Be Brave. That's what I told myself all day. The kids were at camp and Brandon was working. I had nothing to keep my mind busy. Someone told me to find a hobby to take my idle hands. The idea of crocheting again made me remember that I hadn't started her blanket yet. I thought I had time. The idea of scrapbooking made me want to throw up because it involved pictures I will never have, to fill her empty waiting book. Everything seemed to come with a secondary thought of a painful reminder.
I was scrolling through instagram and came across this lettering course. On a whim I ordered the book and some markers. It was something I had tried a couple times but never had the time to dedicate to learning it. Yesterday before my dreaded appointment, I spent hours sitting and learning. Determined to have something that took my mind off Anna with a beautiful result. Wanting to get so good at it that I could provide printables on the blog, so other moms can have beautiful reminders to get going in the face of this. As I type this, My first reminder hangs from my clipboard across from my bed. Never Give Up.
I had told myself the worst part was going to be the waiting room. Full of waiting to be born babies. And I had build myself up about that so much, that when the waiting room was empty, the relief I felt brought my guarded walls down. The ultrasound technician came out. I know she recognized me, because we had had so many ultrasounds. I often said she was already the most photographed baby in the world. I didn't appreciate all those extra times I got to see Anna. There is piles and piles of ultrasound pictures of her in our house. She started the appointment with hugging me, in one of those deep knowing hugs. I don't even know her name, but she knew our story. And she was hurting for us too.
I thought having an ultrasound was going to feel awful. Usually the screen is connected to a giant TV for parents to watch too. The room remained dark. And instead of doing a regular ultrasound on my flattening belly, she asked me to change for an internal exam. They needed to check that my bleeding condition didn't leave behind any blood clots. Nothing was there. An emptiness. I used to believe you couldn't feel something that isn't there. But Emptiness is a physical thing you can feel.
Brandon came to be my support for the appointment. He sat at my head, like he had just done 6 weeks ago, as I lay flat on a table knowing results I didn't want. I kept my eyes squeezed shut, even though there was nothing to see. The child in us all, if I had had covers to crawl under, I would have. Though Ive never shut my eyes with such force before, the tears came pouring out anyways. It was painful, and it was a reminder, and it was empty. Brandon held my hand feeling helpless, kissing my fingers so gently. Trying to make the worst moments bearable.
Then they led us to take my vitals. The nurse was young and must not have even bothered to look at my chart. I dont resemble a pregnant woman at all. The weight slipped off faster than my two previous pregnancies. I stepped on the scale and the tears were still slipping off my cheeks uncontrollably. She asked "And why are we seeing you today."
Silence. I couldn't speak. And silence was why we were here.
Then we sat in a room, and my doctor went over the results. Everything looks normal. There is no reason that should have caused a healthy mom, and full term baby to end this way. It doesn't make sense. It never will. He brought us back to make sure I am healthy. Physically and mentally. I told myself I was going to prove to him I was doing well in the face of this. Instead I was crying long before he came into the room. Brandon telling him Im not actually like this all the time. The pockets of peace at 7 weeks are getting longer. I can talk about stillbirth without shedding a tear. I am doing the hardest thing in my life, and still breathing.
He gave me more xanax anyways.
He asked if we want to try again. I have never said yes faster in my life. He says there is no reason we couldn't. I hear hope in that answer. I hear fear in it. I hear future heartbreak. I hear possibilities on two scales. It's one sentence, but to my mind I hear a million things. My mind races to the future. I just don't want to be HERE anymore. I keep telling myself that it will be better when I am holding a baby in my arms again. I just need to get THERE.
But I am also heavily aware that pregnancy doesn't mean babies anymore. The logic I knew doesn't exist. It would be like discovering the world is flat after knowing it wasn't your whole life. So the one thing I want most in life, could bring this heartache again. And I don't know how you would survive it. And I know there is mom's that like me, didn't get a choice in that. And they have multiple places in there hearts that will never heal.
I cried the whole way home. Not for any particular reason. Just because this is my reality. And it touches every inch of my soul and day. There is never a time where a thought doesn't end with, "but she would be here." Silently inside my head.
I crawled into bed and watched a whole season of a series in one day. I accepted help I feel ashamed to ask for. I ate a meal, I can usually only eat one a day. The food is hard to choke down every time. I don't feel taste anymore. I eat things I have always hated. I am not eating for any reason other than survival. And I have discovered you don't actually need a lot of calories to survive. It is the opposite of my grief with Kimmy. Food was comforting there. Now it is just and end to a means.
And then a friend came by. She asked to sit on the porch swing outside. And somehow softly drifting back and forth in the twilight, 4 hours slipped by. She listened and never made me uncomfortable, as my mood swung between peace and sorrow. Sobbing at a moment and laughing at the next. I try to explain my thoughts and feelings but it never truly gets there. No one will ever understand it. Experience is the only understanding. And I don't want anyone to understand it in that way.
She told me she imagines it is like explaining the color blue, to someone who is blind.
And in that moment it all made sense to me. The frustration, the constantly trying to tell people, the beauty and the pain in it. It is one of the only things that has been said to me in these last 6 weeks, that gave me a sense of someone understanding it. Because of that quiet 4 hours of endless talking, I fell asleep last night for the first time without my brows pushed together in pleading my mind to sleep. Time is working. It is softening it. Which is both a blessing and a curse.
It was another day, in the pile of horrific days I have collected. It was a another rough one. And I survived it.
with love, lissa.