Sunday, April 24, 2016

...And There Will Be a Rainbow

October 15th - Break the Silence:

How is it really fair? I am not sure. For the past two months, I had a wonderful secret that I was unable to wait to share with the world. I fantasized about our announcement to our family, and friends. I dreamed about a third set of pitter and patter of little feet keeping up with the big brothers'. I agonized whether we should find out the sex, or be surprised again, since that was so much fun with our second. I took weekly pregnancy pictures, smiled every time I picked up a positive pregnancy test (three of them, matter of fact), and as much as I hated first trimester throes of sickness, I welcomed it. Never would I have thought my dream would end so abruptly.                    

I will never forget the dreaded line that came from the ultrasound technician. It has seared its way into my heart. When the words are uttered, "there is no heartbeat", the trapdoor opens underneath my feet, and I fall. I have been falling ever since. 

My doctor came in, and the first thing she did was to comfort us. I knew I had picked the right doctor, and she behaved exactly how the way I wanted a doctor would have acted in that very moment. She explained to us, very gently, that there was nothing we had done wrong, and the baby had passed from chromosomal issues. She recommended to have D&C procedure done to confirm what had happened. We agreed to have it done the following day. 

This was when I started to see people for who they are; hands reaching out to steady me, those who have cried with me, pulled me into a hug, sent me loving messages, swooping in to help in any way they can, and they are angels sent by god. Something inside me has changed forever, and I can't quite put my finger on what has changed, but I know the reason why. I had lost my baby.

20 Quotes From Children’s Books Every Adult Should Know:

It had been a difficult whirlwind ride in those 24 hours from the very moment that we learned that our baby had died to having a D&C procedure done. The hospital nurses, and my doctor all were amazing. I felt so indebted to them for taking a such good care of me. Such amazing team of people. I held it together pretty well on the day of D&C surgery. I went in with my guns blazing, and determined to keep it together. I can do it, I told myself. I was out for the procedure, felt nothing, and had no memory of it. It was something I was also thankful for. When I first woke up, I thought I was at home, that it was all a terrible dream, and my baby was still alive. Then I saw that I was in the pre-op room with a nurse monitoring me, and it dawned to me that it was not a dream. It happened. 

Grief crept in very softly, quietly, as I slowly woke up. It was not akin to a tsunami wave crashing onto me, but rather very much like a smoke unfurling inside my chest. The roaring wave came later. The nurses wheeled me to the recover room where Stu waited for me. I silently counted in my head to soothe myself. I tried to hold it together as much as I can, as much as I could with all of my mighty. I wanted to be strong even though I felt so fragile, so broken, and so sad. 

The nurse asked me to go bathroom to collect my urine. That was hard to see the blood, knowing that my body was empty, and void. I returned, and started the discharge process. I was handed a pamphlet about a miscarriage, and a card. Inside the card, there was a poem with a pouch of a little ring to memorialize our baby. It was when an angry tsunami wave crashed onto me. I was drowning. Tears started coming. It became real. Too real. 

This has been the quote that has helped me through this terrible but magical time in my life. I love you Hunter and I'll see you again one day:

On the way home, Stu and I barely talked, and just intertwined our hands. It was all we really could do, hang on to each other, and allow the grief pass. On the horizon, I saw gray fierce storm clouds quickly approaching us, and before we knew it, a torrential rain hit us hard. I thought to myself, almost comically bitter, about how fitting it was to have such terrible weather to fit the turmoil I felt on the inside. Suddenly as it had came on, the rain stopped, and the skies cleared. Stu tapped me on my shoulder, and told me to look behind me. I did. There was a big, bold colorful rainbow making its presence known. It was no mistaking it for a rainbow. I started sobbing, not just because I was so sad, but because I knew it was god's way of telling us that it was going to be okay. 

I go through different emotions throughout the day. Sometimes even minutes, or hours. I see something that takes away my breath. I gasp. I feel like I am dying. Instead of fighting grief, I walk hand in hand with grief, and it abates just enough for me to breath again. 

I want the world to stop spinning, to acknowledge that I am feeling shattered, and to say that my baby did exist. I struggle with that so much. I have never felt my baby move. I barely had a glimpse of my baby on the ultrasound screen. I will never have my belly grow, give birth, and watch my baby grow into someone incredible. I look at my boys, and I realize what I am going to miss out with my angel baby. Did my baby ever really exist? All I have is a few pregnancy tests, and first few weeks of my pregnancy belly shots to prove that my baby did, at one time, exist. I don't want to be the statistic. I don't want to be in the dreaded club, yet I am a member against my will. It hurts. It hurts something fierce. 

As much as I am struggling right now, I realize that the storm will pass in time, and I grab at any opportunity that arises to take a refugee from the grief. Every time Forrest runs up to me to shower me with kisses, I smile, and absorb his love. Every time Franklin softly snuggles next to me, I breath in the toddler scent on top of his head, and hold him. Every time, Bea gives me a stuck lip expression, I laugh. Every time Stu pulls me into a hug, I take a solace in his love, and comfort. Every time I get a kind message from a friend, or family, I feel their love, and take a deep breath. Sometimes it is all what I need.

Where You are Mom ♥♥♥ is where I want to be. .You and me forever...:

In order for me to heal, I do need to commemorate my loss, and to honor what I had even for so briefly. I need something tangible to say, yes your little one did exist. Then I can begin to heal from my heartbreak. Someday, when I am old and gray, and it is my time to go, I know I will get to hold my angel baby.

In the meanwhile, when we at least expect it, we will blessed with our rainbow baby who happens to be carefully handpicked by our angel baby.