Mi Isla Sola

Sometimes, you get so far in your grief, you have so many normal days.. then a day comes where you just can’t shake the cloud over your head, and you almost don’t know what’s bugging you.. then it hits.. oh yeah, my baby died.. and it’s like it’s brand new, all over again. The enormity of it, the permanence, the complete unbelievability of it all. Days like this are becoming less frequent, but they sure do hurt when they hit.

Maybe it’s just the January blahs, it seems like lots of us are feeling a renewed sadness this week. I’m sad for all of us, whose dreams of our lost little ones will never come true. I miss my baby girl. She seems so far away these days.  On the one hand, I’m grateful to be slowly returning to a ‘normal’ kind of lifestyle, but on the other hand, it’s really lonely in ‘normalville’. They don’t really know what happened, they don’t get it, they don’t want to spend a lot of time near my pain. It makes them uncomfortable. Understandably. I’d probably be the same, I guess. I feel like I’m pretending to be normal, with a big secret that I am trying to pretend doesn’t exist. It only works for so long, until I feel so out of place, and I’m missing her so much.

Miss you baby girl. That’s all. Wish you were here.

So, I belong to a board of women, mostly moms now. Just a message board that began as a wedding planning board, and evolved as we all entered motherhood. This past week, 4 healthy baby girls have been welcomed into the world. I am bitter, angry and jealous.  How is it that these women just assumed they’d get their healthy babies, and they did. Not one of them said “Thank god she arrived safely” or “we’re just so relieved nothing went wrong”. They were the standard baby announcements… “so and so arrived at x weight, y length blah blah blah..” Why would it have been any different? I hate hate hate that. Why can’t people realize what a god damn gift it is to birth a healthy, living baby? Why can’t they be more grateful for it when it happens? Why do I have to be the one whose baby died? Why indeed.

Even as I sit here halfway through a subsequent pregnancy, progressing seemingly well so far, I am bitter and jealous of them. It’s not just their pregnancies, obviously, but their naivete. I hate that I’ve been alerted to another entire way of living through pregnancy. I wonder will there be a heartbeat at the next appointment.. will the baby be immersed in a swamp of mec like my daughter was, when they do my c section? Will this baby be stone cold silent like she was? How come I have to worry about these things? Why can I not just wonder how his/her eyes will look as they stare into mine for the first time? Why can I not just be curious about fingers and toes, instead of brain damage and umbilical cords wrapped around necks?
I feel so robbed of the opportunity to enjoy this very special time. Try as I might to just “be” in the moment, I fail.  I just can’t throw caution to the wind and assume all will be well.. There are no guarantees, and sadly, I take this very much to heart. I hope the baby can’t feel all my anxiety, bitterness and anger, as my therapist believes, because if so, it’s going to be one fucked up little soul. I just want to know everything will be fine, and dive into pregnancy bliss headfirst.

Yet I can’t, and it just makes me so sad.

After a day of feeling pretty well, it’s only natural for me to crash. Such is the night before my long awaited therapy session with a birth trauma therapist, who has experienced baby loss herself.  The night before our appt, I dreamt about the most diffiicult part of my loss. The part I rarely visit in my own mind, let alone speak out loud of. The midwife.  I went and saw the midwife to ask her about the ultrasound I had at 36 weeks. This is the crux of my grief. The most difficult part to accept.  I don’t know if it’s a coincidence or not that I had this dream the night before my session, but it certainly made for a difficult day leading up to the appointment…The ultrasound… The wondering, the dreading.. did she screw up? I had an ultrasound at 36 weeks, to be sure of baby’s positioning. That was the *only* reason for that scan. So we would be prepared for a homebirth, not worried about breech. That scan revealed some ‘concerns’, namely, low-normal amniotic fluid, low movement.  It took a long time to get the scan done, and the radiologist had to come in and do some of it herself. Isla still scored 8/8 on the bpp, so my midwife wasn’t worried. The doctor told me I needed to see my doctor (I told her I was seeing a midwife, and she scoffed a bit, and asked if there was a doctor too, and I got my back up).  Because, she said, ‘this is a sign that baby isn’t doing well’.  My mw couldn’t figure out why they thought that, when the score was 8/8.  She left the choice of a follow up ultrasound to me, and didn’t want me freaking out over it, as I had had such a traumatic birth with my son, and wanted to be calm and ready for this new labour and delivery. So we didn’t do anything. This is the hardest part of my whole experience. We may have missed a chance to do something for her. When I went in at 39 weeks with no movement, and the delivery revealed a tragedy beyond what anyone was expecting, I was rocked. What had we done? Had I done this? Had my midwife? This is where I spiral out of control, every few months. This is what I cannot handle, and so please be gentle with your comments, as it is so very tender. My mw ran her notes by the physicial who delivered Isla, asking if she’d missed something, or if he’d  have done anything different. He had no problem with her notes, and said he’d probably have ordered a stress test, which probably (at the time) would have been fine, based on the bpp results, and a follow up ultrasound a week later, which also probably would have been fine, since the “trauma” had probably just happened 3 days prior to delivery,  (after the follow up US would have been) based on the mec- stained placenta. I NEED to remind myself of this over and over again. Like a broken record. For the first 3 months, my husband had to tell me several times daily. I just can’t stop thinking about how that ultrasound was a warning, a chance we weren’t even supposed to have had, as it was purely a positioning ultrasound.  I can’t fathom that my baby girl was in distress, and I chose not to do anything about it. I want to die when I think of that.

So, the therapist, how I love her, helped me reign in my mental storm and redefine everything. She picked up on a pattern I had been employing; that by blaming the mw, I was blaming myself, because I  had hired her. Ergo, I was responsible for my daughter’s death.  She says that as a mom, I am not responsible for the actions of my mw. And my job is to be ‘the mom’. Her job is to care for the pregnancy, and be an expert in her field.  I cannot be responsible for her responsibilities.  I know this. Yet, if I’d been under an OB’s care instead, perhaps they’d have intervened sooner, as they are wont to do, and she’d be here now. Why did I need to have the less interventive route, and have it cost me so much? Again, there are no guarantees it would have been any different; when Isla was born, no one was running around, it wasn’t an emergency, the heartbeat, though a bit wonky, was there on the nst. They checked me for an induction, nope, posterior cervix, and slowly got ready for a section. The OB told me directly that he never expected what he found. He never anticipated for a second that there would be so much meconium, and that that was such a ‘floppy baby’ (a horrible thing to say, but I know what he was getting at). Her heart stopped when they cut the cord. The resuscitation gave us 12 precious hours.

I desperately want to let go of this. I hate that I keep coming back to it, finding ways to make it my fault, or ‘what iffing’ myself to death. Obviously, nothing is going to come of it. I won’t magically find the answer and Isla will be back with us. So, why must grief be so torturous sometimes? Why can I not resolve this? I hate that it’s my husband’s touchpoint too. I wish he was absolutely certain of it all, instead of this being his one sticking point, because at least I could take comfort in his certainty.

I did feel better leaving the appointment.  Things were straightened out again, for now. I hate hate hate that this keeps coming up. I just want some peace with this.

Lately, something strange has been pulling at me. It’s a feeling I haven’t felt in a long, long while. It’s something like the feeling of a Saturday morning, when Tim would get up early, brew a pot of coffee, and run out to buy newspapers for us. We’d read and (I’d) sip contendedly in bed for an hour or so.. this was a peace in my heart and soul that disappeared after Evan was born. His birth brought a whole other set of feelings and emotions, as I adjusted to motherhood. I never really got that quiet, peaceful feeling back. After Isla was born, and died, it went away completely. I was in the depths of grief for a very long time. I couldn’t stand being by myself, I couldn’t handle still time, peace. It wasn’t peaceful, it was torturous. I had to be reading, usually baby loss books. I had to be watching inane tv. I had to be very near my husband, physically. He couldn’t go to the bathroom without me standing outside the door… When he went back to work a month after Isla died, I was a wreck for weeks.

Now I am coming to a place that feels like an old friend. I make coffee now, and stop to truly smell it, and appreciate the aroma. I look outside, and treasure the sun warming my face. I see Evan playing with his toys, and my heart swells with love and disbelief at all that he is, and is becoming.  Suddenly, I like me time again.  I like a chance at a drive through the country alone. The thought doesn’t send me into a panicky tailspin.  I welcome it when I drop Evan off at school and I can go shoot some photos alone. I am relearning to appreciate quiet tranquility.  A change is happening in my heart, my soul, and for the first time, I am deciding to welcome it.

For a while now, these feelings have been hinting at their presence. I denied them, ignored them, and refused to acknowledge them. Because to do so would (seemingly) be admitting that I’m moving on from Isla. I’m not ready to leave her behind. But something has happened. I think I’m realizing that grieving Isla and experiencing hope and joy again can coexist peacefully in my heart.  I want to look at baby clothes, I want to daydream about this new life inside me,  and bond with his/her little kicks. I want to love this baby completely, and I don’t want to feel guilty or unworthy of doing so. So I am.  I am allowing myself to buy a few onesies. I am dipping my toe in the baby sections of stores again. And you know what? It feels nice. It feels giddy, and kind of silly, like I’m faking it.   I think it’s because it’s all so new again, and not fraught with grief. These are new baby things, for new hopes and new dreams. I feel buoyed by hope on the horizon. It sometimes hovers on delirium.  Finally.  Finally,  my heart is willing to open up again.

Isla is something that I will never ‘move on’ from. She is with me, always. When I’m sad, and missing her desperately, she is there. When I am celebrating Evan, or this new bean,  laughing at something funny, shopping for baby things, she is with me. She is there regardless, and so I have decided to stop torturing myself by disallowing myself to enjoy this pregnancy. It is time to believe that what will be, will be. I don’t have any control over what is going to happen between now and May. I obviously hope for the best, but realize that my worrying, panicking, celebrating or indulging is not going to affect the baby or his/her outcome.

So, bring on the sun, I am ready for some hope, some light and warmth. It doesn’t mean I’m ‘moving on’ or have forgotten my daughter.  Au contraire, it means I’m expanding my heart again. By opening up to risk, heartache and pain, I am opening up to love, hope and joy.

And it  is completely worth the risk.

baby! There’s actually a living, breathing(sorta) little human being inside me, and I’m really quite suddenly amazed by it all.  Just before my doctor checked for the heartbeat,  she paused, grinned and asked me if this baby was going to give her any trouble today. I laughed and said hoped not. It only took a few minutes, and she found it, loud and clear. And, bless her heart, she let us hear it for a good long time. It was the first time I’d actually heard it, per se. I’d been told it was 144 on ultrasound, but couldn’t hear it. There is was, pounding away, sounding like a little freight train, a healthy 160 bpm (doctor says girl!) and I just cried. I  still can’t believe at times that this is actually happening. That I might be allowed to hope once again, to imagine holding another of my babies in my arms. It is very surreal, and I feel tremendous gratitude for this pregnancy, and thankfully, haven’t taken a second of it for granted. I feel like I”m walking around with a winning lottery ticket in my pocket, and only I know it. I feel humbled by my gratitude. Hope and joy flit around, and try hard to penetrate the dark cloud of  fear and anger that is my grief. It’s getting easier. I don’t know why, I assumed it would get harder. I imagine this is an upswing of grief, and I have no illusions of being ‘done’ with grief, by any stretch. Just for now though, I feel fortunate, lucky, and blessed even (by whom, I don’t know) to have this baby inside me, and I think I’m starting to love it.

After pulling as many strings as she could, and even being successful at getting the ultrasound people to divulge the sex, the tech was unable to tell. I’m sad about that, but have been looking for an excuse to hit the states for some shopping anyway. I have to go back for another ultrasound in a month, in order for them to see a few things they missed, so we’ll hold off on our trip until then, but if they still can’t tell, it’s southbound we’ll go. I think I’m actually a little surprised at my reaction to not finding out. I mean, I wanted to know, and still do, but truly, hearing the heartbeat, seeing the body on the ultrasound, having the little bean wave at us, (opening closing of fist right at camera, just amazing), I am truly content. Boy or girl, this kid is wanted so very much, and we just can’t wait to hold it, should we be so lucky.  It breaks my heart when Evan asks “will it be alive?” How many five year olds ask that of their siblings? I feel sad for how much he’s had to grow up, but he’s learned a hard lesson at an early age, and I hope it eases the losses he’ll face in his future.

So overall, a really, really good appointment.