Grief and Loss
When we went in for our first ultrasound on Thursday, we'd been afraid of hearing or seeing more than one heartbeat. Never in our wildest thoughts had we even considered the possibility of what slapped us. Neither had we realized just how happy and excited and looking-forward-to-December we were. Until the most awful reality hit us. We weren't having twins or triplets....or even one for that matter. The look on the midwife's face said it all. She pointed to the sac and the tiny, unmoving form of our Little Blip. Frozen in time at 7 weeks 1 day. She then pointed to where we should have seen a heartbeat and asked how sure I was about how far along I was. I was absolutely certain. Then she measured Blip and pointed out that the measurement should be at 9 weeks 2 days and that she had stopped growing. I say "she" because in my mind, this was my little girl. The midwife was careful to not say she had died, but that's exactly what had happened. And Fate, The Universe, Murphy, and my own body are all fucking bastards. Because instead of preparing us for what awaited, my body carried on as if everything was hunky-dory. Leaving me nauseated and vomiting and happy to deal with the little rituals that had taken over my life for a while for no damned good reason.
It's one thing when you live every waking minute in the worst hell you can imagine, knowing it will last for the next 33 weeks and you just have to hunker down and make it through the next minute because at the end of all that damned misery will be a beautiful, perfectly-flawed human being. A baby that you will look at for the first time and know without a shadow of a doubt that it was all worth it. Every. Minute.
You do not expect to live with the gruesome reality that is Hyperemesis Gravidarum only to be told, "Oh sorry for that brief misery. Just kidding. No hard feelings." Well, there are hard feelings, asshole. I'm hurt, I'm angry and you woke up and pissed off a Mama Bear that I wasn't even aware was there yet.
I didn't even get the chance to KNOW how much I loved my baby while she was still with me. When the midwife first told us, my first reaction was numb clinical detachment. Well, this pregnancy hadn't been planned, the timing sucked, and now I wouldn't be miserably sick and could refocus my energies on getting Liam the therapy he needs. I even told her it was okay. Like I felt the need to reassure the midwife that she hadn't just delivered the most devastating news imaginable. And for a brief few minutes I actually believed it. Then I turned to look into the eyes of my husband, the man who had made this little miracle with me, and it hit me. An overwhelming sense of grief and loss just as palpable as if someone had just told us that Liam's bright light had been extinguished. And I was shocked. Shocked because while I'd come to terms with the fact that our lives were being altered at a less-than-opportune time, I really, truly didn't know how in love with this new entity I'd become.
This wasn't a child we'd spent years trying to conceive and were scared every moment of losing. I was insanely sick. That meant THE PREGNANCY WAS HEALTHY. Right? Everywhere I turned, I was told that. I mean Liam was healthy as an ox and I was fucking miserable carrying him...just like I was this time. Why wouldn't I believe this baby was just as healthy? Well, now I KNOW that a "healthy" pregnancy doesn't mean a healthy baby. It just means my body is psychotically attached to seeing the pregnancy through. And if I ever get pregnant again, I think I will punch in the nose the first person who tries to cheer me with, "Well, it means the pregnancy is healthy!" good intentions or not.
This was just as much my "miracle child" as Liam was. It just dawned on me that I'd started secretly calling her that to myself. My miracle child I will never get to hold in my arms. Initially I thought this must be easier, better than having my child die in my arms. I've had the misfortune of seeing two of my friends who are like siblings to me do that. It was awful and I sometimes still have nightmares remembering that day. It's something I would gladly have kept them from ever experiencing if I could. This isn't any better. I never even got to say goodbye to my child. She was taken from me before I even knew it. And on Mother's Day weekend too. I have another couple who are close friends (the wife is like another sister to me) who had two miscarriages before I really got to know them. I thought I understood the sadness and aching she endures every Mother's Day, but until now, I didn't. There's no way anyone can fathom the grief and loss until it happens to them. And any time from the moment you see that little plus sign it's just as devastating.
As I celebrate the joy that is my son this Sunday, I will be lighting a candle in memory of the brief flicker that was my second child. Goodbye Little Blip. Blessings on your journey to your next life. I hope that some part of your spirit knows and remembers how much you were loved and how much you're missed.
Love, your Mommy.
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