When you become a part of this devastating community, effectively you know too much.
They say knowledge is power, and while I agree in most cases.
In ours I can say it tends to be our burden.
When you lose your child, your entire life is upheaved, it’s like being thrown in a cement mixer for eternity.
Up is down, left is right, you’re tossing and turning and getting thrown around with no idea if it will ever end.
When you become pregnant after losing your child.
It’s all of that on steroids.
Our emotions already running high become clouded by hormones and fear.
Posed with all of the knowledge that we’ve gained, it becomes unbearable.
Some might simply say “why not use that knowledge, those statistics the way that you’re supposed to, to ease your fear and calm your nerves.”
That my friends is impossible. Once you become the one percent, all you see is that one percent.
It becomes impossible to separate your loss from your current pregnancy.
It becomes practically impossible to separate others losses from your current pregnancy.
I honestly don’t think anyone who has lost really sees themselves holding their living baby at the end of all of this.
That’s not saying “Abandon all hope, Ye who enter here”
If there is one thing that all of us cling to, it’s most definitely hope.
Hope keeps me going, functioning, motivated.
The hope that at any time now, our second precious son will enter this world screaming, that hope keeps me alive and moving forward.
In all of this fear and knowledge I hold on to hope.
I try to trust my instincts, knowing they’ve never really failed me before.
I try to have faith.
But let’s be honest faith and trust are lacking.
I don’t believe in the divine anymore.
I don’t believe in fate.
I used to be the one that said “everything happens for a reason”
Now I realize what a load of shit that is.
Nothing happens for a reason.
This world, this universe is chaos, nature is an uncontrollable force that does what she pleases.
It’s her world and we just live in it.
Accepting that, in that very brief moment, made losing him just a tiny, minuscule bit less shocking.
Trust is harder. I lost all trust in my body when it turned against my son.
I know that it was trying to protect me from the infection that was plaguing both of us.
That doesn’t make it any easier, given the choice to be sick and him live versus being well and him dying.
My choice will always be his life, but I didn’t get to make that choice.
My body betrayed me and it didn’t ask how I felt about it.
So trust is hard.
Kurtis and I’s pregnancy together has been 100% different from the start.
Graeme and I had trouble from the beginning. Just 8 weeks in.
You would think that this would bring some sort of comfort in the wait for Kurt’s arrival, but it doesn’t always.
I feel like I am holding my breath, constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the bottom to fall out.
Like it has most of my life.
It’s only when I reel myself back in and think of my husband that I realize the bottom isn’t always going to drop out anymore.
And at over 36 weeks. So close to the finish line, things become even more muddled.
To see the light at the end of the tunnel, the rainbow after the storm, coming into focus but just out of your grasp, becomes this overwhelming, confusing, seemingly never ending task to complete.
To be so close but feel so far away is as maddening as being at the very beginning of this road.
So I hold on to hope, I try to believe that we will get to see our sweet Kurt living outside of my womb.
If there is one thing that I know with every fiber of my being, it’s that Graeme is watching over us, and while he may not be able to keep us safe, he is doing his very best.
He is a part of us down to the DNA and through out the universe and I love him even more for that (not that it was possible to love him any more than I already do)
Graeme and Kurtis are my reason to live.
Regardless of what has happened or what could happen.
I live my life for them.
And over the next few weeks or until our sweet little man makes his appearance, I’ll be here with the two of them holding on to hope.
Waiting to breathe.