Friday, February 13, 2015

Two Weeks

Two weeks, Love.  
Two weeks today since we were in the doctors office, being told you didn’t have a heartbeat anymore. My body failed you. I couldn’t keep you from harm. I couldn’t help you grow to be healthy & strong. 
Oh, how I wish we could go back in time with a different ending to this day. The pain. The tears. Let’s just wash them away and pretend you are still here - still growing and on track to be in my arms. You would be eleven weeks tomorrow then, Love.  
I miss the way my body felt. The soreness in my chest, the way I could pick up every smell that made me feel sick to my stomach, and yes, even the bloating...because it all let me know you were there. You were growing. 
I miss the hoping. The future we dreamed with you. I miss reading my pregnancy books that I eagerly bought in anticipation of being a mother. 
I miss looking at little baby shoes and thinking of my first mother’s day with you growing inside of me. I miss dreaming of you. 
I miss wondering what your eyes and hair would look like. Wondering what your personality would be - who you would grow to be.
I miss you, Love.

Missing you, sweet baby Brush. ❤️   
My heart longs for you.  My memory asks for you all the time. 

Sunday, February 1, 2015

Return To Me

The past few days have felt like a nightmare that I can’t wake up from. We went to the doctor on Friday for our next ultrasound. I was so hopeful and looking forward to a normal, fast, strong heartbeat. I was so scared, but I just knew it would be good news and our baby would be healthy. 

In the ultrasound room, the tech had me undress for the transvaginal ultrasound and then she looked for our baby. 

There was no, “I’m sorry” or a word or tone of sympathy in what came next from her. 

It was simply, “yeeeeah, I don’t even see a flutter”. 

Just like that. 

Those are the words that wrecked our world. 

The words that keep replaying over and over in my head. 

She searched more, measured the baby, informed us that the growth was not sufficient for the week and there was nothing left to do. Nothing but talk to the doctor about our “options”. 

She left the room. 

Joe turned away, gripping the counter. 

We both cried. 

Then we were led into the doctor’s office....and I realized that I was holding my breath the whole time we walked down the hallway. 

As soon as I opened my mouth, I gasped for air. 

And I sobbed. 

I wanted so badly for this to all be a mistake. Just a nightmare. 

But it was real and aching and raw. 

The life I had carried was over. 

The doctor came in and spoke softly, offered words of kindness. He told us our options going forward - we could wait until my body delivered the baby or have surgery. 

We opted for surgery in a few hours - hoping for the chance of less trauma, less waiting, less tests. 

We left the hospital for an hour or so to get away before surgery...and went home and cried. 

The baby’s ultrasound picture was still beside my bed, where I would pray for her/him and ask God for a strong, healthy heartbeat. I kissed it and laid down to cry. 

We returned to the hospital after a short time at home. I went straight to pre-op. My husband by my side. Crying every time someone asked me my name, DOB, and why I was there.

The women’s clinic was filled with happy parents, baby pictures, balloons of celebration, but not for us. We were surrounded by life and happiness and love. It hurt even more to be around it all. 

We waited for what felt like eternity in the pre op room. I wore the hospital gown, slumped over and crying to my husband. I wanted it all to be over. I wanted the thoughts to stop.

Why. Why. Why. Why was this happening to us? Did God really care? Is God really there? After so many years of waiting and praying and surgeries and hopes? Why do my friends have happy babies and happy families? Why do I have to go through this? Why does God allow so much pain? Haven’t I had enough surgeries? Enough hell? Will it ever end? 

There were no answers. No replies. No way to ease the pain. I wish I could say I felt God’s comfort, but there was none. Just immense sadness. I wish I could say that I felt his arms around me, but I did not. I felt abandoned.

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? 

I know in my heart he is here with us. I know. But I would be lying if I told you that I feel him. I do not.

No. Not one bit.

Surgery was delayed an hour. It felt like whirlwind of pain and dread. I was wanting to get it over with, but at the same time not wanting it to come. I don’t remember saying anything to Joe before going into surgery. I was just put out. 

I woke up from the anesthesia heartbroken. Empty. Lost. 

I’ve been in that hospital other times before. In that post surgery room. But it’s always been for disease, not for a life -  a precious life. 

I don’t remember much of anything. Just crying in the brokeness and my husband coming to my side. 

Well, I remember the sick feeling in my tummy, the emptiness, the blood.

But it was the tears really that I remember. Lots of tears. 

Joe took us home that night, after getting pain and nausea meds at the pharmacy. 

We made it thought the long night of tears and pain and meds. 

The sun still rose the next day. 

Imagine that - the world goes on when we feel as though our life has ended. 

I woke up Saturday morning with Dean Martin’s song, Return To Me, playing slowly in my head.

Over and over.

Return to me. Return to me. 

Solo Tu. Solo Tu. Solo Tu. Solu Tu. 

Mio Cuore. 

And life goes on here. More tears, more blood, more pain, more ache. 

It still feels like a nightmare. 

I have barely left the bed since coming home. I don’t care about anything else. I just want to crawl away forever, forgetting it all happened, but at the same time not wanting to let go of this precious life that has been taken away from me. 

I sleep away from my side of the bed now, away from my baby’s picture and my bible. It hurts too much to see. 

I can’t pray for my baby’s heart beat to be strong anymore. 

I can’t change anything. 

I am empty. I am hollow. 

The bleeding has mostly stopped. The sharp pains come and go. My boobs are still sore. I’m still sick to my stomach. 

But my baby is gone. 

I would give my world to hear that heartbeat again. 

To see just a flutter. 

My only hope is that God has not forgotten me. That in all the pain and ache, He is still near. That He still loves us even though we can’t feel Him.  And that somehow in all this longing and pain and brokenness, He has a plan.

I don’t see it. I don’t understand it.

But I guess this is where faith comes in. Faith to believe that unbelievable. Faith to keep moving on, knowing that God is still good and still guiding the way. Faith for a better tomorrow - that somehow in the brokenness and pain and hurt, there is hope in His promises. 

“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” ~Psalm 34

We love you Iron Pea
Always & Forever