Hovering

I've never been a helicopter parent - you know, the kind that hover around their kids constantly, making sure nothing bad ever happens? I've been pretty okay with letting the kids learn by making their own mistakes, falling down, getting scrapes.

And I don't hover even now... but I do push my inner panic button a lot faster than I ever used to.

A few days ago we went to a picnic, and the kids were off playing with all the others on the equipment, in the sandbox. At eight and almost-seven, they're pretty self-sufficient in those situations. We give them clear boundaries, and they've learned over the years to respect them. So when I did my every-five-minute cursory look-over of the playground and couldn't find my son, I didn't panic. I just kept looking, my eyes sweeping over the playscape, the sandbox, looking for his striped shirt. 

"Honey, have you seen D.?" I asked my husband. Was my voice as scared as I felt? My heart was beating fast now, visions of him being snatched dancing in my head. Before William died, thoughts like that might occur to me - but the physical reaction, the sheer panic rising in my throat within moments of discovering him missing, that was new. Because now I knew - we weren't in some plastic bubble. Bad things happened, and they could, indeed, happen to us. They could, in fact, happen to us again... and again.

My husband stood up, doing what I'd done, scanning the park, his brow furrowed, and I knew I'd pushed his panic button, too. We both have hair-triggers lately. 

"No," he replied after a moment, shaking his head. "Where did you see him last?" 

Last... the last time I saw him. That phrase made me turn cold. It couldn't possibly be, and yet the fear catches you, freezes you, makes it hard to breathe, like sucking in broken glass. Please, god, let there never be a "last time" I see my child, ever again, unless I'm the one whose number is up, okay? 

A friend of ours started looking too, sensing my panic, I think, and my husband took three steps toward the playground before he stopped, pointing, "There he is!" as my son stepped out from behind the huge tree trunk that had hidden him from our view. Oh my god, the relief. I sagged against the picnic table, my heart still in my throat. 

"Like I need another thing, right?" I joked to my friend. 

She smiled sympathetically and nodded. "Right."

But I knew better... I didn't get a free pass. Just because one child was dead didn't mean I couldn't lose another one. 

Then, last night, the girl-child was playing with her brother's Legos and decided to try to take one of the pieces off with her teeth. Suddenly she stood up, her face a mask of fear: "I can't breathe!" she choked and then nothing... 

My husband and I both lunged for her at once and she coughed and gasped and spit a yellow Lego brick into her hand, "I got it!" 

M. yelled, "If you ever put anything like that in your mouth again, I'll kill you myself!" 

He was scared, and I think trying to scare her a little. But he didn't need to scare her - she was already pretty scared. He didn't really need to scare any of us. We don't need events like that, anymore, to tip the scales. We're already scared, all the time. We're the walking horrified. The risk is real, too real, the fear beating like a pulse at our throats. We check on each other more often, get panicked when we're home late or things happen that are out of the ordinary and out of our control.

William taught us that life is both precious and precarious. And still, I wish we'd never had to learn that lesson. I wish William were still alive and we were still blissfully ignorant, solid in our belief in that invisible force field surrounding us that never really existed. I don't know if William is watching - it's a nice thought, but I don't quite really believe it, just as I no longer have faith that we're all gonna be okay. It would be sweet to think he's an angel protecting us now... but that thought goes logically out the window for me when I wonder... where was his angel, then? What lazy-ass slacker angel was on watch the day William died, huh? I'd like to get my hands on that fella...

So no... I'm not sure we have an angel watching over us in the form of my infant son. But I am sure that we don't take each other for granted in the same way we used to. Life's moments are bittersweet now but we taste them fully, appreciate them a great deal more. And our eyes and ears are sharp, tuned in to danger, as much as they can be. Even knowing we're not in control. Even knowing we can't always prevent tragedy.

I don't know if William's spirit is here and hovering over us. Sometimes I wish it were true. Days when my children defy the laws of physics or nearly send me into heart failure, I wish I could rely on some guardian angel protecting us. But I can't know that. 

There may or may not be someone or something looking out for us, I don't know. It's the not knowing that keeps me watchful and wary. It's the not knowing that pushes my panic buttons. Because if there are such forces, well... there was clearly no one on watch when William died. Someone fell asleep at the switch and my son paid the price. It's hard to rely on such arbitrary protection. I'd rather keep my eyes and ears open and do what I can... even if it's not enough.

And hold my children close. I've been doing a lot of that lately. We all hold each other tighter these days. A lot tighter.

Knowing

I've been pregnant five times. And all five times, I knew. Somehow, I knew the moment I conceived that there was a life forming. I have no idea how. But all biology obviously aside - the sperm hadn't had anywhere near enough time to travel to meet the egg yet, and there was still fertilization and implantation to contend with - still, I just knew.

There have been times that I've been hopeful that I was pregnant and times when I was paralyzed by the thought and dreaded the possibility, but those feelings are different from this "knowing." Those thoughts and feelings were rooted in space and time, contingent upon one thing following the other in linear progression. My conception "knowing" feels outside of that. (And yeah, it sounds weird and woo-woo to me, too... but after five times, it's hard to deny!)

It reminds me of my knowing William was going to die. Of course, I didn't believe it. Of course I mistrusted myself, that feeling. I told myself that internal gauge was just off. Nothing bad was going to happen. There was nothing to be anxious about. That's what I tell myself when I get that "knowing" feeling when I conceive. It's silly, I can't possibly know I'm going to get pregnant. I have to wait to weeks for my period, I have to take a test. But in reality, those things just end up proving what I already know. Like the Doppler and ultrasound were just final proof of what my heart already understood.

I knew I wasn't pregnant this cycle. Because I didn't have that "knowing." I remembered and realized the lack of that feeling a day or two ago, and I knew this wasn't going to tbe the month. My cycle rebooted this morning, and while the blood in my hand was disappointing... it wasn't, really. Because I already knew. There had been no spark, no divine touch this month. I had known already and forgotten. Hoped against hope, like I always do, that my feeling, my intuition, was wrong.

Just like I hoped that William would make it. I hoped he was fine, that my worry and anxiety and completely-irrational-outside-the-context-of-the-coming-circumstance-fear, were just silly mama thoughts. I hoped my feeling was wrong. I hoped. But I knew different. Somewhere, somehow, I knew.

And speaking these feelings out loud, well... it's hard to tell yourself or someone else what's going to happen in the future and get any measure of belief. And it's anticlimactic and just elicits disbelief again to look back and say, "I knew it." It's quite a catch-22.

Sometimes I really hate already knowing. 

Babies, babies, everywhere...

I didn't mind babies at first. Pregnant women either. I saw my neices' babies during the first holiday (Easter) just weeks after we lost William, and I was fine. It didn't bother me. I didn't begrudge them their babies. I didn't want their babies - I wanted my baby. If I couldn't have William, nothing else mattered. I could hold someone else's baby forever and it wouldn't make a difference. That baby wasn't William, and William is who I wanted. 

But now... now babies bother me. They bother me a lot. I took D. to wrestling today and there were two babies there, one a little younger than William would be right now, one just a little older. I was surprised by the wave of sadness that overcame me as I stood there looking down at someone else's baby sucking on his little hand in his carseat. That should have been me - although my baby probably would have been in a sling, and I would have been trying to figure out how to discreetly breastfeed in the midst of a room full of wrestling boys instead of bottle feeding... but still. 

I should have a baby, and I don't. I really don't. There's no going back, no do-overs. I will never ever get that time back. And I stood there, looking at that baby's chubby little feet, wondering what William would look like now - another thing I'll never know - and I realized how angry I was. He almost made it - someone wrote that in a letter to my husband the other day, and the phrase made my heart just ache. He almost made it! It's like running a marathon, getting two inches to the finish line and then falling down dead of a heart attack.

Oh the irony. The horrible, bitter irony. Every time I think about it, I feel like I'm chewing on tinfoil. It leaves a terrible taste in my mouth. 

So I stood there at the wrestling practice looking at other people's babies, filled with jealousy and longing, and I realized I didn't want William anymore - I wanted a baby. Somehow the awareness had finally settled into my consciousness that I could never, would never, hold William again.  He was really gone from me, forever. I don't know that I'd ever wholly accepted that fact, or realized I had, until that moment. And of course, if someone came in and slapped me on the back, laughing and saying, "Just kidding! Here's your baby! Here's William, it was just a joke!" I'd take him back in a heartbeat. It's a fantasy I've unconsciously entertained, I'm sure. 

But my son is dead. There's no monkey's paw to make wishes on. He is ash and bone and memory.

And still, my womb aches. I want another baby. I can't have William, I can't ever replace William, but the longing for another baby is agonizing. It's so great I can barely stand it. I keep thinking of those fibromyalgia commercials - have you seen them? "If I looked how I felt, then would you believe me?" If my face and body reflected my pain and longing, I'd be writhing on the floor, screaming in agony.

So while before, facing a baby didn't bother me because I wanted William, who couldn't be brought back to life, no matter what I or anyone wanted or did... now, looking at someone else's baby reminds me not of the unrecoverable past, but of the potential future... of the possibility of some future child, someone not yet here, someone waiting to be born. It reminds me of my empty womb, my empty arms. It reminds me that I've lost one and don't yet have another.

Maybe this feeling will ebb a little, when I get two lines on a pregnancy test. Even knowing what I know, that there are no guarantees... I want to feel alive. I want life growing in my womb again. I want to share my body and my life with someone new, some unknown but so very wanted and already loved presence, some impossibly beautiful and mysterious conglomeration of our genetic soup cooking in my belly.

I don't know. Maybe I'm being selfish. I don't think this is the month, although I'm 9-10 days past ovulation and due to start cycling again in two to four days, if I don't get a positive test, anyway. Frankly, I'm feeling discouraged and I don't think a + test is likely. Aside from all the pre-period symptoms I'm having, I think the universe just doesn't think it's time.

The universe has pinned me and now just seems to think turning the screws - making me wait 11 weeks for my cycles to return, forcing me to sit in a room with other people's newborns, and this time, most likely, a negative pregnancy test right out of the gate - yeah, that will teach me, that will really send the message home.

I'm not in control. It's not up to me.

Thanks for the reminders, universe.

Thanks a lot.

Washington Post Brings Awareness to Stillbirth

Washington Post staff writer Alan Goldenbach lost his baby to stillbirth, and hosted a Q&A session about stillbirth today. One of my questions was featured! 

(And just an aside, I love that William's name was mentioned... okay so I was the one mentioning it, but still... ;)

Results

Well... everything came back within the normal range. So, no real answers. The only not-really-elevated but just-in-case was a homocysteine of 11. (Normal is anything under 13) So extra folic acid and B6 and B12 for me - "just in case."

The uber-OB didn't think it had been a factor with William... but a study I found said:

The researchers found that women with the highest levels of homocysteine (greater than 10.7 micromol/L) had an adjusted risk for preeclampsia (pregnancy-related hypertension) which was 38 per cent higher than the risk among the women with the lowest levels of homocysteine (3.6-7.5 micromol/L). The risk of giving birth to a very low birth weight baby (weight less than 1500 grams) was 101 per cent higher among high homocysteine women and the risk of stillbirth 103 per cent higher.

So who knows?

Woman in the Bubble

I've had a very long holiday weekend to think about knowing.

Earlier this past week, I had my perinatologist appointment. If you don't know what a perinatologist is, they're sort of specialized obstetricians... uber-OB's, if you will. These are they guys (and gals) who handle the highest risk pregnancies and the women who have the hardest time conceiving. The OB who delivered William decided it would make more sense (and insurance would pay for it) if I requested the blood tests I wanted done through a perinatologist. 

Of course, I couldn't get in to see him for almost two months... these uber-OBs are very much in demand, and they get paid quite well for their services. It was $500 just to walk into his office. My OB estimated the blood work (I haven't seen the bill yet) somewhere around $2000.

So after all that waiting, I finally got to see him on Monday June 29. He ordered all the blood work to test for all those things known to cause stillbirth - things like thrombosis, lupus, thyroid, homocystine, etc. Then he said that the results would be back by Thursday, and he would give me a call. 

So Thursday came, but no call. Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore, and I called their office around noon. The nurse said the results were in - but the doc hadn't signed off on them yet, and he would call me when he had. Of course, he didn't call. And they stopped answering their phone and let it go to message starting at about 3pm. My guess is they all left early for the holiday weekend.

Which meant I had to wait again. Which I've been doing, patiently, or not so patiently, depending on my mood, since Thursday. And look at that, Monday is tomorrow. Just around the corner. A phone call with the blood test results is, in fact, now just hours away. The results are sitting there - they've been sitting there for days. Someone knows. I might not know, but someone knows. 

They say knowledge is power, and I'm sure, in some ways, that's true. But I've been sitting here wondering, since I've had time to wonder... which is worse - knowing or not knowing? 

I thought I knew. I thought not knowing was worse. Much worse. I thought that knowing would give me information, and perhaps, the power to change things next time, to prevent what happened to William. At the very least, even if all the tests came back negative, it would give me peace of mind, knowing I'd done everything I could to find out what happened.

But now... on the eve of knowing... I'm not so sure I want to know. 

There are things you just can't unknow. Maybe that's it. That sense that ignorance really is bliss. I look around at the women who have never lost a baby, and I know something they don't. And I can't unknow it. I can never be back in that place of unknowing again. I know - and I wish I didn't. 

Right now I don't know... and that ignorance feels very safe. 

Tomorrow I get information which will, one way or another, pop that safety bubble. 

But tonight, I want to stay here. Not knowing. The woman in the bubble. That's who I want to be right now.

Heart Matters

I don't want to be the mother of a dead baby.

I guess this is the phase of grief they call denial. 

I realized today that, for the past week or so, I've been pretending like it happened to someone else. I don't want to read about baby loss. I've been ignoring my blog list (and my blog). I have a stack of books beside my bed that I would have already sped through in the early days, but they sit there mostly untouched.

I don't want to be this person. I want to feel something else besides pain and loss and grief.

Yesterday marked the three month anniversary of William's death and I let it pass without a word or even a tear.

Today, I felt guilty for doing it. Not only am I a horrible mother for not being able to protect and keep my baby alive, I'm a horrible mother for not remembering and honoring him how I should be. Ah mommy-guilt. There's nothing else like it.

I think part of this feeling is being brought up because we're trying again. Yes, we're actively pursuing pregnancy, doing everything we need to in order to make another baby, and the possibility brings all sorts of bittersweet feelings with it.

I want William, and I know this baby, if we are successful in conceiving and I am successful in giving birth to it alive - god knows there are no guarantees -  won't be William. I worry if it's a boy - will I compare them? I worry if it's a girl - will M. be disappointed? Will I?

Yesterday, I had a stress echo of my heart done. I've been having heart palpitations and some chest pain - I'm pretty sure they're anxiety related, but the doc wants to be sure. So there I was, facing an ultrasound machine again for the first time since that night in the very same hospital when the tech told us William was gone.

 How many beats in a lifetime? I wondered, seeing my heart beating outside of my body. How many beats did William's heart get before it stopped?

I watched my own heart beating on a fuzzy gray screen and it was both surreal and apropos - because that's what it's felt like, for weeks, like I've taken out my heart and put it somewhere outside of myself. So I don't have to feel. So I don't have to do this anymore. Maybe my heart died when my son did.  Maybe I just wish it had.