- Monday, December 23, 2013
- 1 Thank You For Visiting
One day, I will be old.
My hair will be white and my skin will fall loosely from my face.
I will have yellow fingernails and false teeth.
I will be old.
You will never be old. Your hair will stay it's red, dark and wispy. Your eyes will remain clear and your fingernails will keep their tiny pale moons.
You would have been three years old on Friday. Your hair would have fit into ponytails. You would have been big enough to sit at the table. You would have been able to help make your own cake.
But you will never be older. You will never age- you will remain elusive and you will remain the same. Always the same.
- Tuesday, December 17, 2013
- 0 Thank You For Visiting
It's not me- this woman you see standing here. The woman who survived this death. I am stuck in here, closed within the confines of my skin.
This woman who is angry, and who passes judgement so easily. This woman who is so offended at the slightest thing.
Somewhere deep inside I can remember the feel of life "before this awful thing happened." I remember what my life was like before and while I would never change my experience- I miss that life. It's a beautiful, uncomplicated life. I miss myself.
The woman I was.
The woman that grew from the girl I was.
Before Beatrix, I flowed from experience to experience. Days melded into one another and while there were obvious before and after periods, there was a continuity to everything.
Now there is a jagged edge to all of my dealings. I see everything in the context of who I was and who I became. The before and after, sharply defined.
Before when things were easy they were just easy- no dark shadow lurking below the surface. If there was something that made the day go poorly then it could usually be resolved with time and patience.
Now the bad parts sleep just under the surface of my skin. They sleep fitfully and are woken so easily.
Occasionally I am ashamed at the passion with which I react to things. I remember the little girl that I was- the child that still lives inside of me, and I feel like I let her down. I wonder what she would think of the woman that I have become.
I am angry. So angry, at times.
But other times... other times I am whole, healed and completed.
I feel the power slowly leaching back into my limbs and I feel strong. I feel the sun shining from deep inside my core. I am magnificent in my experience, wise in life, if not on books and numbers.
I feel like I could run as fast as the wind and no one would catch me- and I wouldn't be running from, but to things that contain joy and weightlessness.
I am happy and the unanticipated shining moments of the day contain no clouds or black feelings. I don't see the death in everyone around me. I seek life and exuberance and most of all, to be here now. Present in this very moment and not structured in the past or beholden to my future.
I am glad and each moment contains it's own universe of possibility.
But that's not me, either, this schizophrenic shift from grief.
I try hard to integrate these two people inside into one cohesive person. That is not always successful and often I fall far short of where I would like to be.
I find that other's expectations of me make the integration more difficult
...
It is the fall.
Slowly the leaves change and Winter comes closer and closer.
While it would seem to be a triumphant time for me, due to my sweet baby M's first birthday coming up- I find that there is still a knot in my chest. The days are fast approaching when my Bea's birthday will come again.
She will be three. Just old enough for pony tails.
I try my hardest to remain the person that I have worked so hard to be. To attain some measure of normalcy. I regulate my emotional responses and try to stretch the beautiful days as far as they can be stretched, in hopes of surrounding the ugly days.
But then I have a bad day. An angry, "why doesn't anyone get it?" day.
And inevitably, it comes- "are you o.k?"
It's useless to try to explain that I am having a difficult time trying to mend the broken pieces of my soul back together.
It's been three years.
And people don't really want to know that you're not o.k.
They just want to be absolved of responsibility for your mood. When someone asks if you're o.k., what they're really asking is for you to behave- to put aside that part of you that is in that desperate, dark place. They want to know that tomorrow you'll be in a better place.
But today- today when it's fall and Christmas is coming so quickly- today, my daughter died.
I woke up this morning and for a few moments I had no problem integrating the good and bad, because my memory was foggy and I forgot who I was.
Then I remembered that my daughter died, and it was just another day to the rest of the world.
The cut was new.
And it goes so much deeper in the fall, when I am remembering the last stages of my heavy pregnancy with her.
Integration becomes all but impossible.
Then the days begin to swing back and forth. These joys I find in so may small incidental moments, sheltered inside of the tumultuous waves of grief that roll in.
Regulation becomes improbable.
And when I am asked, "are you o.k.?" it's a slap in the face. It's the removal of the reality of my experience and a reminder that life has gone on.
It's the validation that my loss is not the center of the universe, and that others have grown tired- or worse yet- have forgotten that I have a perfect explanation for my drawn features.
My daughter died today, and each day she dies yet again- an unending cycle of memories that will not correct itself in this lifetime.
So please, don't ask me if I'm o.k.
- Monday, October 07, 2013
- 1 Thank You For Visiting
Dear sweet joy-that-you-are,
We are closing in on three years since you left. Three years and I can't imagine where that time has gone.
I never thought I would be capable of making it this far. I remember the awe with which I looked at people who had suffered their losses years in the past.
I thought that surely I would die before I reached this point.
I miss you so very much every day.
I would never have understood how I could walk around with you so very close to me, while still so out of reach. I think that people would assume that I was crazy if I told them how constant you are in my thoughts- that I don't even see you as that tiny baby any longer, but as an almost three year old.
Because you have grown. Not as an abstract thought, but in reality. You aren't Beatrix the baby any longer- you are Beatrix the girl. Willful and defiant.
I can close my eyes and I know just what you look like. Your red, curly hair- I see the smattering of freckles across your nose. A big toothy smile.
I know that it is really you, because the resemblance to your dad is startling- this couldn't be some vision that my imagination dreamed up- it's the real deal.
I think that I know it's you, because a mother always knows her daughter. Your imprint was left in my subconscious somewhere, and your cells free-float within me. Your flawless DNA had already determined all of what was you.
I can see the white of your skin, the gray of your eyes. I wish that I could draw a picture of the you that I see when I close my eyes.
You are always so happy. Always.
You walk next to me, skipping along. The sash on your dress is always untied- you are always wearing a dress. You have slender arms. You don't wear glasses.
I know you daughter, smile-on-my-heart.
I live with one foot firmly planted here, and the other in the world you inhabit. While others see just an ordinary kitchen table, I look and see you sitting there, eating a jelly sandwich. You are a constant during my day.
And that constant is a beautiful thing.
I see those little hands that I so marveled over when you were born- those long, thin fingers. They pinch and grasp and do all sorts of clever almost three year old things.
I see the questions in your face as you begin to really explore the marvelous world.
I see you gentle with your sweet baby sister. Wild about your tenderhearted big brother.
If I close my eyes for just a tiny moment I can hear you breathing, so close to me.
Three years is a very long time. The days that I have spent away from you have stretched into seconds, lasting far longer than time normally should... the days before me stretch out like a highway- miles upon miles of walking before I get to that final destination where I will be able to touch you again.
I would give almost anything to be able to spend just one more minute with you.
I miss you terribly.
I never thought I would be capable of making it this far. I remember the awe with which I looked at people who had suffered their losses years in the past.
I thought that surely I would die before I reached this point.
I miss you so very much every day.
I would never have understood how I could walk around with you so very close to me, while still so out of reach. I think that people would assume that I was crazy if I told them how constant you are in my thoughts- that I don't even see you as that tiny baby any longer, but as an almost three year old.
Because you have grown. Not as an abstract thought, but in reality. You aren't Beatrix the baby any longer- you are Beatrix the girl. Willful and defiant.
I can close my eyes and I know just what you look like. Your red, curly hair- I see the smattering of freckles across your nose. A big toothy smile.
I know that it is really you, because the resemblance to your dad is startling- this couldn't be some vision that my imagination dreamed up- it's the real deal.
I think that I know it's you, because a mother always knows her daughter. Your imprint was left in my subconscious somewhere, and your cells free-float within me. Your flawless DNA had already determined all of what was you.
I can see the white of your skin, the gray of your eyes. I wish that I could draw a picture of the you that I see when I close my eyes.
You are always so happy. Always.
You walk next to me, skipping along. The sash on your dress is always untied- you are always wearing a dress. You have slender arms. You don't wear glasses.
I know you daughter, smile-on-my-heart.
I live with one foot firmly planted here, and the other in the world you inhabit. While others see just an ordinary kitchen table, I look and see you sitting there, eating a jelly sandwich. You are a constant during my day.
And that constant is a beautiful thing.
I see those little hands that I so marveled over when you were born- those long, thin fingers. They pinch and grasp and do all sorts of clever almost three year old things.
I see the questions in your face as you begin to really explore the marvelous world.
I see you gentle with your sweet baby sister. Wild about your tenderhearted big brother.
If I close my eyes for just a tiny moment I can hear you breathing, so close to me.
Three years is a very long time. The days that I have spent away from you have stretched into seconds, lasting far longer than time normally should... the days before me stretch out like a highway- miles upon miles of walking before I get to that final destination where I will be able to touch you again.
I would give almost anything to be able to spend just one more minute with you.
I miss you terribly.
- Sunday, September 15, 2013
- 0 Thank You For Visiting
This is about anger, and how change affects people. If you aren't interested in walking the entire grief journey, and only want to hear the sorrowful, gentle parts- stop reading here. This is not sorrowful, or gentle.
I had many more friends, once upon a time.
I liked people more too.
When my life was different.
In "then".
I was told recently that I had lost perspective. That I seem to see life only from my own point of view.
I am not certain who's perspective I am supposed to be viewing life from. Like everyone else, my perspective is based on my life and my actions directed by my previous mistakes, experiences, and successes. There is no such being as a purely objective person. (Often the people who cry the loudest about objectivity are those who were scarred the most deeply by experience, and live out their experiences to the detriment of those around them by way of being completely unable to bend from their own rigid views.)
I can not "rise above" my loss and I can not see how other people view my reactions- because that would require that I look at how things would be if she had never happened, and I will not imagine how my life would be if I had not held her- and when it is written out like that in real words it becomes even more imperative that I try to make people understand- I am not who I was.
I will never be who I was again.
That person left.
She is not here any more.
I held her, and that changed everything.
I have no patience. I have insomnia. I forget what I'm saying in the middle of a sentence. I live distractedly, no matter how much I try to live intentionally. I can not argue or debate. I don't have the ability to look deeply inside of myself.
I have very, very little empathy for most adults. Because everything that they're going through is less terrible than me holding my dead daughter. I just don't have it in me any longer.
Which perspective am I supposed to change?
The perspective from which I view the world as a hostile place because the majority of people believe that I shouldn't really be allowed this sadness? After all I knew that she was going to die. Its not like it was an accident.
The perspective from which I view human beings as so ridiculously sacred because they are created by a loving God for their purpose, and because of this I love those humans that are different, just a little but more?
The perspective that shows me that all of these angers and hurts that seem to plague people today are really not as bad as people think they are?
Your life is good if you haven't had a dead child in your arms.
Which perspective is it that's wrong?
Which perspective will fit into this place that you breath in?
I won't suit myself to suit you. It's part of my brutal honesty, new-self. It's not a cruel thing on my part although it may seem cruel to you. It's just what is. A basic survival of the fittest type of thing. Because I can't look too deeply into myself, I can't look more deeply into other's motivations. I don't want to explore why people do A, B, and C. Just stop doing A, B, or C. Or continue doing it- I don't care, just leave me out of the reasons why. Because there is no motivation that is going to be more compelling to me than, "I held me dead daughter in my arms."
I know that this seems so nasty. Self-centered and rude. It's not meant that way though- truly. It's self defense, self respect, self preservation.
Every night, every single ever-loving night, when I lie down to go to sleep, I am stuck in that room. That room holding her quiet lifeless body in my arms.
You try to explain to me that you could wake up from that horror show every morning and be able to empathize with someone who is complaining about their hair not turning out just right after a salon visit. Try telling me, again, why I should care about your hangover, or how fanatically you feel about your dog/hampster/parakeet.
My daughter died, in my arms. She stopped breathing as I told her I loved her. I watched her life slip from her body- so quickly.
In the split second that she hovered between here and there, I saw eternity.
There is nothing- nothing- that has ever affected my life and my perspective more than this.
You can choose to take me as I am, or turn away because I do not have the capabilities to cater to your petty, insignificant dramas. Thats a decision you need to make for yourself. I refuse to moderate my personality to fit into your comfort zone. Moderation would mean leaving all that I have become in the last three years. And that's just not going to happen.
- Sunday, September 01, 2013
- 2 Thank You For Visiting
She exists.
I love her.
She is important beyond all measure.
I will never, ever get over this.
Beatrix is one of the greatest love stories of my life. The ones that get away always are.
I just wanted to remind myself that her birth and life are not a concept or a political argument, but that she was my daughter, just as much as the small girl sleeping next to me, is.
I can feel her weight.
I am so glad that she came.
- Wednesday, August 28, 2013
- 1 Thank You For Visiting
I have always been attracted to broken things. When I was a
girl I would buy china dolls with cracked faces and stuffed bears with rips in
their seams. I felt sorry for them because I knew if I didn’t do something,
they would most likely end up in the rubbish bin. So I took them home with me.
Things that are broken are not as strong as they are
intended to be. The damage incurred at the breaking point is a weak spot in the
overall construction of the item. Vulnerable, broken things need protection in
order to continue working in whatever capacity they should be working in.
I think a lot of brokenness.
It’s many forms- wear and tear. Slow rubbings that leave raw
spots. Violent rippings that leave a jagged edge.
I don’t think brokenness is pretty.
It wobbles and lurches and goes about more slowly than its
fully functional counterparts.
I am broken and in need of protection. I have weak spots and
some parts of me are as fragile as glass.
I go about business slowly, like a sloth, one arm in front of the other pulling me towards my destination.
I go about business slowly, like a sloth, one arm in front of the other pulling me towards my destination.
Lately I have begun contemplating all of my broken
parts. The broken parts of me that I try
to hide- the parts that are covered over with a glossy shine and that nobody
sees. My sympathetic parts are all jagged and torn. My empathetic parts as
well.
My broken insides with missing parts. My broken outside with
a long, smiling scar that stretches hip to hip.
It seems that I am compiled of all types of broken elements.
I short circuit.
I fail to launch.
I am not beauty from ashes today, but the dust left behind.
I will keep broken things
Sacred in their splits
I will keep broken things
I will swallow them whole
- Sunday, August 04, 2013
- 2 Thank You For Visiting
I watched this today. It was probably a mistake.
I began with a miracle baby story-
one of those where the baby who was declared "incompatible with life"
ended up surviving . It made me feel hopeful about the
world- who doesn't love a little bit of the miraculous in the morning?
But then I continued. I wanted more-
more miracles, more surviving.
That's generally not the case,
though, when dealing with an "incompatible with life" diagnosis.
As I watched, I cried, and I grieved
along with these families as they told their stories- that moment when they
learned that their baby would be much more fragile than they had ever
anticipated. The moment where they had to simultaneously hold tight and let go.
And inside of the videos and images
there was a familiarity. Things that no "normal" person would ever recognize.
The fact that a number of babies
were not diapered- why diaper a baby who will never eat, much less digest
and pass waste?
The fact that there were entire
families in the room- generations upon generation, well beyond the usual three
person limit allowed by most hospitals- because this is going to be the one
and only chance to cherish this baby, this side of heaven.
The fact that mom was given the baby immediately after
birth, even while still in the operating room, on the operating table, with no
concern about the side effects of medications possibly causing mom to drop the
baby- because if the baby dies before the doctor finishes sewing mom up, she
will never have the opportunity to tell the baby she loves her, and that she is
so glad she came.
I began this post with what was
written above, fully intending to catalog all of the ways that a terminally ill
baby is brought into the world. It would have been an organized list of the
things that I saw and felt needed to be put down on paper for others to see- so
that the uninitiated could fully view what went on in a hospital room when a
baby dies. At least, so that they could catch a glimpse.
Compartmentalizing (listing) things
makes it easier to push them aside.
It makes
it easier to push back the parts of these events that I am not willing to
confront.
What I really feel compelled to write about is the fact that it's not about lists, or
the box full of stuff. It's not about the photographs and tiny footprints, or the
way that the doctors treated me, or the fact that no one really seems to get
that what was lost has created such a large hole in my heart that I will never
be the same again.
It's about her.
The life that she lived.
The life that she lived.
I let this sink into me for a few
minutes this morning.
It's about the life she lived.
Both inside and out of the womb, she
was a quiet girl.
I remember her tiny movements. Those
small jerks that let me know that she was there. I felt "phantom"
movements long after she was gone. She took up an enormous amount of space in
the world, for such tiny bodied being.
Well before we thought of her as
"alive" she lived.
She lived her own secluded life- a
life that I only have minimal knowledge of- a life of sleeping and waking,
floating and dreaming. A life that I did not bring into
being.
Her life was separate from my life.
She had her own belongings, her own
name, and her own distinct personality- which was amply evident during
ultrasounds.
She had her own soul. I forget that sometimes-
that we are not bodies with souls, but rather souls with bodies.
She was a human being, and her life
had merit on its own terms- and sometimes, I get so caught up in the "me,
me, me" motions of grief that her life gets lost.
It's not about me.
It never was.
Each life makes such a difference in
the world, and one small pin point of light can bring clarity to darkness.
Her life mattered.
Because she mattered as a separate entity,
wholly distinct from who I am.
Her light was so magnificent.
Her light is still magnificent- that’s
what needs to be spoken of. That’s the most important part of her story. My Beatrix
has substance. Her weight is immeasurable. She was created not because I needed
a baby, or because I wanted a baby. She had her own purpose here and that fact
has been overshadowed, in my life, for quite a long time now.
My grief is about me.
Her life is about her.
Those are two distinct items and as
much as they may seem to be related, they aren’t.
I need to remember that at times.
I need to remember that it’s not
about why she died but rather, why she lived.
I need to stop concentrating on what’s
missing and focus more on what I’m missing.
*** the image came from a tumblr account, and there was no attribution..... if it's yours, I will gladly remove it. :)
*** the image came from a tumblr account, and there was no attribution..... if it's yours, I will gladly remove it. :)
- Wednesday, July 10, 2013
- 1 Thank You For Visiting
I miss her, ever so much, today.
I love you so....
Sometimes it just makes everything ache.
I love you so....
Sometimes it just makes everything ache.
- Saturday, June 15, 2013
- 0 Thank You For Visiting
I just want you to know that this will be about a touchy subject.
I will turn off the comments at the end, because it is so touchy that people will want to chastise me and tell me that I am cruel. But it is a subject that I have contemplated for a while, and I feel the need to get my thoughts off of my chest. Since this is my grief journal, I am writing it. It is part of my journey.
The other day I was conversing with another poor pregnancy diagnosis mom in a private forum child loss group on Facebook. We both knew the others story, at least the peripherals of the stories.
I carried to term, and she did not.
While I was very hostile towards those who terminate, in the immediate time period after my loss, I am now very, very careful not to pass any judgement on anyone for the choices that they make. I have friends who have chosen differently than I have- I don't agree with that choice- I think its wrong, but I understand that not everyone is of the same mind as I am.
So, in the course of that conversation, someone else comments how wonderful this woman was as a mother- how she made the best possible choice- the only humane choice- for her child. How she saved her child needless suffering. She spoke of how selfless her act (of terminating the pregnancy) was.
This is a common theme within the child loss "community"" when it comes to women who have terminated for medical reasons. The suffering of the child is most often given as the reason for terminating the pregnancy.
If continuing the pregnancy is futile (because the child will die), then why prolong the child's suffering?
This attitude bothers me every single time I see it. It bothers me when someone, who may be a loss mother, but who has not had the experience of having to make that choice says it. It bothers me when women who have terminated for medical reasons says it.
Statements about selflessness in terms of ending your pregnancy, imply that those of us who continue our pregnancies are selfish.
Statements about ending your pregnancy because you did not want your child to suffer, imply that those of us who continued our pregnancies are causing our children unnecessary suffering.
Most people in loss groups will state that the choice to continue the pregnancy or not should be left to the parent involved- that no one should judge that decision... and will then proceed to make an affirmative judgement about termination. This puts some of us who have continued our pregnancies in an uncomfortable position.
Do we state, unequivocally, that our children did not suffer any pain during pregnancy and birth?
Do we let it go, hurt at the implication that we would let our children suffer? They most definitely don't let it go if someone comments about Carrying to term- they almost always find it necessary to post a caveat statement about their termination... but again, we are supposed to stay silent. When people are implying that we allowed our children to suffer.
Do we pull up the facts about fetal development and pain that reinforce carrying to term as a loving option for parents? What about the abundance of available information showing that moms who carry to term have better psychological outcomes, overall, than moms who terminate?
Most of the time, I try to ignore those extremely hurtful implications. But lately it has become overwhelming. This sense that I want to take something back for my daughter and all of the tiny babies like her.
Terminating a pregnancy for a fetal anomaly is no more scientifically proven to limit suffering than carrying to term is. Some of us who carry to term believe that terminating causes more pain and suffering. Some of us want our children to have no knowledge of anything but peace and light- and we believe that continuing the pregnancy is the best way to do that. My daughter was given every single test in the book, and not once did she ever exhibit any sign of being in pain
Those of us who carry to term believe that we are putting our baby's needs before ours- acting most selflessly. Some of us fight to have elective C-sections in order to save our children the stress of the birthing experience. Some of us risk our future childbearing capabilities to bring those fragile children into the world. We are anything but selfish in our decision to continue our pregnancies- we are giving our children a gift of time.
As many mothers who have made the decision to carry to term can tell you, termination is the only option offered by most doctors. There is a tremendous amount of support out there for women who have terminated for medical reasons.
Most pro-life people even believe that terminating for gross fetal anomaly is acceptable. Those of us who make a different choice are viewed as religious nuts, fanatics.
Invariably, when I tell someone about my experience with Beatrix, people will end their part in the conversation with the statement that they thought what I did was beautiful, but they believed that women should have the choice to terminate their pregnancies in that same circumstance.
Why is this necessary? What does your belief in termination for fetal anomalies have to do with my beautiful girl?
And even more distressing....
you do realize that in essence, what you have just said is that you think my childbirth story was beautiful but you would like to keep the option, for children like my daughter- beautiful, breathtaking little souls- to have their lives cut short, open.
Even if you believe this- is it appropriate to the conversation? Is it a valid end to my daughter's story?
I am so very tired of bending over backwards to try and be respectful of other people's decisions and not receiving the same courtesy. I am so tired of the implication that somehow, I am a selfish person who chose to give birth to satisfy a need in me. A person who disregarded my child's needs.
I am a good mother.
My child did not suffer.
Children carried to term with a poor prognosis are closely monitored to make sure that their lives are comfortable- both before and after birth, through perinatal hospice practices.
The assumption that terminating a pregnancy like this is the only "humane" thing to do is insulting to those of us who continue ours.
Please, when commenting on this subject, if you are supporting a mother that has terminated for medical reasons, and there are other moms sharing the same space, be mindful of their experiences and how your words could be taken. Don't make judgements or identify one decision as correct and one as not- most of us who carry to term are bending over backwards to show those who terminate that we understand and we don't judge them- it would be nice if the same courtesy were extended towards us.
As I said before, I am disabling comments here. If there is something terribly important that you need to say you may email me at the email address on the sidebar.
Otherwise, be kind to one another.
I will turn off the comments at the end, because it is so touchy that people will want to chastise me and tell me that I am cruel. But it is a subject that I have contemplated for a while, and I feel the need to get my thoughts off of my chest. Since this is my grief journal, I am writing it. It is part of my journey.
The other day I was conversing with another poor pregnancy diagnosis mom in a private forum child loss group on Facebook. We both knew the others story, at least the peripherals of the stories.
I carried to term, and she did not.
While I was very hostile towards those who terminate, in the immediate time period after my loss, I am now very, very careful not to pass any judgement on anyone for the choices that they make. I have friends who have chosen differently than I have- I don't agree with that choice- I think its wrong, but I understand that not everyone is of the same mind as I am.
So, in the course of that conversation, someone else comments how wonderful this woman was as a mother- how she made the best possible choice- the only humane choice- for her child. How she saved her child needless suffering. She spoke of how selfless her act (of terminating the pregnancy) was.
This is a common theme within the child loss "community"" when it comes to women who have terminated for medical reasons. The suffering of the child is most often given as the reason for terminating the pregnancy.
If continuing the pregnancy is futile (because the child will die), then why prolong the child's suffering?
This attitude bothers me every single time I see it. It bothers me when someone, who may be a loss mother, but who has not had the experience of having to make that choice says it. It bothers me when women who have terminated for medical reasons says it.
Statements about selflessness in terms of ending your pregnancy, imply that those of us who continue our pregnancies are selfish.
Statements about ending your pregnancy because you did not want your child to suffer, imply that those of us who continued our pregnancies are causing our children unnecessary suffering.
Most people in loss groups will state that the choice to continue the pregnancy or not should be left to the parent involved- that no one should judge that decision... and will then proceed to make an affirmative judgement about termination. This puts some of us who have continued our pregnancies in an uncomfortable position.
Do we state, unequivocally, that our children did not suffer any pain during pregnancy and birth?
Do we let it go, hurt at the implication that we would let our children suffer? They most definitely don't let it go if someone comments about Carrying to term- they almost always find it necessary to post a caveat statement about their termination... but again, we are supposed to stay silent. When people are implying that we allowed our children to suffer.
Do we pull up the facts about fetal development and pain that reinforce carrying to term as a loving option for parents? What about the abundance of available information showing that moms who carry to term have better psychological outcomes, overall, than moms who terminate?
Most of the time, I try to ignore those extremely hurtful implications. But lately it has become overwhelming. This sense that I want to take something back for my daughter and all of the tiny babies like her.
Terminating a pregnancy for a fetal anomaly is no more scientifically proven to limit suffering than carrying to term is. Some of us who carry to term believe that terminating causes more pain and suffering. Some of us want our children to have no knowledge of anything but peace and light- and we believe that continuing the pregnancy is the best way to do that. My daughter was given every single test in the book, and not once did she ever exhibit any sign of being in pain
Those of us who carry to term believe that we are putting our baby's needs before ours- acting most selflessly. Some of us fight to have elective C-sections in order to save our children the stress of the birthing experience. Some of us risk our future childbearing capabilities to bring those fragile children into the world. We are anything but selfish in our decision to continue our pregnancies- we are giving our children a gift of time.
As many mothers who have made the decision to carry to term can tell you, termination is the only option offered by most doctors. There is a tremendous amount of support out there for women who have terminated for medical reasons.
Most pro-life people even believe that terminating for gross fetal anomaly is acceptable. Those of us who make a different choice are viewed as religious nuts, fanatics.
Invariably, when I tell someone about my experience with Beatrix, people will end their part in the conversation with the statement that they thought what I did was beautiful, but they believed that women should have the choice to terminate their pregnancies in that same circumstance.
Why is this necessary? What does your belief in termination for fetal anomalies have to do with my beautiful girl?
And even more distressing....
you do realize that in essence, what you have just said is that you think my childbirth story was beautiful but you would like to keep the option, for children like my daughter- beautiful, breathtaking little souls- to have their lives cut short, open.
Even if you believe this- is it appropriate to the conversation? Is it a valid end to my daughter's story?
I am so very tired of bending over backwards to try and be respectful of other people's decisions and not receiving the same courtesy. I am so tired of the implication that somehow, I am a selfish person who chose to give birth to satisfy a need in me. A person who disregarded my child's needs.
I am a good mother.
My child did not suffer.
Children carried to term with a poor prognosis are closely monitored to make sure that their lives are comfortable- both before and after birth, through perinatal hospice practices.
The assumption that terminating a pregnancy like this is the only "humane" thing to do is insulting to those of us who continue ours.
Please, when commenting on this subject, if you are supporting a mother that has terminated for medical reasons, and there are other moms sharing the same space, be mindful of their experiences and how your words could be taken. Don't make judgements or identify one decision as correct and one as not- most of us who carry to term are bending over backwards to show those who terminate that we understand and we don't judge them- it would be nice if the same courtesy were extended towards us.
As I said before, I am disabling comments here. If there is something terribly important that you need to say you may email me at the email address on the sidebar.
Otherwise, be kind to one another.
- Wednesday, June 12, 2013
- 0 Thank You For Visiting
(Written when Baby M was eight weeks old.)
She has colic. She doesn't like to be put down.
She will be the last. This is a definitive statement.
She has colic. She doesn't like to be put down.
EVER.
"Parenting After Loss" is the title of a book. It shouldn't be my life. But it is. So here is my take on parenting a newborn after loss.
Colic? Doesn't faze me. A crying baby is a breathing baby. A crying baby is a living, emoting being that has succeeded in surviving outside of my body. When her cord was cut there was no hush in the room. There was a small, thin cry. It was a watershed moment. The moment I had dreaded because I was sure that when they cut me open, she would be silent and still.
There were complications with her birth.
Uterine Rupture.
A True Knot.
Bradychardia.
She came out blue, and I lost my uterus.
There were complications.
But she is breathing now, full of wind and anger and red-faced and beautiful.
I have nothing but gratitude for colic. For whatever it is that forces tears from her eyes and breath from her body.
She will be the last. This is a definitive statement.
The first weeks were terrifying. I was convinced that she was dying. That something was terribly wrong with her. I slept with her because I was too frightened to allow her to be farther than arms length away. I stayed awake watching her chest rise and fall, each time praying that it would happen again.
I would be lying if I said that I was over that now.
I'm not.
Every morning when I wake up and she is still here is a marvelous wonder. I think, O.K. we made it through another day. She is healthy and blooming.
- Thursday, May 23, 2013
- 5 Thank You For Visiting
