I fear I may not make it this time.
There are the regular doubts and regrets, of course...
I missed a Lovenox injection.
I ate too much fast food.
I didn't take my prenatals faithfully.
I didn't exercise enough.
I stressed too much.
I worried about the financial burden another child would put on us.
But there things about this that make Alex and Travis' stillbirths seem like the good 'ole days. Most significant, I think, is that this is the way it all ends. It is over. There will never be the hope and promise of another baby in our home.
Someone once told me, when I was considering the idea of another child (who would turn out be Alex), "You will just know when your family is complete." In that moment, it was as simple as that...I knew our family wasn't complete and the decision was made.
The utter shit of it is...I still know our family isn't complete. The only difference is, in this moment, I know our family will never be complete.
It's not that there are already three missing children.
I know that our family dynamic would be very different if any one of those pregnancies had turned out differently. And I'm as ok with that as I can be. Though there are still raw moments, I have mostly made peace with all of that by looking at the beautiful faces of our two amazing boys.
No...it's that it is just over. There is no more hope.
We know we have been beaten and we dare not challenge the fates one more time. We simply don't have the strength to see hope crushed again...to see the shining smiles of our loved ones disappear into sympathetic head tilts and averted eyes. But more importantly, it is time to admit that I clearly don't have the physical ability to create the complete family of our dreams. I can not fulfill my husband's wish to have another child...or my sons' wishes to be big brothers...or my own wish to watch another baby grow (maybe even a girl).
And so it ends.
It's not the raw shock of losing Alex. It's not the resignation of losing Travis. It's not the horror of losing Little Bug. It's the pain of forever shutting the door on the hope that we will feel complete...that we will BE complete.
And that hurts far beyond what I could have ever imagined.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Mom
My mom insisted on living independently. She wanted to live in the two-story house she and my dad built in the 70s, despite the fact that da...
-
"Unfortunately, honey, the baby is no longer alive.". -Ultrasound doctor
-
When I was 18 years old, I wasn't paying attention while driving and I crashed my parents' van into a cruck (car with a truck bed) t...
-
Hi Everyone, this is Cathy's husband Stephen. I am proud to announce that Myles Fisher entered the world this afternoon at 3:51 PM He ...
10 comments:
I've got no words of wisdom or comfort.
I'm just a friend with a lot of love in my heart for you all and I'm here if and when you need me.
Love you.
I'm sorry that you feel hopeless right now. I am sorry, so very sorry, for your loss. There is nothing I can say, that anyone can say, that can make the loss of both the baby and the loss of all the hopes and dreams you had for the baby and for your family with that baby (and your other lost babies) in it.
I wish I could tell you that tomorrow will be better, and that tomorrow (or the day after that, or the day after that) - this burden will feel less heavy on your heart. (I sincerely hope that is the case.)
Don't give up. (And I don't mean don't give up on hope. I mean, don't give up on you.)
I know the last thing you want or even need is anyone to blow any smoke up your ass. But you WILL make it through this, just not in the way we had all hoped or imagined or in my case, expected. You you will make it through.
I won't say I understand your feelings, because I'm not you. I can imagine, because I have serious fears about hope shutting down.
One of the many strange burdens of this is that you will make it. What the hell other choice is there, for you and Steve? We get kicked in the head and heart, but keep going. I wish I could stop the world and make this better. I hope knowing how much people love you helps. For you, for Steve, for Sam and Myles. You're a beautiful, wonderful family, and it kills me to think of your pain.
I have nothing...i am sitting her, thinking of you, and sending (((((hugs))))))
Dear Catherine,
what you said about feeling that "it's that it is just over...We know we have been beaten and we dare not challenge the fates one more time"
actually sums up exactly how I feel about being pregnant again (the terror and fear) and why I accept our family 'is just complete in it's incompleteness' and that's it for us. It's sad but real.
I just know I can't open that door again to hope for another baby (for me maybe even a boy, like I am missing) because I believe I am not lucky enough to welcome another child into our house. period. So, these days most of the time I don't even go there (thinking of another go at number 3 take home baby). I am not that much of a gambler.
I am sorry I am talking about me and not you.
I know it must be very hard this time around simply by all this grief and disappointment being so familiar.
That so much grief has been visited on you in 5 very long, hard years is truely f**king awful.
Thankfully you have Sam and Myles and Steve to care for you and love you and help you put one foot in front of the other.
Much love and thoughts,
xClare
don't have anything to say. just here for you.
Wish I had words to take the pain away.
Just thinking of you. I'm so sorry.
xxx
Just here, C, caring...
I understand this forced decision and how painful it must be. As three minute palaver said, you have been through too, too much in the last five years. I wish it wasn't so.
Post a Comment