I cry most days, but not all, and usually in the evenings and on the weekends. I hold it together all day long at school. There is joy there and I cherish every moment I have with my students. Although, I have shed a tear or two there like when the email was sent out canceling my baby shower. Most people, when they see me give me a quick hug or squeeze my hand. I appreciate this so much. I know how much people care about what we are going through and want to acknowledge that they care. Usually, when people ask me how I'm doing I revert back to my old ways and put on a brave face, give them a half smile because that's all I can muster and say I'm ok.
In other words, I lie. I'm not ok. My baby is going to die.
I hear those words in my head all day long.
I just finished reading a book called Waiting With Gabriel about a family who, after learning that their baby had a hypo plastic heart, decided to give their child a natural death. They spent the rest of the pregnancy cherishing every moment they had with their baby boy and planned for his death. I wept as I read their story, for their family and for mine. The author, Amy Kuebelbeck, talks of how when the two most primal parental instincts, keeping your child alive and protecting them from suffering, collide you are faced with an unthinkable decision. From the moment I learned of Baby B's condition my heart spoke to me. It told me I have to let this baby go.
Since then Jason and I have spent countless hours talking about our decision. Most days we are sure, some days we are not. Every day we are sad. Some nights are spent on the phone with doctors or nurses and our parents. Some nights we just watch TV because we just can't think or talk anymore. One night this week we booked two tickets back to the US. Our return ticket is flexible, we can cancel it or change the date. We can also add a baby to the ticket, one baby, because the other baby is going to die.
Most days are hard. Weekend days are hardest. I find myself alone for far too long on the weekend. On Saturdays, Jason runs in the morning and then has soccer practice. On Sundays he has softball. It being October means that there are lots of parties, octoberfest and birthdays and halloween etc. I want him here with me but I don't want him to stop living.
I know this is heartbreaking for him. But I'm just going to say it, it's harder for me, just like the struggle with infertility was. I'm reminded with every kick in the ribs and every middle-of-the-night pee that this is really happening. There isn't a moment, day or night, that I do not feel sadness.
There are glimmers of joy. I try to catch them, if only for a moment. Like trying to catch a bubble, they disappear so quickly. What I want is to find joy in this pregnancy again. I've been told by several people that I do pregnancy well. I do. I look and feel great. I just wish I knew how to keep the sadness at bay for long enough to enjoy it.
In other words, I lie. I'm not ok. My baby is going to die.
I hear those words in my head all day long.
I just finished reading a book called Waiting With Gabriel about a family who, after learning that their baby had a hypo plastic heart, decided to give their child a natural death. They spent the rest of the pregnancy cherishing every moment they had with their baby boy and planned for his death. I wept as I read their story, for their family and for mine. The author, Amy Kuebelbeck, talks of how when the two most primal parental instincts, keeping your child alive and protecting them from suffering, collide you are faced with an unthinkable decision. From the moment I learned of Baby B's condition my heart spoke to me. It told me I have to let this baby go.
Since then Jason and I have spent countless hours talking about our decision. Most days we are sure, some days we are not. Every day we are sad. Some nights are spent on the phone with doctors or nurses and our parents. Some nights we just watch TV because we just can't think or talk anymore. One night this week we booked two tickets back to the US. Our return ticket is flexible, we can cancel it or change the date. We can also add a baby to the ticket, one baby, because the other baby is going to die.
Most days are hard. Weekend days are hardest. I find myself alone for far too long on the weekend. On Saturdays, Jason runs in the morning and then has soccer practice. On Sundays he has softball. It being October means that there are lots of parties, octoberfest and birthdays and halloween etc. I want him here with me but I don't want him to stop living.
I know this is heartbreaking for him. But I'm just going to say it, it's harder for me, just like the struggle with infertility was. I'm reminded with every kick in the ribs and every middle-of-the-night pee that this is really happening. There isn't a moment, day or night, that I do not feel sadness.
There are glimmers of joy. I try to catch them, if only for a moment. Like trying to catch a bubble, they disappear so quickly. What I want is to find joy in this pregnancy again. I've been told by several people that I do pregnancy well. I do. I look and feel great. I just wish I knew how to keep the sadness at bay for long enough to enjoy it.
