No, this is not a post in which I talk about how M and I are switching our focus to adoption. That is still a long way down the road. Rather, I would like to talk about someone else with whom I have discovered I have a lot in common--the birth mother.
All of my life, I have been resolutely pro-life. No, I was never a sign-carrying activist, but because of the PCOS I always assumed I'd have difficulties procreating, and I wanted to prepare myself to become an adoptive parent. In order for there to be children to adopt, there must be birth parents who choose not to abort. And so I would tell anyone who asked that I believed in giving life a chance. There are plenty of parents who would happily adopt that unplanned child growing inside its mom's belly.
(Ironically, M and I were forced into the position of choosing whether we would terminate our own pregnancy. I still struggle with guilt over this, and probably always will. I must remember that ultimately, the life inside me never had a chance to begin with. That was the difference.)
As M wheeled me out of the hospital a couple of weeks ago, I suddenly felt a kinship with birth mothers who had made that incredibly unselfish, loving choice. Sure, they were leaving behind a living infant, while I was leaving behind a stillborn fetus. But we had something in common: We had both experienced labor and delivery, and we were both leaving the hospital with empty arms. I sobbed because I was leaving my child in the hands of strangers. The birth mother sobs for the same reason. Except, I would imagine that in many ways it is harder for her. She goes through nine months of discomfort and a full-blown labor (yes, my stay in the hospital was hard, but I must admit that the pushing was a cinch), and she has nothing. No wonder so many birth moms change their minds at the last minute. Even Danielle on "Desperate Housewives" felt the maternal bond as she held her son.
I haven't changed how I feel about abortion or adoption. I think I just feel a bit more understanding for birth moms than I had in the past. It is a hard, hard thing to give up a child--whether voluntarily or involuntarily.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Monday, November 19, 2007
Grief
In the first 30 years of my life, I never experienced the death of someone close to me. My father's parents died before I was born. My cousin died at 28, but I never knew him very well. The most I knew about grief came from the death of my two dogs, and the aftermath of my longtime college boyfriend dumping me (I had been expecting to marry him and had to completely rework my long-term plans afterward).
That has all changed.
We held a memorial service for Zach at our church yesterday. There were only 13 of us at the service--just our immediate family members. It was absolutely beautiful. The songs were perfect--which meant, of course, that I was fighting back tears the entire time. It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. Even my brother, who sat next to me during the service, was choking up during "Children of the Heavenly Father."
Afterward, at home that night, I felt terrible. The facts of our loss hadn't changed, but somehow I found myself focusing on all the negatives. "First infertility, now such a devastating loss," I said to M. "Maybe God is trying to tell us something. Maybe we're not supposed to be parents. Why in the world would he allow us to become pregnant just to have this happen to us? We had finally begun to relax with this pregnancy and plan for a future with our son, and then this happens."
Just like I had two weeks ago, I went to bed crying and I woke up crying.
That, I am told, is completely normal behavior after a memorial service. Not only was my body exhausted, but my mind was exhausted. I was just so sick of keeping a positive--or at least not completely hopeless--attitude that I was willing to just give in to all the voices whispering terrible things to me. My grief was talking, and I was listening. And man, did it suck.
I'm doing a little better now. I'm at least able to see life with a little more perspective. But one thing hasn't changed: Although I know that I will be happy in the future, I just can't picture it right now. Events that I would have normally been excited about just don't interest me anymore. Honestly, I can't picture being all that jazzed about anything in the near future. I guess this is what people mean when they say the bright colors of the world have become dull.
But I haven't completely given up. I know there will be brighter colors eventually. I just wish the doctors could put me under anesthesia and wake me up when the sun comes out.
That has all changed.
We held a memorial service for Zach at our church yesterday. There were only 13 of us at the service--just our immediate family members. It was absolutely beautiful. The songs were perfect--which meant, of course, that I was fighting back tears the entire time. It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. Even my brother, who sat next to me during the service, was choking up during "Children of the Heavenly Father."
Afterward, at home that night, I felt terrible. The facts of our loss hadn't changed, but somehow I found myself focusing on all the negatives. "First infertility, now such a devastating loss," I said to M. "Maybe God is trying to tell us something. Maybe we're not supposed to be parents. Why in the world would he allow us to become pregnant just to have this happen to us? We had finally begun to relax with this pregnancy and plan for a future with our son, and then this happens."
Just like I had two weeks ago, I went to bed crying and I woke up crying.
That, I am told, is completely normal behavior after a memorial service. Not only was my body exhausted, but my mind was exhausted. I was just so sick of keeping a positive--or at least not completely hopeless--attitude that I was willing to just give in to all the voices whispering terrible things to me. My grief was talking, and I was listening. And man, did it suck.
I'm doing a little better now. I'm at least able to see life with a little more perspective. But one thing hasn't changed: Although I know that I will be happy in the future, I just can't picture it right now. Events that I would have normally been excited about just don't interest me anymore. Honestly, I can't picture being all that jazzed about anything in the near future. I guess this is what people mean when they say the bright colors of the world have become dull.
But I haven't completely given up. I know there will be brighter colors eventually. I just wish the doctors could put me under anesthesia and wake me up when the sun comes out.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Just when you think it can't get any worse...
...it does. I went in for my one-week check-up with my OB on Tuesday, and she suspected an infection. After going back and forth between the hospital and the clinic (they're across the street from each other), it was discovered that I still had some placenta left in my uterus. And it was slightly infected. Seriously, anyone who saw me that day probably wanted to turn the other way--I had puffy eyes, tear-stained cheeks and an expression that made it very clear I have had better days. And, of course, it was the day that all the obviously pregnant women were waiting their turn in the OB's office.
Instead of going home to open the sympathy cards in the mail, I was sent from my OB's office to the hospital (the one where I work, by the way) to start getting an IV dose of antibiotics. Yes, it was another night in the hospital, ladies and gentleman. Ooh, and to make it even more fun, my OB gave me another dose of terror: She told me the concern with doing another D&C so close after giving birth is that the uterus is so soft, there's a danger of tearing a hole in the ol' reproductive organ.
I couldn't have been more distraught.
So M cancelled his business trip for the next day (I was to join him and spend a few days hanging out with my parents in Chicago; one of the few things I had to look forward to) and set up shop with me in the hospital. Again.
The good part of the story is, the D&C went very, very well. My OB swears she got the rest of the placenta out, and my ute is still in working order. I'm definitely having some cramping issues, but I can deal with that. In two weeks, she'll check to make sure all is clear and ready to go.
The funny thing is, that night in the hospital actually helped with the healing process. Instead of thinking about my son, I was thinking about myself and my health. Positive steps, positive steps. And on my way out of the hospital, I even confronted my biggest fear--running into people I know who don't know about my nightmare. I kid you not--this is almost a direct transcript of what I told a few people: "Well, the short story of what's wrong with me is this: I was pregnant, and now I'm not. The baby had a lethal malformation, so I delivered last week at 20 weeks; the baby was stillborn. They did a D&C after the birth, but there was still stuff left in there, so I came back to the hospital overnight to have another D&C performed." Talk about dousing people with a cold bucket of water! In a way, it's liberating to be able to sum up the whole story so succinctly.
I did, however, ask one woman I know to gossip as much as she could before I come back, so I wouldn't have to repeat the story ad nauseum. I'm not sure she believed I was serious.
Instead of going home to open the sympathy cards in the mail, I was sent from my OB's office to the hospital (the one where I work, by the way) to start getting an IV dose of antibiotics. Yes, it was another night in the hospital, ladies and gentleman. Ooh, and to make it even more fun, my OB gave me another dose of terror: She told me the concern with doing another D&C so close after giving birth is that the uterus is so soft, there's a danger of tearing a hole in the ol' reproductive organ.
I couldn't have been more distraught.
So M cancelled his business trip for the next day (I was to join him and spend a few days hanging out with my parents in Chicago; one of the few things I had to look forward to) and set up shop with me in the hospital. Again.
The good part of the story is, the D&C went very, very well. My OB swears she got the rest of the placenta out, and my ute is still in working order. I'm definitely having some cramping issues, but I can deal with that. In two weeks, she'll check to make sure all is clear and ready to go.
The funny thing is, that night in the hospital actually helped with the healing process. Instead of thinking about my son, I was thinking about myself and my health. Positive steps, positive steps. And on my way out of the hospital, I even confronted my biggest fear--running into people I know who don't know about my nightmare. I kid you not--this is almost a direct transcript of what I told a few people: "Well, the short story of what's wrong with me is this: I was pregnant, and now I'm not. The baby had a lethal malformation, so I delivered last week at 20 weeks; the baby was stillborn. They did a D&C after the birth, but there was still stuff left in there, so I came back to the hospital overnight to have another D&C performed." Talk about dousing people with a cold bucket of water! In a way, it's liberating to be able to sum up the whole story so succinctly.
I did, however, ask one woman I know to gossip as much as she could before I come back, so I wouldn't have to repeat the story ad nauseum. I'm not sure she believed I was serious.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
The birth of our son
Buckle up, folks, 'cause this is gonna be a long one...
We were supposed to be at the hospital on Tuesday, Nov. 6 at noon, so M and I spent the morning packing and getting our affairs in order. A good friend called and we spent a few minutes crying together, then M and I left. On the way, we stopped to buy a soft blanket for the baby (our one and only gift for him) and eat lunch. At the hospital, they admitted me right away but it took until 2:30 p.m. for them to finally start the induction. They gave me a vaginal suppository named Cytotec which was supposed to start the contractions. Needless to say, I was a bit surprised when they told me they'd check me every four hours to see how the medication was working and administer another dose. Four hours? So how long, exactly, was I going to be in labor????
Both of our sets of parents were at the hospital, and I think they were surprised to see how good I was feeling that first evening. Really, I had absolutely no pain. It wasn't until I was sleeping later that evening that I started to feel the first effect of the Cytotec--fever. I woke up literally shaking like a leaf. I was so, so cold, and I couldn't get warm. Then, at about midnight, I started feeling cramps, like they said I would. Here's the bad part about the cramps--while contractions hurt for a few minutes and then go away, cramps never go away. They just get worse. After a little while, I realized that I couldn't sleep because I was concentrating so much on the cramps. So I finally asked for the epidural.
Boy, was that a fun ordeal: The anesthesiologist kicked M out of the room, so I was holding the nurse's hand while I was shaking, moaning because of the pain and throwing up into a bucket (the Cytotec also makes you nauseous). I was terrified of the epidural, but it turned out not to be nearly as bad as I thought it would be. I highly, highly recommend it for anyone.
The epidural worked wonders: Within about 20 minutes, I had no pain at all and I was able to sleep peacefully the rest of the night. The next morning, the doc checked me and said although I wasn't dilated much, I was very effaced, and she didn't think it would be long now. Sure enough, in a couple of hours, while I was resting peacefully, I felt the first sign that the baby might be coming. Would you be believe that my first thought was, Not now--I'm way too comfortable? Finally, however, I called the nurse and within a few minutes the whole team was assembled. Just a few easy pushes and Zachary Andrew was born at 9:49 a.m. on Nov. 7.
As terrible as this entire last week has been, that moment was the best. He was just so beautiful, it took my breath away. Some of you might think that a baby born at 20 weeks would be disturbing to behold. Not at all--every part of Zach was perfectly formed, down to his fingernails and toenails. He was our son, a wonderful gift from God, and we couldn't get enough of him. To answer your unasked question--yes, he was stillborn. But that didn't seem to matter to us at the time. We took in every part of him, taking tons of pictures. Eventually, our parents came into the room and took pictures, too. They fell in love with him the minute they saw him. The nurses dressed him up in a tiny outfit and hat and he looked just like every other newborn--except, of course, much smaller. He was 14 ounces and 9.75 inches long. M and I said a prayer of thanksgiving to God together, thanking him for our baby boy and passing him into His care. After several hours, we told the nurses it was OK to take him away.
The worst part of the whole delivery was the placenta. They simply couldn't get it out, likely because the low amount of amniotic fluid had caused it to suction to the back of the uterus. They finally had to prep me for a D&C. Fortunately, I couldn't feel a thing, but I watched as they wheeled me into the OR and went about their business. There were five doctors in the room and several nurses. I felt so special! It was like I was watching a TV show of my own life as they positioned my arms and legs in the right way for the procedure.
It took me a while to recover from the D&C (I was nauseous and had a fever again). That night, I slept on and off, and they released me shortly before noon the next day.
Did I say the worst part of the experience was removing the placenta? I was wrong. It was leaving the hospital. The tears ran down my face as I realized: I was leaving my son behind. A mother never leaves her child behind! It was a long way to the car, and the journey seemed interminable as M wheeled me along. No matter what I thought I knew intellectually, all these feelings of guilt and loss washed over me. Wasn't there something more I could do to protect my son? He had depended on me, and I had let him down. Now, I was leaving him in the arms of strangers.
Then, as I stepped into the car, a moment of clarity washed over me. I told M, "You know, actually, we're not leaving Zach at all. He already beat us home. He's waiting for us there." And through my sobs, I felt this strange peace. God is going to make sure our little boy will never be alone.
Since Thursday, I've had minor cramping, of course, and I've had a severe muscle ache in my right leg (probably from the stirrups). But the physical pain has been nothing compared to the emotional pain. See, last weekend we were mourning the loss of my pregnancy. Now, we are mourning the loss of our son. He was the most special thing we have ever created. Ironically, the day we came home there was a birth announcement in the mail from a friend who gave birth to a boy about two months ago. The minute I saw what it was, I quickly turned it over and shoved it in a drawer. I'll look at it someday, but not now. That was supposed to be us in March. We were supposed to be sending out a cute announcement about our baby boy, who was going to grow up to change the world. Instead, the sympathy cards and flowers are slowly trickling in. Don't get me wrong--I'm not bitter. Somehow, this was all in God's plan, and somehow, through all of this, somebody's life (maybe ours, maybe not) is going to be changed for the better.
I'm just very, very sad. And that sadness will not ever go away.
I cry several times a day now. Yesterday, after meeting with the funeral home and deciding that we didn't like the urns they had to offer, we decided to hit the mall to look. This particular mall has terrible parking, and apparently Christmas shopping season is already in full swing. I was so frustrated at losing out on a couple of parking spaces that when we finally pulled into a spot, I started sobbing uncontrollably. Hmm, think there might be something else going on? Although we took tons of pictures, I haven't been able to look at them yet. I'll have the rest of my life to look at them and put them in a special album.
From what we've heard, there are lots of people IRL that are thinking about us and praying for us. Although we know people would like us to have a public memorial service, we've decided to keep it private--just us, nine other members of our families and some pastors and musicians from our church. I just don't want to entertain, and that's often what a funeral becomes. I want our focus to be on Zach.
He deserves it.
We were supposed to be at the hospital on Tuesday, Nov. 6 at noon, so M and I spent the morning packing and getting our affairs in order. A good friend called and we spent a few minutes crying together, then M and I left. On the way, we stopped to buy a soft blanket for the baby (our one and only gift for him) and eat lunch. At the hospital, they admitted me right away but it took until 2:30 p.m. for them to finally start the induction. They gave me a vaginal suppository named Cytotec which was supposed to start the contractions. Needless to say, I was a bit surprised when they told me they'd check me every four hours to see how the medication was working and administer another dose. Four hours? So how long, exactly, was I going to be in labor????
Both of our sets of parents were at the hospital, and I think they were surprised to see how good I was feeling that first evening. Really, I had absolutely no pain. It wasn't until I was sleeping later that evening that I started to feel the first effect of the Cytotec--fever. I woke up literally shaking like a leaf. I was so, so cold, and I couldn't get warm. Then, at about midnight, I started feeling cramps, like they said I would. Here's the bad part about the cramps--while contractions hurt for a few minutes and then go away, cramps never go away. They just get worse. After a little while, I realized that I couldn't sleep because I was concentrating so much on the cramps. So I finally asked for the epidural.
Boy, was that a fun ordeal: The anesthesiologist kicked M out of the room, so I was holding the nurse's hand while I was shaking, moaning because of the pain and throwing up into a bucket (the Cytotec also makes you nauseous). I was terrified of the epidural, but it turned out not to be nearly as bad as I thought it would be. I highly, highly recommend it for anyone.
The epidural worked wonders: Within about 20 minutes, I had no pain at all and I was able to sleep peacefully the rest of the night. The next morning, the doc checked me and said although I wasn't dilated much, I was very effaced, and she didn't think it would be long now. Sure enough, in a couple of hours, while I was resting peacefully, I felt the first sign that the baby might be coming. Would you be believe that my first thought was, Not now--I'm way too comfortable? Finally, however, I called the nurse and within a few minutes the whole team was assembled. Just a few easy pushes and Zachary Andrew was born at 9:49 a.m. on Nov. 7.
As terrible as this entire last week has been, that moment was the best. He was just so beautiful, it took my breath away. Some of you might think that a baby born at 20 weeks would be disturbing to behold. Not at all--every part of Zach was perfectly formed, down to his fingernails and toenails. He was our son, a wonderful gift from God, and we couldn't get enough of him. To answer your unasked question--yes, he was stillborn. But that didn't seem to matter to us at the time. We took in every part of him, taking tons of pictures. Eventually, our parents came into the room and took pictures, too. They fell in love with him the minute they saw him. The nurses dressed him up in a tiny outfit and hat and he looked just like every other newborn--except, of course, much smaller. He was 14 ounces and 9.75 inches long. M and I said a prayer of thanksgiving to God together, thanking him for our baby boy and passing him into His care. After several hours, we told the nurses it was OK to take him away.
The worst part of the whole delivery was the placenta. They simply couldn't get it out, likely because the low amount of amniotic fluid had caused it to suction to the back of the uterus. They finally had to prep me for a D&C. Fortunately, I couldn't feel a thing, but I watched as they wheeled me into the OR and went about their business. There were five doctors in the room and several nurses. I felt so special! It was like I was watching a TV show of my own life as they positioned my arms and legs in the right way for the procedure.
It took me a while to recover from the D&C (I was nauseous and had a fever again). That night, I slept on and off, and they released me shortly before noon the next day.
Did I say the worst part of the experience was removing the placenta? I was wrong. It was leaving the hospital. The tears ran down my face as I realized: I was leaving my son behind. A mother never leaves her child behind! It was a long way to the car, and the journey seemed interminable as M wheeled me along. No matter what I thought I knew intellectually, all these feelings of guilt and loss washed over me. Wasn't there something more I could do to protect my son? He had depended on me, and I had let him down. Now, I was leaving him in the arms of strangers.
Then, as I stepped into the car, a moment of clarity washed over me. I told M, "You know, actually, we're not leaving Zach at all. He already beat us home. He's waiting for us there." And through my sobs, I felt this strange peace. God is going to make sure our little boy will never be alone.
Since Thursday, I've had minor cramping, of course, and I've had a severe muscle ache in my right leg (probably from the stirrups). But the physical pain has been nothing compared to the emotional pain. See, last weekend we were mourning the loss of my pregnancy. Now, we are mourning the loss of our son. He was the most special thing we have ever created. Ironically, the day we came home there was a birth announcement in the mail from a friend who gave birth to a boy about two months ago. The minute I saw what it was, I quickly turned it over and shoved it in a drawer. I'll look at it someday, but not now. That was supposed to be us in March. We were supposed to be sending out a cute announcement about our baby boy, who was going to grow up to change the world. Instead, the sympathy cards and flowers are slowly trickling in. Don't get me wrong--I'm not bitter. Somehow, this was all in God's plan, and somehow, through all of this, somebody's life (maybe ours, maybe not) is going to be changed for the better.
I'm just very, very sad. And that sadness will not ever go away.
I cry several times a day now. Yesterday, after meeting with the funeral home and deciding that we didn't like the urns they had to offer, we decided to hit the mall to look. This particular mall has terrible parking, and apparently Christmas shopping season is already in full swing. I was so frustrated at losing out on a couple of parking spaces that when we finally pulled into a spot, I started sobbing uncontrollably. Hmm, think there might be something else going on? Although we took tons of pictures, I haven't been able to look at them yet. I'll have the rest of my life to look at them and put them in a special album.
From what we've heard, there are lots of people IRL that are thinking about us and praying for us. Although we know people would like us to have a public memorial service, we've decided to keep it private--just us, nine other members of our families and some pastors and musicians from our church. I just don't want to entertain, and that's often what a funeral becomes. I want our focus to be on Zach.
He deserves it.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Confirmation
I should call my blog "The Unlucky .02 Percent," because that's about the chance of our child having this condition.
See, I can still joke! As many of you already know, you can't cry all day long when you're going through suffering. There are moments of deep sadness, but there are also incredibly, incredibly funny moments, too. M's mother is very emotional, and I think she's been taken aback by how loud we've laughed at times over the past few days. The thing is, both M and I are theater people, and we know how easily the line between tragedy and comedy can be blurred.
As I expected, the perinatologist's diagnosis was correct. Our baby has bilateral renal agenesis, which means he has no kidneys or bladder and cannot survive outside the womb. In addition, there may be a problem with the nuchal fold, which could indicate other major disabilities. In short, our child has lots of problems.
I am scheduled to be induced this afternoon. Unfortunately, the staff at the hospital where I work are not equipped to handle something like this (i.e., ending the life of a living fetus with a lethal condition), so I will be delivering with a different doctor at a different hospital.
The thing is, while M and I are devastated, we have not sunk into a pit of despair. We've been overwhelmed by the love and kindness shown to us--from you guys, from our family, our friends, our co-workers. My OB has been wonderful. She called and spoke to me for 20 minutes last night. She had been trying to fight to get me to deliver at my hospital, but at this point I'm ready for my scheduled induction. She told me how everyone in her office is so broken up about this. Not that they would ever want anyone to experience such a loss, but they were all rooting for me so much.
And our faith has held us up. Honestly, I don't know how we would handle even getting up in the morning without God's help. I feel so sad, but I also feel strengthened. Our path has changed from the one we originally put together. There has to be a reason for it. Some good will come out of this--even if it's not to us. Our little boy's short time in my belly will not be in vain.
Thank you so much for all your comments and offers of comfort. I can't tell you how much it means to open my e-mail and see so many people pouring out their hearts. It breaks my heart to see how many of you have experienced similar losses. That's just not right.
For the first time this morning, I didn't take my prenatal pill. It just didn't seem to matter anymore. I am very, very scared about what's going to happen in a few hours, but it's something the two of us will just have to get through. I just hope the labor won't go as long as 48 hours, as some early inductions have been known to go that long.
Hey, and look on the bright side--I only have $200 left before I reach my out-of-pocket maximum for my insurance! So this delivery will be pretty close to free. (Cut me some slack--I have to find some sort of silver lining. :) )
See, I can still joke! As many of you already know, you can't cry all day long when you're going through suffering. There are moments of deep sadness, but there are also incredibly, incredibly funny moments, too. M's mother is very emotional, and I think she's been taken aback by how loud we've laughed at times over the past few days. The thing is, both M and I are theater people, and we know how easily the line between tragedy and comedy can be blurred.
As I expected, the perinatologist's diagnosis was correct. Our baby has bilateral renal agenesis, which means he has no kidneys or bladder and cannot survive outside the womb. In addition, there may be a problem with the nuchal fold, which could indicate other major disabilities. In short, our child has lots of problems.
I am scheduled to be induced this afternoon. Unfortunately, the staff at the hospital where I work are not equipped to handle something like this (i.e., ending the life of a living fetus with a lethal condition), so I will be delivering with a different doctor at a different hospital.
The thing is, while M and I are devastated, we have not sunk into a pit of despair. We've been overwhelmed by the love and kindness shown to us--from you guys, from our family, our friends, our co-workers. My OB has been wonderful. She called and spoke to me for 20 minutes last night. She had been trying to fight to get me to deliver at my hospital, but at this point I'm ready for my scheduled induction. She told me how everyone in her office is so broken up about this. Not that they would ever want anyone to experience such a loss, but they were all rooting for me so much.
And our faith has held us up. Honestly, I don't know how we would handle even getting up in the morning without God's help. I feel so sad, but I also feel strengthened. Our path has changed from the one we originally put together. There has to be a reason for it. Some good will come out of this--even if it's not to us. Our little boy's short time in my belly will not be in vain.
Thank you so much for all your comments and offers of comfort. I can't tell you how much it means to open my e-mail and see so many people pouring out their hearts. It breaks my heart to see how many of you have experienced similar losses. That's just not right.
For the first time this morning, I didn't take my prenatal pill. It just didn't seem to matter anymore. I am very, very scared about what's going to happen in a few hours, but it's something the two of us will just have to get through. I just hope the labor won't go as long as 48 hours, as some early inductions have been known to go that long.
Hey, and look on the bright side--I only have $200 left before I reach my out-of-pocket maximum for my insurance! So this delivery will be pretty close to free. (Cut me some slack--I have to find some sort of silver lining. :) )
Saturday, November 3, 2007
You know it's a really, really bad day when you go to bed crying and you wake up crying--with little periods of wakefulness in between just to make sure you can't get a truly healing rest. I woke up this morning asking M what I can possibly do to feel better. Because the pain is certainly not going away; it's just getting worse.
I guess the only thing I know how to do is write about my pain.
I'm no fool. I can put 2 and 2 together. Thanks, Geohde, for reminding me of the name of the condition the perinatologist thinks our baby has--bilateral renal agenesis. Yes, it's fatal. Dr. Google tells me that it's extremely rare; only 1 in 5000 babies have it. As M and I remember what the tech told us (he said he finally found the bladder, but it was empty, which was why he had trouble finding it in the first place), and then think about the low fluid levels, we realize we know exactly what the doctor will tell us on Monday: This child will not live. There is no hoping left. There is only raw pain.
When I drove home from the hospital yesterday, it fleetingly occurred to me how beautiful of a fall day it was. I always love Friday; it's my favorite day of the week. M and I were going to go shopping for baby furniture, which I was really looking forward to. We were probably even going to start a registry! I was just waiting for the doctor to tell me everything was fine with the baby, and then we would start making the calls to family members to tell them the sex. It's a boy. We even developed a short list of names earlier this week.
I'm a planner. My life revolves around my plans, and when I'm in limbo, as with fertility treatments, I feel incomplete. An even worse feeling, however, is when the plan gets disrupted. The most recent time this occurred was when my college boyfriend of 2 and a half years broke up with me a few months after I graduated. I was going to marry him and follow him to grad school. Instead, I was forced to imagine a life without marriage--at least in the near future.
We were so ready to welcome our little boy on March 25. I was ready to quit my job, quit a bunch of my activities and start scoping out the Mommy groups. I had all my maternity clothes, and I had decided I would start wearing them to work next week. My friend in our Bible study group had just announced her pregnancy and I was looking forward to us sharing this time together, eventually arranging play dates for our children.
Our baby boy fetus is now 20 weeks old.
My mother told me my brother was really broken up about the news. He kept saying, "And after all they've been through." He's right--how much pain is one couple really supposed to take?
Does this sound weird? I want to start treatments again. As soon as possible. I just can't give up on the plan. People always say you need a grieving period, but all I can hear is the clock ticking away.
I just wish this didn't have to get worse before it gets better. As you might have expected, there's no way I can carry this baby to term. I respect the decisions of those who might, but I cannot bear to be pregnant with a child that can't live without me. The only question will be how soon I can be...induced...and how bad the labor is going to be. I have no idea how they even do it. I mean, the baby is alive, so how does this work? Why are M and I forced to make these decisions?
I guess the only thing I know how to do is write about my pain.
I'm no fool. I can put 2 and 2 together. Thanks, Geohde, for reminding me of the name of the condition the perinatologist thinks our baby has--bilateral renal agenesis. Yes, it's fatal. Dr. Google tells me that it's extremely rare; only 1 in 5000 babies have it. As M and I remember what the tech told us (he said he finally found the bladder, but it was empty, which was why he had trouble finding it in the first place), and then think about the low fluid levels, we realize we know exactly what the doctor will tell us on Monday: This child will not live. There is no hoping left. There is only raw pain.
When I drove home from the hospital yesterday, it fleetingly occurred to me how beautiful of a fall day it was. I always love Friday; it's my favorite day of the week. M and I were going to go shopping for baby furniture, which I was really looking forward to. We were probably even going to start a registry! I was just waiting for the doctor to tell me everything was fine with the baby, and then we would start making the calls to family members to tell them the sex. It's a boy. We even developed a short list of names earlier this week.
I'm a planner. My life revolves around my plans, and when I'm in limbo, as with fertility treatments, I feel incomplete. An even worse feeling, however, is when the plan gets disrupted. The most recent time this occurred was when my college boyfriend of 2 and a half years broke up with me a few months after I graduated. I was going to marry him and follow him to grad school. Instead, I was forced to imagine a life without marriage--at least in the near future.
We were so ready to welcome our little boy on March 25. I was ready to quit my job, quit a bunch of my activities and start scoping out the Mommy groups. I had all my maternity clothes, and I had decided I would start wearing them to work next week. My friend in our Bible study group had just announced her pregnancy and I was looking forward to us sharing this time together, eventually arranging play dates for our children.
Our baby boy fetus is now 20 weeks old.
My mother told me my brother was really broken up about the news. He kept saying, "And after all they've been through." He's right--how much pain is one couple really supposed to take?
Does this sound weird? I want to start treatments again. As soon as possible. I just can't give up on the plan. People always say you need a grieving period, but all I can hear is the clock ticking away.
I just wish this didn't have to get worse before it gets better. As you might have expected, there's no way I can carry this baby to term. I respect the decisions of those who might, but I cannot bear to be pregnant with a child that can't live without me. The only question will be how soon I can be...induced...and how bad the labor is going to be. I have no idea how they even do it. I mean, the baby is alive, so how does this work? Why are M and I forced to make these decisions?
Friday, November 2, 2007
Our worst nightmare
It turns out I wasn't crazy to be worried.
I wish I was.
The short story: Saw a perinatologist. He couldn't find a bladder or kidneys. Told him the tech found a bladder. He looked at the films, but couldn't see a bladder. Tech was probably wrong. Perinatologist will see me on Monday, but it's looking pretty grim. No bladder and kidneys=some renal condition whose name I can't remember right now.
If this is true, the baby can't live outside the womb. I will have to go into labor to deliver, but won't get a live baby at the end of it.
I can't imagine this post sucking any more than it does right now, so I think I'll stop.
I wish I was.
The short story: Saw a perinatologist. He couldn't find a bladder or kidneys. Told him the tech found a bladder. He looked at the films, but couldn't see a bladder. Tech was probably wrong. Perinatologist will see me on Monday, but it's looking pretty grim. No bladder and kidneys=some renal condition whose name I can't remember right now.
If this is true, the baby can't live outside the womb. I will have to go into labor to deliver, but won't get a live baby at the end of it.
I can't imagine this post sucking any more than it does right now, so I think I'll stop.
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