This has been on my mind for a while now. Maybe if I write it out, I can stop thinking about it?
I'm taking a maternal and child health class this semester. It's not the first class of this type I've taken, but the first since losing Morgan. For the most part, I'm OK, but little things that get me do come up every now and again.
Early in the semester (late January, maybe), we were talking about definitions used in the MCH field, and the professor asked about when life "begins". He presented several definitions that have been proposed in various writings, and opened the floor for discussion. One student, a pediatrician, actually, stated that a baby is not "life" until viability is reached. I try not to be "Crazy Bereaved Lady" at school. And, as such, purposefully did not join in this discussion. But this life=viability business burned me up. I just kept thinking that her opinion is part of what's wrong with the medical profession and why so many families get pissed on when their babies die. Sure, a baby's chances of surviving at less than 24 weeks are essentially zero, and are still pretty slim at 24 weeks. I also said to myself, "Clearly, she's never been pregnant!" To think that life doesn't being until over halfway through the pregnancy is assinine. How do you explain the movements you feel at 18 weeks?
Flash forward to about a month ago. This classmate of mine was suddenly visibly pregnant. This means she was more than pregnant when she made her statement. And every freaking week, I can't help but stare at her growing belly and wonder if she thinks it's "alive" yet. Would she not be hurt if tragedy struck tomorrow? Why should be upset if it's not alive?
My feeling is this: If it's not alive, then how can it die?
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Must be nice...
...to naively assume your pregnancy will go as planned.
A friend posted on Facebook that she's pregnant. I've tried my hardest to not be concerned or pay any attention. But a thread between my friend and some other people popped up on my feed tonight (I have not "liked" or otherwise commented on this thread!!!), and she stated her due date was in October. So, that basically means she's only been pregnant long enough to go to the doctor to confirm and have some pregnancy announcement photos made, but she's announced it to the WORLD (via said photos). She hasn't even cleared the first trimester!! I guess after a successful first pregnancy, you can be confident enough to do that. Must be nice.
I went to my women's support group last night, and we somehow got to talking about whether to tell early the next time, in order to have more support if things go wrong vs. not telling until after the danger zone of when the last pregnancy ended. The husband and I have talked about not telling anyone at all until a) it's beyond obvious or b)when I go into labor, with an "Oh yeah, by the way..." I think at the very least, 20 weeks. Maybe 24, when viability is reached? Decisions, decisions. Decisions that won't be made anytime soon.
A friend posted on Facebook that she's pregnant. I've tried my hardest to not be concerned or pay any attention. But a thread between my friend and some other people popped up on my feed tonight (I have not "liked" or otherwise commented on this thread!!!), and she stated her due date was in October. So, that basically means she's only been pregnant long enough to go to the doctor to confirm and have some pregnancy announcement photos made, but she's announced it to the WORLD (via said photos). She hasn't even cleared the first trimester!! I guess after a successful first pregnancy, you can be confident enough to do that. Must be nice.
I went to my women's support group last night, and we somehow got to talking about whether to tell early the next time, in order to have more support if things go wrong vs. not telling until after the danger zone of when the last pregnancy ended. The husband and I have talked about not telling anyone at all until a) it's beyond obvious or b)when I go into labor, with an "Oh yeah, by the way..." I think at the very least, 20 weeks. Maybe 24, when viability is reached? Decisions, decisions. Decisions that won't be made anytime soon.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
"Comfort"
Last night, we attended our monthly support group session. In addition to the usual discussions, there was an activity. Everyone drew a strip of paper out of a bag, and we were supposed to express how/what we felt about the word on our slip of paper. Some words were obvious ones for a grief support group: hopelessness, worry, angry. Others were somewhat unexpected: hopefulness, joy, happy. My word was also kind of unexpected: comfort.
If I had been at school, I probably would have been one of the first to go, simply because I don't like the dead air between the instructor asking a question and someone volunteering to answer. But I really couldn't think of anything "good" to say about comfort. There are few places, people, or things from which I draw comfort these days. There are some days, despite his best efforts, that even my husband can provide no comfort. Silly me, some days, I do just want to throw my own pity party.
I did come up with something to say. I said how difficult it is for me to comfort my husband. He does his best for me, but I often don't know what to say or do for him. Over the past several months, we've cried out our grief, together and alone. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he's hurting just as much as I am, but I finally realized this weekend how hard it is to watch the one you love be in pain.
I was in a funk Saturday morning, and felt compelled to draw the sketch in my last post. Usually, getting those emotions out in some way helps (i.e. blogging), but not this time. Long story short, I had a meltdown Saturday evening, and there was nothing he could say to me that could provide comfort. Bless his heart, because he certainly tried. In his own grief and frustration, he punched the armoire and left the room. After calming myself down a bit, I went to check on him. I found him laid out on the floor, sobbing and asking God what we did to deserve this. The only thing I could do was get down on the floor and cry with him. Seeing him at his breaking point, I realized how much my own pain affects him, above and beyond his own pain. I knew, but I didn't know, not really. I'm not sure I know what to do about it, though. I mean, I encourage him to talk about whatever he's feeling. I hold him when he's crying but I'm not. And it never seems like I'm doing enough.
I guess it's because I'm carrying the guilt that his pain is my fault. If I'd been able to carry Morgan to term, neither of us would have to experience the pain of losing her. If I wasn't upset that Morgan was gone, he wouldn't be upset that I was upset. Vicious cycle, huh? (I know, logically, that what happened isn't my fault.)
I think I'll spend the next few weeks really thinking about this, and making an effort to be more comforting. He says that I do indeed provide comfort, but sometimes I'm not so sure. Our 6th anniversary is coming up next month, and we are more than certain our bond will stand the test of time. I didn't make any New Year's resolutions, but maybe I'll make a New Wife resolution, and this will be an area where I make a definite effort.
If I had been at school, I probably would have been one of the first to go, simply because I don't like the dead air between the instructor asking a question and someone volunteering to answer. But I really couldn't think of anything "good" to say about comfort. There are few places, people, or things from which I draw comfort these days. There are some days, despite his best efforts, that even my husband can provide no comfort. Silly me, some days, I do just want to throw my own pity party.
I did come up with something to say. I said how difficult it is for me to comfort my husband. He does his best for me, but I often don't know what to say or do for him. Over the past several months, we've cried out our grief, together and alone. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he's hurting just as much as I am, but I finally realized this weekend how hard it is to watch the one you love be in pain.
I was in a funk Saturday morning, and felt compelled to draw the sketch in my last post. Usually, getting those emotions out in some way helps (i.e. blogging), but not this time. Long story short, I had a meltdown Saturday evening, and there was nothing he could say to me that could provide comfort. Bless his heart, because he certainly tried. In his own grief and frustration, he punched the armoire and left the room. After calming myself down a bit, I went to check on him. I found him laid out on the floor, sobbing and asking God what we did to deserve this. The only thing I could do was get down on the floor and cry with him. Seeing him at his breaking point, I realized how much my own pain affects him, above and beyond his own pain. I knew, but I didn't know, not really. I'm not sure I know what to do about it, though. I mean, I encourage him to talk about whatever he's feeling. I hold him when he's crying but I'm not. And it never seems like I'm doing enough.
I guess it's because I'm carrying the guilt that his pain is my fault. If I'd been able to carry Morgan to term, neither of us would have to experience the pain of losing her. If I wasn't upset that Morgan was gone, he wouldn't be upset that I was upset. Vicious cycle, huh? (I know, logically, that what happened isn't my fault.)
I think I'll spend the next few weeks really thinking about this, and making an effort to be more comforting. He says that I do indeed provide comfort, but sometimes I'm not so sure. Our 6th anniversary is coming up next month, and we are more than certain our bond will stand the test of time. I didn't make any New Year's resolutions, but maybe I'll make a New Wife resolution, and this will be an area where I make a definite effort.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words
If a picture is worth a thousand words, than this sketch says a lot. My husband is the artist in the family, but yesterday morning I decided to doodle. This is what came out. I would like to refine it and color it, but it will be some time before I get to that.
Thursday, March 7, 2013
Rays of Sunshine
In the time since Morgan's death, many things have changed. On one hand, I have no patience for other people's crap. My husband has a friend from college whose biggest issue is apparently deciding whether to attend a wedding or a comic book convention on the same weekend. Must be nice if that's the toughest thing you have to deal with.
On the other hand, I now take time to see things that I completely missed out on before. Every day, the sun rises and sets, without fail. Our bedroom has a huge eastward facing window, so I can't miss it. But since losing Morgan, I now notice the brilliance of the sunrise. Just before the sun reaches its full glow, this beautiful deep pink stripe fills the sky. I like to think of it as a sign from Morgan.
A few nights ago, I cried myself to sleep, missing out on all of the things we should be experiencing with our little girl. Usually, when I have a bad night, I also wake up in a bad mood. This day, I woke up one minute before the alarm, and rolled over to a very intense, focused ray of sunlight shining directly on me. And I was in a good mood! Several days later, on a wet, soggy morning, I was laying in bed telling myself that I needed to get up. Out of nowhere, that focused beam of sunlight broke through the clouds, then went away.
Some babyloss mamas talk about butterflies suddenly landing nearby; I've got my personal ray of sunshine. As I write this, I realize it's pretty fitting. I call my husband Sunshine, and I use to joke with him that our kids would be little rays of Sunshine. I guess that part of the story actually came true.
On the other hand, I now take time to see things that I completely missed out on before. Every day, the sun rises and sets, without fail. Our bedroom has a huge eastward facing window, so I can't miss it. But since losing Morgan, I now notice the brilliance of the sunrise. Just before the sun reaches its full glow, this beautiful deep pink stripe fills the sky. I like to think of it as a sign from Morgan.
A few nights ago, I cried myself to sleep, missing out on all of the things we should be experiencing with our little girl. Usually, when I have a bad night, I also wake up in a bad mood. This day, I woke up one minute before the alarm, and rolled over to a very intense, focused ray of sunlight shining directly on me. And I was in a good mood! Several days later, on a wet, soggy morning, I was laying in bed telling myself that I needed to get up. Out of nowhere, that focused beam of sunlight broke through the clouds, then went away.
Some babyloss mamas talk about butterflies suddenly landing nearby; I've got my personal ray of sunshine. As I write this, I realize it's pretty fitting. I call my husband Sunshine, and I use to joke with him that our kids would be little rays of Sunshine. I guess that part of the story actually came true.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
When Do We Get OUR Little Girl?
I had a happier post planned for today, on the little "signs" from Morgan that make my day. But, after another announcement of, "It's a girl!", that post is on pause. Maybe tomorrow.
It's hard enough when every other pregnancy around me results in a happy, healthy take-home baby. It's worse when, almost every single baby has been a girl. Where's my little girl? Why did MY baby girl have to be the one to die?
It's hard to be happy for others without being sorry for myself. Just when I think things are going OK...WHAM!!! Something comes along to knock me down. For the most part, things are OK, I guess. I've adjusted pretty well to the constant sadness that Morgan's not here. But then, simple things like watching "Biggest Loser" bring up the huge, heaving sobs of inconsolable grief. Or, maybe it's because we're coming into the point where, this time last year, we found I was pregnant. I thought that after her due date and the holidays, that emotions would even out until my birthday and Morgan's birthday/death. I guess I'll be up and down through April, then again in July. When does it stop?
Wondering why 'Biggest Loser" made me cry? This season there was a contestant with an infant at home. When he got kicked off the show, they showed him at home with his son, about 6 months old. Simply put, the baby laughed. It was probably the first baby laugh I'd heard in a long time. That laugh represented EVERY. SINGLE. THING. we will never do with Morgan.
It's hard enough when every other pregnancy around me results in a happy, healthy take-home baby. It's worse when, almost every single baby has been a girl. Where's my little girl? Why did MY baby girl have to be the one to die?
It's hard to be happy for others without being sorry for myself. Just when I think things are going OK...WHAM!!! Something comes along to knock me down. For the most part, things are OK, I guess. I've adjusted pretty well to the constant sadness that Morgan's not here. But then, simple things like watching "Biggest Loser" bring up the huge, heaving sobs of inconsolable grief. Or, maybe it's because we're coming into the point where, this time last year, we found I was pregnant. I thought that after her due date and the holidays, that emotions would even out until my birthday and Morgan's birthday/death. I guess I'll be up and down through April, then again in July. When does it stop?
Wondering why 'Biggest Loser" made me cry? This season there was a contestant with an infant at home. When he got kicked off the show, they showed him at home with his son, about 6 months old. Simply put, the baby laughed. It was probably the first baby laugh I'd heard in a long time. That laugh represented EVERY. SINGLE. THING. we will never do with Morgan.
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