  In the end, I thought the best thing for my baby was to terminate my pregnancy.  But it came with guilt.  Guilt that I made the choice to end her life.  Guilt that it was most probably my egg that had the meiotic error.  Guilt that I waited as long as I did to try to conceive.  Guilt that my pregnancy was so difficult, I was hardly feeding her (I was barely eating from 6 weeks to 19 weeks).  And guilt that I doubted my love for her when panicking about becoming a mom. 

My therapist says this is normal, but knowing my reactions are expected doesn't minimize them.  It doesn't fill that emptiness that comes when your child disappears.  It doesn't heal.  It doesn't nurture.  It doesn't give me Nahuatl.