Yep...Brian and I have been married two years today. It's kind of bittersweet.
I should be 30 weeks + 1 day pregnant. This was the week I was hoping to get to in order to give Aidan a good chance. We didn't know how undeveloped his lungs were going to be (and they might not have worked even if we'd got to full term...amniotic fluid people...it's not just the pee your baby swims in...it's important!), but I felt that if I could get him to this point, with multiple rounds of steroids...maybe he'd be okay.
But here we are...almost 7 weeks without him. Wish he was here to celebrate with us.
Happy Anniversary Brian. You are still my sunshine.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Sunday, June 6, 2010
He counts
In the weeks since Aidan died, I have read many babylost blogs (actually I started reading these before he died...pretty much since our disastrous 17 week appointment, when I wanted to get a heads up on how bad being a babylost mama was...and let me tell you...the blogs didn't sell it short)
Many themes are common, but probably the most universal is how babylost parents want others to remember their lost children. They want people to see their babies as people who mattered, people who counted, people who took up time and space. How it warms the babylost parents' hearts to hear you speak of their little one, especially when it is done spontaneously and naturally. "Remember when you were pregnant with (insert dead baby's name here), and we went for dinner at that restaurant...the food was great". Or "(Dead baby) had the cutest (hair/eyes/nose/toes/pretty much any body part)", or the best one "I really miss (dead baby), I wish I had got to see him/her grow up". The need for others to remember and include our babies is a deep seated ache.
However, many babylost find that others do not bring up their dead children as often as they would like. Many are hurt and angered by this, as though the dead child doesn't rate a mention. Although my loss is still pretty fresh and people are still getting in touch with us to say "I'm sorry"....I'm aware that pretty soon this will likely peter out and people will go about their business and expect me to as well. I'm also aware that this is going to hurt like hell, and that I will likely have to hold back from screaming "I'M NOT FUCKING OKAY" when, in six months (or 10 years) someone innocently asks me "How are you".
But as a babylost mama, I wonder sometimes how I can I get angry at other people for not talking about Aidan or 'not counting him', when I fear I do that in my head sometimes. How can I fault people for not counting me as a mother (no "Happy Mother's Day!") when I'm not sure I really feel like one. Sometimes, I worry, that EVEN I don't give Aidan as much 'credit' as I would a living child. For an example, see my previous post on his name. As much as I'm glad we named him Aidan, sometimes I'm angry that we 'used up' my favourite boy name and now I can't ever use it again for when my 'real' child named Aidan comes along. (You know...the one that lives). Or, when my husband said tonight "I'm going to be 32 this year" and my thoughts immediately go to "I wanted to have a baby before you turned 32 and I turned 28" and then I feel awful and admonish myself "We DID have a baby before then...he just died is all". Or when I think of our friends who will both have babies in 2010 and think "Wish we had a 2010 baby" and then remember "We DID have a 2010 baby...but he died". Or wonder if I can reuse the really awesome ideas I had for a baby boy's room if I ever get lucky enough to have another...is that kosher in babylost land? Would that be too much like negating his existence?
When I was pregnant and we knew we would likely lose him, I remember saying that even if I go on to have ten more children (and I'd be happy with just one), I'll always feel like I should have eleven. But, I worry that as time goes by, will I see Aidan as less...will I feel with 10 other living children that I should have had 10 and a half?
Sometimes I worry that I will come to view him as 'less' because he was premature. I know I've struggled with seeing my pregnancy as less 'valid' than other women's because I delivered at 23 weeks, and because I spent much of it on my couch. I never got swollen ankles from standing too long...I never got that sore achy back from running around while pregnant...never really felt Aidan move all that much because of his lack of fluid. I was pregnant...but I didn't feel I really got the 'full experience'. Kinda like saying you've been to Disneyworld, but never went on any of the rides. Although it hurt like hell and was scary, I've come to appreciate my un-medicated, rushed delivery...somehow that has helped with my own validation of my pregnancy. ("That ring of fire thing they talk about...totally true!" or "Yep, I could really tell when it was time to push...just like on TV!") So, if it took a 'normal' delivery (and I use that term loosely), complete with war wounds, to make my pregnancy real, I wonder, will my love for Aidan seem diminished if (dare I say when?) I have a healthy baby?
Last weekend, I was talking to my cousin who had a miscarriage a few years ago at 8 weeks. She said to me "I was so attached to this little heartbeat on an ultrasound machine...I can't imagine how hard it has been losing a little baby". While I'm really appreciative of her trying to comprehend the magnitude of my loss, people's need to compare always brings up a squeamish feeling in me. Like "would I have been sadder if he had died at full term?" or "would I have been less sad if he'd died at 17 weeks?" I don't know, but I'd like to think my love for him and my sadness upon losing him was not contingent upon how long he was with me...but is that realistic? I might have been more disappointed?...more shocked?...MORE devastated?...if he'd died at full term. I might have been able to move on?...get back on track?...feel less sad?...if he'd been a miscarriage. I don't know...it makes my guts hurt to try to imagine something else...I can only feel what he was.
And my feeling...which I hope to hold on to, which I need to hold on to...is that he mattered.
He counts.
So, since I got a rousing response of 3 (!!!) last time I'll ask another question.
Do you worry sometimes that your lost children will fail to count, even in your own eyes (and hearts)? How do you hang on to them, validate them, without 'clinging' to to what is gone? Does this post resonate with you (or am I a horrible person for questioning my own son's worth)?
Many themes are common, but probably the most universal is how babylost parents want others to remember their lost children. They want people to see their babies as people who mattered, people who counted, people who took up time and space. How it warms the babylost parents' hearts to hear you speak of their little one, especially when it is done spontaneously and naturally. "Remember when you were pregnant with (insert dead baby's name here), and we went for dinner at that restaurant...the food was great". Or "(Dead baby) had the cutest (hair/eyes/nose/toes/pretty much any body part)", or the best one "I really miss (dead baby), I wish I had got to see him/her grow up". The need for others to remember and include our babies is a deep seated ache.
However, many babylost find that others do not bring up their dead children as often as they would like. Many are hurt and angered by this, as though the dead child doesn't rate a mention. Although my loss is still pretty fresh and people are still getting in touch with us to say "I'm sorry"....I'm aware that pretty soon this will likely peter out and people will go about their business and expect me to as well. I'm also aware that this is going to hurt like hell, and that I will likely have to hold back from screaming "I'M NOT FUCKING OKAY" when, in six months (or 10 years) someone innocently asks me "How are you".
But as a babylost mama, I wonder sometimes how I can I get angry at other people for not talking about Aidan or 'not counting him', when I fear I do that in my head sometimes. How can I fault people for not counting me as a mother (no "Happy Mother's Day!") when I'm not sure I really feel like one. Sometimes, I worry, that EVEN I don't give Aidan as much 'credit' as I would a living child. For an example, see my previous post on his name. As much as I'm glad we named him Aidan, sometimes I'm angry that we 'used up' my favourite boy name and now I can't ever use it again for when my 'real' child named Aidan comes along. (You know...the one that lives). Or, when my husband said tonight "I'm going to be 32 this year" and my thoughts immediately go to "I wanted to have a baby before you turned 32 and I turned 28" and then I feel awful and admonish myself "We DID have a baby before then...he just died is all". Or when I think of our friends who will both have babies in 2010 and think "Wish we had a 2010 baby" and then remember "We DID have a 2010 baby...but he died". Or wonder if I can reuse the really awesome ideas I had for a baby boy's room if I ever get lucky enough to have another...is that kosher in babylost land? Would that be too much like negating his existence?
When I was pregnant and we knew we would likely lose him, I remember saying that even if I go on to have ten more children (and I'd be happy with just one), I'll always feel like I should have eleven. But, I worry that as time goes by, will I see Aidan as less...will I feel with 10 other living children that I should have had 10 and a half?
Sometimes I worry that I will come to view him as 'less' because he was premature. I know I've struggled with seeing my pregnancy as less 'valid' than other women's because I delivered at 23 weeks, and because I spent much of it on my couch. I never got swollen ankles from standing too long...I never got that sore achy back from running around while pregnant...never really felt Aidan move all that much because of his lack of fluid. I was pregnant...but I didn't feel I really got the 'full experience'. Kinda like saying you've been to Disneyworld, but never went on any of the rides. Although it hurt like hell and was scary, I've come to appreciate my un-medicated, rushed delivery...somehow that has helped with my own validation of my pregnancy. ("That ring of fire thing they talk about...totally true!" or "Yep, I could really tell when it was time to push...just like on TV!") So, if it took a 'normal' delivery (and I use that term loosely), complete with war wounds, to make my pregnancy real, I wonder, will my love for Aidan seem diminished if (dare I say when?) I have a healthy baby?
Last weekend, I was talking to my cousin who had a miscarriage a few years ago at 8 weeks. She said to me "I was so attached to this little heartbeat on an ultrasound machine...I can't imagine how hard it has been losing a little baby". While I'm really appreciative of her trying to comprehend the magnitude of my loss, people's need to compare always brings up a squeamish feeling in me. Like "would I have been sadder if he had died at full term?" or "would I have been less sad if he'd died at 17 weeks?" I don't know, but I'd like to think my love for him and my sadness upon losing him was not contingent upon how long he was with me...but is that realistic? I might have been more disappointed?...more shocked?...MORE devastated?...if he'd died at full term. I might have been able to move on?...get back on track?...feel less sad?...if he'd been a miscarriage. I don't know...it makes my guts hurt to try to imagine something else...I can only feel what he was.
And my feeling...which I hope to hold on to, which I need to hold on to...is that he mattered.
He counts.
So, since I got a rousing response of 3 (!!!) last time I'll ask another question.
Do you worry sometimes that your lost children will fail to count, even in your own eyes (and hearts)? How do you hang on to them, validate them, without 'clinging' to to what is gone? Does this post resonate with you (or am I a horrible person for questioning my own son's worth)?
Friday, June 4, 2010
A.I.D.A.N.
Aidan. Oh, how I love your name. Not just because it belongs to you, but because I really LOVE it. I love the way it sounds, soft, but not feminine. I love the way it looks written out so nicely with your middle name William and your last name (which starts with a B). I love the way it has five letters just like your daddy's name and my name. We are the 5 letter family. I love that it is Gaelic and means little fire. And it MUST be spelled Aidan with the AN ending...anything else is just the Westernized version (Aiden, Ayden, Aidden etc.) I never even cared that it became so popular. I loved it before Aidan/Aiden/Ayden shot up the charts, and other people were just catching up with my good taste. (Oh and by the way, when you hit spell check on blogger, only Aidan doesn't get highlighted as the incorrect spelling!)
And, for me to say that I love Aidan as a boy's name best of all is saying something. See, I'm kind of a name connoisseur. A name snob actually. I personally own upwards of 6 or 7 different baby name books, and I regularly check others out of the library and stand around reading them in book stores. I pour over them. I make lists from them. I say the names out loud to get a feel for them. I have loved names and their meanings since I was a kid. At the age of 12 I imagined myself with 12 kids, mostly so I could pick out 12 awesome first and middle names. Some of those names I still like.
But since about the age of about 20, Aidan has been my favourite boy's name. And I was SO happy when Brian agreed that he liked it too. We had settled on Aidan for our first boy's name YEARS before we even wanted kids of our own.
And now he's dead.
When we found out our little baby would likely not survive, I had wanted to give it another name than the ones we had originally picked out for a boy and a girl. When I told this to Brian he got upset. He felt that this baby was special and to deny it the name we had chosen would be tantamount to saying it wasn't. My reason for wanting to change the name however, wasn't because I felt that the baby wasn't special. Of COURSE the baby was special and loved and wanted, but I had plans for a baby named Aidan, and they didn't include him dying. I had imagined reading to my little boy Aidan, taking my Aidan to school, writing his name on family Christmas cards, yelling "Aidan!!! Get down here now!!" when he was a teenager. The Aidan in my head was a LIVING child. To have that name attached to a dead child would be like rubbing salt in a wound, not only would it hurt that my baby was dead, but saying his name would be like mocking all that I had dreamed of.
We hadn't even really come to a conclusion about this (at least I didn't feel that we had), when I went into labour. A few moments after I pushed him out, one of the nurses asked "What's his name?" Brian, only pausing for a second responded "His name is Aidan"...and so it was. And it felt right. He was our first boy. He was special and deserving of the name. The name we planned on giving him. He even looked the way I imagined him. Just like a little Brian.
But, it still hurts that the name I loved for so long belongs to the child I'll never see again. I not only want my baby back, I want back the dreams I had for my child named Aidan. I can almost understand now why, historically, it was common to give a second or even third child the same name as one who has died. For example, in my family tree there are single families with multiple children named James. The first James died and then the parents had another baby boy...who they named James. Perhaps it was a way to keep the name alive in the family tree to be given to future generations, perhaps it was a way to honour a lost child...or maybe James' mother just couldn't stand not being able to say his name out loud on a daily basis.
The name we had for a girl (which we've also had picked out for years) is special and beautiful too. It's much less common than Aidan. It's unique. I've never met another person with this name and I like that about it. However, just after I found out I was pregnant close friends of ours were listing out the names they had pulled from a baby book, and our girls name was on their list. These friends are currently pregnant...with a girl...and due any day. I'm worried they have selected our girls name for their child. And not to sound like a crazy grieving mother (which I am...), but if those friends use that name, I'm not sure I could ever speak to them again. If Aidan had lived, it wouldn't have mattered so much...they could have it...but now...it would just feel like they'd stolen it.
Since my baby boy took all my Aidan dreams with him, I just can't lose all the dreams I had for a baby girl too. I've lost so much...I can't lose anymore.
And now, since I have a little following of 6 (!!!) people, I'm going to post a question, a là Glow in the Woods style.
If you've lost a child did you give them the name you had originally planned? Did you regret giving the baby this name? If you plan to have more children, how will you decide what to name them?
And, for me to say that I love Aidan as a boy's name best of all is saying something. See, I'm kind of a name connoisseur. A name snob actually. I personally own upwards of 6 or 7 different baby name books, and I regularly check others out of the library and stand around reading them in book stores. I pour over them. I make lists from them. I say the names out loud to get a feel for them. I have loved names and their meanings since I was a kid. At the age of 12 I imagined myself with 12 kids, mostly so I could pick out 12 awesome first and middle names. Some of those names I still like.
But since about the age of about 20, Aidan has been my favourite boy's name. And I was SO happy when Brian agreed that he liked it too. We had settled on Aidan for our first boy's name YEARS before we even wanted kids of our own.
And now he's dead.
When we found out our little baby would likely not survive, I had wanted to give it another name than the ones we had originally picked out for a boy and a girl. When I told this to Brian he got upset. He felt that this baby was special and to deny it the name we had chosen would be tantamount to saying it wasn't. My reason for wanting to change the name however, wasn't because I felt that the baby wasn't special. Of COURSE the baby was special and loved and wanted, but I had plans for a baby named Aidan, and they didn't include him dying. I had imagined reading to my little boy Aidan, taking my Aidan to school, writing his name on family Christmas cards, yelling "Aidan!!! Get down here now!!" when he was a teenager. The Aidan in my head was a LIVING child. To have that name attached to a dead child would be like rubbing salt in a wound, not only would it hurt that my baby was dead, but saying his name would be like mocking all that I had dreamed of.
We hadn't even really come to a conclusion about this (at least I didn't feel that we had), when I went into labour. A few moments after I pushed him out, one of the nurses asked "What's his name?" Brian, only pausing for a second responded "His name is Aidan"...and so it was. And it felt right. He was our first boy. He was special and deserving of the name. The name we planned on giving him. He even looked the way I imagined him. Just like a little Brian.
But, it still hurts that the name I loved for so long belongs to the child I'll never see again. I not only want my baby back, I want back the dreams I had for my child named Aidan. I can almost understand now why, historically, it was common to give a second or even third child the same name as one who has died. For example, in my family tree there are single families with multiple children named James. The first James died and then the parents had another baby boy...who they named James. Perhaps it was a way to keep the name alive in the family tree to be given to future generations, perhaps it was a way to honour a lost child...or maybe James' mother just couldn't stand not being able to say his name out loud on a daily basis.
The name we had for a girl (which we've also had picked out for years) is special and beautiful too. It's much less common than Aidan. It's unique. I've never met another person with this name and I like that about it. However, just after I found out I was pregnant close friends of ours were listing out the names they had pulled from a baby book, and our girls name was on their list. These friends are currently pregnant...with a girl...and due any day. I'm worried they have selected our girls name for their child. And not to sound like a crazy grieving mother (which I am...), but if those friends use that name, I'm not sure I could ever speak to them again. If Aidan had lived, it wouldn't have mattered so much...they could have it...but now...it would just feel like they'd stolen it.
Since my baby boy took all my Aidan dreams with him, I just can't lose all the dreams I had for a baby girl too. I've lost so much...I can't lose anymore.
And now, since I have a little following of 6 (!!!) people, I'm going to post a question, a là Glow in the Woods style.
If you've lost a child did you give them the name you had originally planned? Did you regret giving the baby this name? If you plan to have more children, how will you decide what to name them?
Thursday, June 3, 2010
How it all went down (Part 8) "The News"
Okay folks. If you are like me, you skip right to the part on people's blogs where you find out 'what the hell happened'. So here it is.
March 8th (or 9th or 10th, not exactly sure) 2010
After our appointment the previous week with my OB, Dr. S, I went home feeling pretty upset about his assessment of my heart's ability to deal with labour. I kept thinking about my husband's and my mom's comments that "I was getting the best care". I finally came to the conclusion that if I felt this bad about it, then it was not "good care". I planned to discuss my options with the cardiologist the following week.
And, speaking of that appointment the following week...I wasn't totally comfortable with my OB's assessment that the continued bleeding I had been experiencing for WEEKS now was "just the clot bleeding out". It seemed wrong somehow. I was still confident that everything was okay, because we still had a good heart beat every time we checked with the Doppler (which I did on a daily basis), but I just wanted an ultrasound to confirm it. So I called up the nurse at the clinic and asked about getting one. She responded that if my doctor thought everything was okay then it probably was. My response "I know he's not concerned, but I'm concerned". So she talked to the nurses at the fetal medicine unit and they agreed to do an ultrasound when I came in on March 11th. Secretly I was pleased, not just because this was a way to ease my fears and make sure everything was okay, but also because maybe they would be able to see if my baby had boy or girl parts.
Oh, how I wish the next appointment ended with "well everything looks good and you're having a boy!". Oh, how I wish.
March 11th 2010 (a.k.a. Doom's Day) 17 weeks and 4 days.
We arrived for the appointment early and had to wait around a bit. Brian and I had hoped that we'd get to see the baby in the ultrasound and then he was planning to go to work in the afternoon while I stayed for my cardiac ECHO. Best laid plans...
So the nice nurse Kristie, who I had met at my last appointment at the fetal medicine unit took us in and asked us how things were going. I told her about the continued bleeding and that I just wanted to make sure things were okay. She completely agreed that I definitely needed to be followed up. So up I went on the ultrasound table, and on went the (nicely warmed) goo. We had asked ahead of time if Kristie could see boy or girl parts could she let us know.
Then she started to roll the wand around...and things got quiet. As I was laying there I saw her looking really hard at the screen, and I saw Brian trying to take video of our baby with his camera. I kept waiting for Kristie to say how cute our baby was like at our last ultrasound, but she stayed quiet. I just thought she was looking for the sex. Any second she was going to say "It's a boy!" or "It's a girl"...but the seconds got longer and longer.
When she finally spoke, it was not with joy or happiness...it was with grave concern. She said "Emily...have you noticed any fluid leaking...because I'm not seeing a lot of fluid around your baby". I managed to say "No, but with all the blood that's come out, it's hard to tell". Then Brian, who had been standing at the end of the exam table sat down really hard in one of the chairs and got really quiet. Kristie left to go and get the doctor and Brian started rubbing my ankle. I think it was around this point that I started to cry.
You know it's bad when the doctor comes rushing in to see you not 5 minutes later. He gets a hold of the ultrasound wand and starts getting images of his own. What he tells us is not good. My placenta has what looks like clots all through it. Rather than looking like a pancake, nicely tucked up against the wall of the uterus, my placenta looks like a muffin top. The placenta is so large it seems to be taking up the space the baby is in. The only good news is that baby seems to be growing appropriately and is getting good blood flow. Otherwise our hopes of having a healthy baby have just plummeted. Basically I'm now at risk of intrauterine growth restriction (IUGR), abruption and fetal demise. None of this is good news.
The rest of the afternoon was spent getting a pap test done to check for leaking amniotic fluid (they couldn't find any...but I'm betting now there just wasn't any to find, it was all gone by then). I also had blood work done to rule out any clotting disorders which are apparently associated with the type of condition my placenta seemed to have developed. The fetal medicine specialist we were dealing with went and spoke to another doctor who is a placental specialist and he agreed it looked like a "Breus mole" (Google it...there is almost NOTHING about it on the web...although we later found out it's also called a subchorionic thromohematoma).
Before we left at the end of the day, I asked Dr. R. if we had any reason to hope. He said "well...these things are like red flags...we'll have to keep a close eye on it"...but he didn't sound hopeful at all.
In all of this I missed my cardiology appointment. When I finally saw her at the end of the day, Dr. S. was very nice and very human and agreed that my ECHO could wait for a few more weeks until things were more settled. I was glad of this. All we wanted to do was go home and cry.
So we did. Lots. We both cried so much we threw up.
So while our son actually died almost 6 weeks later, we psychologically started grieving him from this point. Grieving the loss of a healthy pregnancy (not that it had been so wonderful up to this point...but we had hopes it would improve) and preparing to possibly grieve the loss of our baby. Their was so little fluid during the ultrasound they couldn't even tell if it was a boy or girl. We didn't even know which we were preparing to grieve the loss of.
But, I'm so glad we got those extra few weeks. Most importantly it allowed us to see him in a more developed form, so that we could see just how much he looked like Brian. It warms my heart to see his beautiful photos. I'm glad we got those. Extra time allowed me to get a bit of a pregnant belly going, which was really cute. It also gave me hope that my heart could tolerate a full term pregnancy (if and when) it happens for us. And, most important to the rest of our lives is that extra time allowed me to get past the 20 week mark, so that I was guaranteed the 17 week maternity leave, which I'm now using to get back into shape and get a handle on how I'm going to get through the rest of my life.
Without my son.
March 8th (or 9th or 10th, not exactly sure) 2010
After our appointment the previous week with my OB, Dr. S, I went home feeling pretty upset about his assessment of my heart's ability to deal with labour. I kept thinking about my husband's and my mom's comments that "I was getting the best care". I finally came to the conclusion that if I felt this bad about it, then it was not "good care". I planned to discuss my options with the cardiologist the following week.
And, speaking of that appointment the following week...I wasn't totally comfortable with my OB's assessment that the continued bleeding I had been experiencing for WEEKS now was "just the clot bleeding out". It seemed wrong somehow. I was still confident that everything was okay, because we still had a good heart beat every time we checked with the Doppler (which I did on a daily basis), but I just wanted an ultrasound to confirm it. So I called up the nurse at the clinic and asked about getting one. She responded that if my doctor thought everything was okay then it probably was. My response "I know he's not concerned, but I'm concerned". So she talked to the nurses at the fetal medicine unit and they agreed to do an ultrasound when I came in on March 11th. Secretly I was pleased, not just because this was a way to ease my fears and make sure everything was okay, but also because maybe they would be able to see if my baby had boy or girl parts.
Oh, how I wish the next appointment ended with "well everything looks good and you're having a boy!". Oh, how I wish.
March 11th 2010 (a.k.a. Doom's Day) 17 weeks and 4 days.
We arrived for the appointment early and had to wait around a bit. Brian and I had hoped that we'd get to see the baby in the ultrasound and then he was planning to go to work in the afternoon while I stayed for my cardiac ECHO. Best laid plans...
So the nice nurse Kristie, who I had met at my last appointment at the fetal medicine unit took us in and asked us how things were going. I told her about the continued bleeding and that I just wanted to make sure things were okay. She completely agreed that I definitely needed to be followed up. So up I went on the ultrasound table, and on went the (nicely warmed) goo. We had asked ahead of time if Kristie could see boy or girl parts could she let us know.
Then she started to roll the wand around...and things got quiet. As I was laying there I saw her looking really hard at the screen, and I saw Brian trying to take video of our baby with his camera. I kept waiting for Kristie to say how cute our baby was like at our last ultrasound, but she stayed quiet. I just thought she was looking for the sex. Any second she was going to say "It's a boy!" or "It's a girl"...but the seconds got longer and longer.
When she finally spoke, it was not with joy or happiness...it was with grave concern. She said "Emily...have you noticed any fluid leaking...because I'm not seeing a lot of fluid around your baby". I managed to say "No, but with all the blood that's come out, it's hard to tell". Then Brian, who had been standing at the end of the exam table sat down really hard in one of the chairs and got really quiet. Kristie left to go and get the doctor and Brian started rubbing my ankle. I think it was around this point that I started to cry.
You know it's bad when the doctor comes rushing in to see you not 5 minutes later. He gets a hold of the ultrasound wand and starts getting images of his own. What he tells us is not good. My placenta has what looks like clots all through it. Rather than looking like a pancake, nicely tucked up against the wall of the uterus, my placenta looks like a muffin top. The placenta is so large it seems to be taking up the space the baby is in. The only good news is that baby seems to be growing appropriately and is getting good blood flow. Otherwise our hopes of having a healthy baby have just plummeted. Basically I'm now at risk of intrauterine growth restriction (IUGR), abruption and fetal demise. None of this is good news.
The rest of the afternoon was spent getting a pap test done to check for leaking amniotic fluid (they couldn't find any...but I'm betting now there just wasn't any to find, it was all gone by then). I also had blood work done to rule out any clotting disorders which are apparently associated with the type of condition my placenta seemed to have developed. The fetal medicine specialist we were dealing with went and spoke to another doctor who is a placental specialist and he agreed it looked like a "Breus mole" (Google it...there is almost NOTHING about it on the web...although we later found out it's also called a subchorionic thromohematoma).
Before we left at the end of the day, I asked Dr. R. if we had any reason to hope. He said "well...these things are like red flags...we'll have to keep a close eye on it"...but he didn't sound hopeful at all.
In all of this I missed my cardiology appointment. When I finally saw her at the end of the day, Dr. S. was very nice and very human and agreed that my ECHO could wait for a few more weeks until things were more settled. I was glad of this. All we wanted to do was go home and cry.
So we did. Lots. We both cried so much we threw up.
So while our son actually died almost 6 weeks later, we psychologically started grieving him from this point. Grieving the loss of a healthy pregnancy (not that it had been so wonderful up to this point...but we had hopes it would improve) and preparing to possibly grieve the loss of our baby. Their was so little fluid during the ultrasound they couldn't even tell if it was a boy or girl. We didn't even know which we were preparing to grieve the loss of.
But, I'm so glad we got those extra few weeks. Most importantly it allowed us to see him in a more developed form, so that we could see just how much he looked like Brian. It warms my heart to see his beautiful photos. I'm glad we got those. Extra time allowed me to get a bit of a pregnant belly going, which was really cute. It also gave me hope that my heart could tolerate a full term pregnancy (if and when) it happens for us. And, most important to the rest of our lives is that extra time allowed me to get past the 20 week mark, so that I was guaranteed the 17 week maternity leave, which I'm now using to get back into shape and get a handle on how I'm going to get through the rest of my life.
Without my son.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Lost Babies
I missed him a lot today. We finally got our photos back from Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep and there are a few really nice ones in there. Some unfortunately look a little over-photoshopped. I know they had to do quite a bit of retouching because Aidan was quite bruised, but some of the photos don't even really look like him.
It's wonderful and sad all at the same time to see my boy again. I wish I could hold him. When I think of him lying beside me in the hospital, wrapped up as we were in blankets and sheets, all I can remember is how cold he was. I could feel his cool little body lying beside me, even through all the materials seperating us. Funny too, how even that memory of the coldness is comforting. Almost like how you would remember a cool cloth on your head when you were feverish.
But it's sad not to remember your child feeling warm.
Some days I feel hopeful for our future and that we may one day have a baby to bring home, and other days, like today, it just feels like it's so far away...like it may never happen. I'm just so sad. So sad all the time. Reading about other babylost mamas is comforting in a way...but when I stumble across other blogs where women have lost 2 and 3 babies, or can't get pregnant, or get pregnant and have early miscarriages, it just all seems so unfair.
What's also weird is that it does seem unfair, still, after millions of years of human evolution. When countless babies have been lost in all stages of development, where mothers and fathers may have buried not one, not two, not three, but ALL of their children. Where graves of babies and children were more common than graves of old people. In my genealogical research I have come across scads of near and distant family members who lost babies and children early on in life. It was the rare family before the turn of the 20th century that DID NOT lose at least one child (my 2x great grandmother was one of the lucky few, all 12 of her children born from 1894-1917 lived to adulthood!!). Here in 21st century North America, however, we are shocked when a pregnancy doesn't work out. Yet, if you asked women in many other parts of the world today if they had any dead babies, I'm sure you would find many many more babylost than you would find in the average North American population.
Dead babies are sadly common.
Yet we are all surprised when it happens to us.
Everday, there are millions of broken hearted mommies and daddies worldwide that cry for their lost babies. And my tears mingle with theirs.
"I miss you Aidan. Mommy loves you".
It's wonderful and sad all at the same time to see my boy again. I wish I could hold him. When I think of him lying beside me in the hospital, wrapped up as we were in blankets and sheets, all I can remember is how cold he was. I could feel his cool little body lying beside me, even through all the materials seperating us. Funny too, how even that memory of the coldness is comforting. Almost like how you would remember a cool cloth on your head when you were feverish.
But it's sad not to remember your child feeling warm.
Some days I feel hopeful for our future and that we may one day have a baby to bring home, and other days, like today, it just feels like it's so far away...like it may never happen. I'm just so sad. So sad all the time. Reading about other babylost mamas is comforting in a way...but when I stumble across other blogs where women have lost 2 and 3 babies, or can't get pregnant, or get pregnant and have early miscarriages, it just all seems so unfair.
What's also weird is that it does seem unfair, still, after millions of years of human evolution. When countless babies have been lost in all stages of development, where mothers and fathers may have buried not one, not two, not three, but ALL of their children. Where graves of babies and children were more common than graves of old people. In my genealogical research I have come across scads of near and distant family members who lost babies and children early on in life. It was the rare family before the turn of the 20th century that DID NOT lose at least one child (my 2x great grandmother was one of the lucky few, all 12 of her children born from 1894-1917 lived to adulthood!!). Here in 21st century North America, however, we are shocked when a pregnancy doesn't work out. Yet, if you asked women in many other parts of the world today if they had any dead babies, I'm sure you would find many many more babylost than you would find in the average North American population.
Dead babies are sadly common.
Yet we are all surprised when it happens to us.
Everday, there are millions of broken hearted mommies and daddies worldwide that cry for their lost babies. And my tears mingle with theirs.
"I miss you Aidan. Mommy loves you".
I found a way to make my blog pretty!!!!
I found a way to change the background of my blog using a template from Shabby Blogs. I've started with this new tree motif. I'm not sure Aidan's blog is going to stay this way...but so far I like it. I'm going to add a blinky now too...it says 'Dance like no one is watching, Love like you'll never be hurt, Sing like no one's listening, and Live like it's heaven on earth'. I've always loved this quote and even with all that's happened over the last year, I like to think I still believe it's possible.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
How do you decorate a blog?
Seriously? How do you decorate a blog?
When I first started this blog at the beginning of last month I chose the basic black. It's how I was feeling and it seemed to fit a "dead baby blog" perfectly. But now, as I visit other sites of babylost moms and dads, I'm jealous of how unique and pretty their blogs are. How special they have managed to make their little corner of the internet. Aidan deserves a special corner too. Plus, I'm no longer feeling the 'basic black'...although I still have moments (or days) where I feel like I see life through shades of black and grey, I'm also starting to see and wish for colour again.
So, people out there in blog land...how do I make my blog pretty? See those big black spaces on either side of my typing? How do I put something nice in them? I would love to know!
Do I need to know HTML? Do I need a special program? How can I design it myself without knowing how? Help!
When I first started this blog at the beginning of last month I chose the basic black. It's how I was feeling and it seemed to fit a "dead baby blog" perfectly. But now, as I visit other sites of babylost moms and dads, I'm jealous of how unique and pretty their blogs are. How special they have managed to make their little corner of the internet. Aidan deserves a special corner too. Plus, I'm no longer feeling the 'basic black'...although I still have moments (or days) where I feel like I see life through shades of black and grey, I'm also starting to see and wish for colour again.
So, people out there in blog land...how do I make my blog pretty? See those big black spaces on either side of my typing? How do I put something nice in them? I would love to know!
Do I need to know HTML? Do I need a special program? How can I design it myself without knowing how? Help!
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