Mother's Day

It is difficult and it remains so.  I have good days and bad.  My sleep is still poor.  It has affected my menstrual cycle and my GI functions are weak.  But I wake up every day and I kiss my baby's little head.  Her toes.  And I lean over and kiss her little tin box.  I talk to her.  Every day I tell her how much I love her.

The 5 Stages of Grief

In my experience, these stages aren't always one directional.  You can be pinballed between two, move to the third stage only to return to the second.  Grief does not abide by order or timetables.  

Helping Hands

I don't know if I mentioned it before, but I follow my basal body temperature (BBT) throughout my cycle to pinpoint ovulation.  I did the same when conceiving Nahuatl and it's a method I have confidence in.  There are many online and phone applications that help log and store waking temperatures to use as future predictions for when ovulation may occur again.  Because my temperatures are post pregnancy loss, I share my monthly cycles with communities so that others can compare and see how it may affect BBT in the beginning and later on. When I was waiting for my menses to return, I didn't know what to expect.  But I noticed my temperatures were uncharacteristic of past measurements and I wished I had examples to confirm what I was experiencing was normal. So I hope my early charts can give insight to others.

But now that my hormones have balanced, I still share my cycles so that others can see how long I've been TTC.  It's my way of providing statistics to demonstrate the time it may take someone who lost a baby to conceive again.  There are many factors to consider.  We're dealing with hormone fluctuations, grief, and sometimes depression.  All of which affect fertility.  So I share my cycles to indicate that it can take a while.   But I also share for the support I can't find elsewhere, especially since I no longer see a therapist. And I needed a lot of it this month.

I had been crying for days at the start of this cycle and could barely get up from the couch where I brought all my blankets and a pillow to.  My husband can only provide so much assurance because he experienced my pregnancy through me.  He didn't establish a bond with Nahuatl like I did.  He didn't feel her kicks or her presence that came from physical ailments and a protruding belly.  My husband didn't feel or see how different it was once she was gone.  So when sharing my chart, I asked for positive comments from others. And I received them.  They didn't try to console me, which is what I think many people try to do without realizing there are no direct words that can accomplish this. Instead, many women left notes letting me know they were traveling the same journey. And others who haven't experienced the same loss were still there saying they were glad I was a part of their community and they gave me warm wishes. One woman who lost one of her twins 2 years ago said her daughter showed her how precious it is to live. And even though my daughter's life has made it so that I sometimes want to join her, it touched me that a woman would share herself and her daughter like that.

If it weren't for the support of others, I don't know where I would be right now.  I don't know why, but it's a lonely place to lose a child.  The lack of understanding and empathy from others angers me, though I can't explain why.  The loss festers and overwhelms without helping hands and I sometimes feel like I'm drowning.  It's harder because I can't identify what I'm feeling or discern why I respond the way I do.  And it's difficult finding others that can help or are willing.  But I've noticed that the support exists. Not always where you expect it.  But it's there.  And it helps pull you out of the abyss.  

Why?

I only had a 1/282 chance that my baby would have trisomy 21 when I went in for my nuchal translucency test at 13 weeks.  The chances increase as maternal age climbs, but that's where I was at 35.  Yet when you put the numbers into perspective the statistics are really in a woman's favor at any age because even an event with a 1/100 chance (at age 40), there is still a 99 percent probability a baby will be born healthy.  Those are great odds.  But after Nahuatl's diagnosis, the chance may as well have been 1/∞ because higher or lower chances don't change being that one no matter what the denominator is.  

And if that's the case, what was so special about me?  Why was I that one person out of all those healthy births?  Medical professionals and genetic counselors tell me it was a fluke, but random isn't a good enough answer.  So I scream why without saying anything else.  Or I regress in time looking for something bad I did to deserve what happened to her.  I wonder what I didn't do enough of or if I was too much.  Sometimes I wonder if I was being tested by someone or something.  If it was my life course to make me a better person or an appreciative one. And without answers, I get venomous.  I glare at mothers who smoke while pushing their children in strollers.  I get upset at women who have multiple unplanned pregnancies with different fathers and mothers who walk out on their kids.  It's not that I judge anyone for their choices.  It's that I don't understand why their choices led to a healthy baby and mine didn't.

I think that's why I stopped participating in things I believe in.  I used to care about sustainability and supporting local commerce.  I ate organic and strove for a healthy lifestyle.  I donated to social causes and I kept myself informed.  I wasn't perfect, but I wanted to leave the smallest imprint on our environment and I wanted to be socially responsible.  So I tried.  But now it's exhausting and I find it unimportant.  I can't bring myself to consider the world around me when I see careless people happy. I don't have enough energy to push myself because my stores were depleted when doing what was best for my daughter.  

     

    

Something to Hold Onto

I told my therapist the feeling of losing a baby won't go away.  It's always with me no matter what I'm doing. When I'm brushing my teeth, when I'm cleaning my house, when I'm on the bus, I'm always thinking about her. I wonder if she had a head full of hair like me.  If she looked more like my husband or had my grandfather's eyes.  I imagine myself kissing her little belly and I can see her wearing diapers with her long legs from my ultrasounds coming out of them.  And when I catch sight of my husband's hands, I think about how she had the same ones.  

But for some reason there are certain tasks I can get lost in.  I search for memorial pendants and patron saint medallions (though I am not religious).  I scour Etsy and Ebay looking for the right ones.  Meaningful necklaces with the perfect pendant or collection of pendants tied to babies and infants who were lost in pregnancy or after, as well as patron saints of children. If I focus my attention on searching for and buying these items, I feel better about life.  Even with a limited income I can't stop.  It gives me peace.      

And I can't help but think of the trailer to The Rabbit Hole when I do these things, a film about a couple who lost their child. In one of the scenes the mother asked if it (the pain) ever went away.  The person she was speaking with said no, but that it eventually becomes bearable.  I think that's what I am waiting for.  And that things like photoshopping Nahuatl's handprints and footprints for family and ordering prints of her ultrasounds so I can hang them up help me in the interim.  So even though I can't explain why buying a necklace makes me feel okay, it's something I can hold onto until life is bearable again.  

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.