She Makes Me Think

I may not always agree with her (Bill O'Rielly...she MUST be kidding), but she DOES make me think.

I'm talking about Julie over at A Little Pregnant. Her blog entry from yesterday was really thought provoking and I have to say what I'm thinking.

I know, this is very dangerous, so beware falling debris and read on at your own risk.

She said, "Some women find that they're healed by becoming a mother at last, regardless of how it happens. Others consider the question of finding solace in a low-tech pregnancy and birth after the high-tech machinations of ART. And others hope that a future pregnancy and birth might eclipse bad memories of an earlier, scarier one — the therapeutic do-over."

In many ways Mr. Miracle was, I THOUGHT, my earlier, scarier birth. Princess Kitten was supposed to be my "do-over." Something went wrong with my plan, and the universe laughed in my face.

I still find myself dreaming of that perfect healing birth. The way I always wanted it...full term, bloated, begging the baby to COME OUT ALREADY! all in the "comfort" (comfort is a relative term to a woman 40weeks pregnant) of my own home, bed, bathtub...my baby, my son, my husband, my body, and my place of peace.

In contrast with that dream, I find myself experiencing all the terror I should have felt some 8 weeks ago with Peanut. Those days are hazy from shock, the drugs (love that Mag...), and the timeless, disconnected feeling you get when you've been awake for three days with just catnaps to break up the time.

I never had that feeling of terror - I have it now. I will be sitting here content holding my little chunk, looking at her tiny double chin and gorgeous neck folds...and gazing on those baby thighs that have developed just a touch of chunk...just absolutely and completely in love and content...

And suddenly it hits me...I'm back in the operating room waiting for some sound from her, straining to hear something, anything...begging, pleading, praying to every god, goddess, and the universe to let her be okay. In this nightmare/daymare the time I wait gets longer and longer. The giddy relief I felt at her hearty mewling cry that day almost 8 weeks ago doesn't have the same relief today. She's in my arms and doing perfectly well, and still I find myself in tears holding her soooo close thanking the world that she's here with me and okay.

I hate myself for risking her beautiful little life. How have I risked her life you may wonder? Because I fought so damn hard to have her...

I knew, or should have known, somewhere deep inside, that I would be sick again (I truly believed I would make it at least full term, though), and I still tried and tried to get pregnant.

This time, I got MORE sick. This time, I delivered even earlier. This time, I'm still scared.

I love my kids so much. I can't express how good I feel when I hold them close to me. But there is still that longing in me to have that perfect birth...that dream. A dream I can never have. I love holding my little baby so damn much...even the getting up at night doesn't bother me. Oh sure, I'm still tired as all fucking get out, but it all seems worth it somehow.

This is where the "therapeutic do-over" comes in. My therapeutic do-over has left me a quaking mess...something I haven't admitted to anyone. Not to my doctor, my husband, my family, or my friends. How do I tell them that even with my baby in my arms, I'm terrified I'm going to lose her. That I'm thrust back to the day she was born, except without the benefit of shock and drugs to cloud and block my feelings.

Sometimes NeverExMarine jokes with me telling me that I "evicted" Peanut early on purpose. Or something to that effect. I laugh it off and tell him, "well I carried her and cared for her 24/7 for 7 months, it's your turn to step up to the plate." I joke...but inside I wonder...

Julie said:

"Some women find that they're healed by becoming a mother at last, regardless of how it happens. Others consider the question of finding solace in a low-tech pregnancy and birth after the high-tech machinations of ART. And others hope that a future pregnancy and birth might eclipse bad memories of an earlier, scarier one — the therapeutic do-over.

"I had a baby, but I'm not healed. If I do get pregnant again, I'll be monitored more closely, dosed more thoroughly, and frightened more dreadfully — taking comfort in midwives and waterbirths is entirely out of the question. And the emotional revisionism of the do-over isn't for me; I can't do the heavy lifting necessary to make myself believe my body would cooperate, a belief which seems essential to the exercise."

My own maunderings aren't able to express my feelings of being let down, my feelings of terror, my now inherent disbelief in the ability of my body to do what it is supposed to do...

So I say: Some women find that they are healed by becoming a mother...

I've had two beautiful babies, but I'm not healed. If I do get pregnant again, taking comfort in midwives and homebirths is entirely out of the question this time. The emotional revisionism of the do-over isn't going to work for me because I can no longer make myself believe my body would ever cooperate, a belief which is essential to revisionism.

Besides, my track record isn't the best...I managed a 34 weeker (almost 35), and a 33 weeker (barely). There was a 10 day shift...if I keep that up my next baby would be born at exactly 31 weeks...

To really know the value of those 2 months...well, you can't until you've lost a baby who was born too soon, or been in the NICU with your heart, hopes, and dreams hanging on the weakest breath of a too tiny baby...

To know the value of a year

ask a student who has failed his exams.

To know the value of a month

ask a mother who has given birth to a premature baby.

To know the value of a week

ask an editor of a weekly journal.

To know the value of a day

ask the editor of a daily newspaper.

To know the value of an hour

ask the lovers waiting to meet.

To know the value of a minute

ask a person who missed his bus.

To know the value of a second

ask a person who escaped an accident

To know the value of a milisecond

ask a person who won a silver medal in the Olympics.

...

...

As much as it pains me, I think I've tested my luck, and more importantly, my children's luck, about as far as I can...