Its 73 degrees and sunny right now. I’m grateful for that.
The wind however is howling it seems to me that the weather is mimicking the way I feel.
The past few days have been miserable.
It was in the 30’s two days ago, gotta love Western NY.
I’m sitting here on my front porch, drinking my sweet tea, and thinking on the past week.
What it has done to me.
How it has changed me.
Physically, and of course mentally.
When you get pregnant, no one really prepares you for all of the changes you go through.
When you lose your child, you are even less prepared.
Of course nothing in the world could have prepared me for any of it.
No amount of stories or recollections could have warned me about what I was going to go through.
The first, most devastating change of them all, is of course the emptiness. My son isn’t in me anymore and I can feel that. Just over a week ago I was full to the brim with my two hearts, and though I wasn’t feeling full on movements yet, I could still feel Grae in there. The small little flutters, subtle reminders that I was not alone. When he was ripped out of me, that was the very first thing to go.
Aside from the realization that he’s never coming back.
The emptiness is the worst part.
The second change. Almost equally as devastating… My milk came in. I was in NO way prepared for this, there was no warning. Not from the nurses or the doctors. I don’t blame them though, at 15 weeks I just assumed that my breasts would just go back to their original size, that they would lose their fullness, and the soreness would subside. But two days after we lost him, In my emptiness and my grief, the sudden pain in my breast was beyond unwelcome and when the milk came out, I felt even more betrayed by my body. It wasn’t enough that I bleed for almost two weeks before we lost him, it wasn’t enough that I went into labor, it wasn’t enough that he was ripped out of me. My body failed me and then it gave me the one thing that would have sustained him, if he had lived.
Over a week later, my breasts are still leaking but they mean something else to me.
All signs that I was pregnant are gone. I weigh less now than I did before I got pregnant, my little bloated bump has completely disappeared, but my milk is still there, the one thing to keep it real.
To remind me that it wasn’t just a horrible nightmare.
I need all of this to be real.
I need it to heal.
The third. The blood. I bleed for almost two weeks before we lost him. I know I just said that but it is so shocking to me. This my doctor did warn me about, “You could bleed for up to a month”… What?! How do I even have any blood left. In the hospital they told me that I had only lost about a third of a liter of blood, out of eight and a half liters. Only a third. It was enough to keep from sustaining my son. It felt like enough to kill me. So now I get to feel that slow trickling reminder that my son is dead, for a month. Shock doesn’t quite begin to cover it.
Over a week later though, the blood is slowing. It’s turned from red to brown.
A steady reminder that time is passing and there is nothing I can do to stop it. Every second he is gone is a second too long.
There are of course the normal things, the ones you know will hurt.
Walking by the baby aisle.
Hearing a child cry.
Seeing pregnant women.
Seeing pregnant woman that don’t care about the miracle that they are bringing into the world.
Seeing your friends talk about their healthy pregnancies, and the milestones that they reach.
Worse still, seeing your friends announce the birth of their beautiful healthy baby. You want to be happy for them, but inside your screaming with jealousy and pain.
There is nothing that is not cruel about this situation we have been put in.
And as if none of this is enough there are the little things. The quiet moments.
My worse… 11:11, the time on the clock begging you to make a wish, it used to bring me joy and happiness, now it just brings me pain. The reminder that my wish will never come true, I will never get him back. I will never get to hold him again, or kiss his little face. I will never get to watch him grow up, or heal his wounds. I will never get to see the man he would have become. The list goes on and on.
The moments you look forward to.
The firsts that they will never have.
Your life that has changed forever.
Its all just too much.
I love you Graeme. Forever.