We may never know what happened and I'm trying to make peace with that.
"This was an abnormal pregnancy."
"It's nothing you did. This isn't something you could have prevented."
"I saw what might be a couple small tumors."
"It's possible there was a molar pregnancy."
"I'll be doing a suction D&C to reduce the possibility of scarring on your uterus."
"We might not get any answers."
I love my obstetrician because if she's anything, she's honest. She walked into the pre-op room on Friday morning and said something along the lines of it being the last place she'd ever wanted to see me. I'm sure she feels that way for each and every one of her patients who has had to endure this.
But I didn't cry ... hard. I let a few tears slip when she first came in because the only place I wanted to have to see her was on the second floor in Labor and Delivery next June or any of the months in between now and then in her office for a prenatal check up.
I only let a few tears out in front of her, but it wasn't because I was afraid to let it out in her presence. I couldn't break like that right before going into surgery and leave Ron in the waiting room alone knowing I'd cried.
He was already silently worrying enough as it was.
He's been keeping himself busy so he doesn't dwell, because if he dwells it will hurt more.
I am not the only one who lost a child. I am not the only one grieving. I am not the only one feeling a little lost at a time of the year when we're supposed to be decorating the Christmas tree and frosting cookies for Santa and wrapping presents.
This is not my loss alone.
I've known the loss isn't mine to bear alone since we found out the baby died - just like when the pregnancy test turned positive, it wasn't just *my* joy - but it hit really hard again on Sunday when Ron stood in the shower with me and just held me while I cried, held me because it hit me that once again we're going through a big life change and we're hosting Christmas and the last damn thing I want to do is have to paint on a smile and be upbeat if I don't feel like it.
He doesn't know that while he was on the roof messing with the chimney
cap that I started mixing a batch of cookies to get my mind off the
anger and had to go hide in our bedroom to get myself together because
the tears came from out of nowhere.
My husband is trying to hold it together as much as I am through every hard conversation we have about this loss. He's been a pillar of strength for me and I only hope that if he's going to fall apart, he's home to do it where I can catch him like he's caught me so many times over the last week.
On Saturday I was so numb to everything the tears never came. The anger hadn't set in yet either. In fact, I've just been jumping around the stages of grief. I was only in denial for the amount of time it took to not see a heartbeat and then see the ultrasound tech's face. I accepted early on that this was happening, but never bargained. There was nothing to bargain with. There never will be anything to bargain with.
I've been adamant about not letting myself get "depressed" simply because there was nothing I could do to change the outcome; I have two other beautiful, healthy children who need me. There is no time for depression in the sense that others have seen me go through in the past. Sadness, though? Yes. And the girls are well aware of our grief, they have shared in it, they have been working through their own.
"Mommy, I still love the baby even though he or she passed away," Josie has said to me repeatedly.
"Mom, I want to snuggle your belly. I love the baby," has been Charlotte's way to deal with the loss.
How do you explain death to a child? Carefully and methodically and you don't just say "because" when they ask "why." It doesn't work. Because isn't an answer to them; because is just another way for adults to refuse to answer the question. So, usually through tears, I answer the "why" and the "where" and the "how."
"Mom, are you sad still?"
I cannot lie to my 4-year-old when she catches me wiping my eyes.
We've at least been fortunate enough to have a little closure.
I didn't think giving information for a fetal death certificate would give me that, but out of everything I went through Friday that's the one thing that made it final for me. It gives me the ability to accept what I cannot change.
It gives me the chance to recognize this child, that he or she was ours, that we created this baby and that even if only on paper, this baby existed regardless of how long it was with us.
And maybe we'll have the chance to start the new year off in a hopeful note. Maybe by then we'll have an answer.
If we don't ... that's OK, too.
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