Part V: Tuesday, August 13.
My Swirling Thoughts.
Each morning for the past week (yes, it's been a
week) I've struggled to get out of bed. In my everyday life since last August when I got re-diagnosed, I have suffered from
depression. To combat it, I take anti-depressants and until now, they have been a life-saver. I also happen to have a sleep disorder; for this, I take sleep
medication nightly (except for the nights before the days I think I'm going to
have a "procedure," which isn't really a procedure, but rather the termination
of a life that, apparently, wasn't meant to be).
This week, however, was a doozy and the depression really kicked it up a notch. My husband shared with me last week that he was concerned for me and my mental health.
Yea, nodding, I could see that, but I'll be okay. I'll write and write and
write some more. Maybe I'll paint. Maybe I'll do more photography. Maybe I'll vomit.
I go to work because why not, what else am I going to do. So I arrive and it appears, from the outside, that it's a regular morning at my
regular desk with the regular Mediterranean Sea outside my window.
From the inside, it's all turmoil. My thoughts center around this sad, broken little life still growing inside me. I just want to
get past this already (whatever "this" is), and I'm glad it will finally be tomorrow. At the
same time, I'm dreading it. Kinda like a funeral, I guess. You know you need to
attend and you know it's going to suck, but you also know you might, possibly, start to feel
some closure after it happens (or at least you hope so).
I draft and share my very first article about it, sharing my baby and my story with the world. Before this moment, very few people knew and, suddenly, everyone knows. The wall cracks and crumbles before me.
Everyone comments on my bravery; they message me privately; they leave messages of love and light to break through the darkness surrounding me; they send me WhatsApps.
Women from Michigan, Israel, other cities and countries come out of the woodwork to flood me with love and stories; women I know, women I don't know, women who publicly share their experiences, women who have never told anyone about their loss. I hear from other women who (and a husband whose wife) went through something similar.
They offer to chat, to
listen, to sit next to me, to attend the procedure with me. It's
incredible, a little intimidating, and very humbling. It makes me cry that (unfortunately) I am not
alone though my situation is slightly different than most, me with a still-alive baby.
Here's what's not fair about this, aside
from everything.
- I'm still nauseated.
- I still have cravings.
- I still take my folic acid and prenatal vitamins.
- I still am scared to drink alcohol even though it's completely and logically moot at this point.
- I feel guilty and relieved that I'll probably physically feel better after this is done.
Lunch is relatively "normal" and I find it surreal that this is my "new normal."
It's only
after lunch, as I start to think again, when I start to feel awful and queasy about the whole thing, even
though I know, intellectually, it's the right decision. And that's part of the problem.
Your brain says one thing and your heart wants something else.
The problem is that I was given way too
much time to think about this.
The problem is that this happened at all and I will likely never ever have an answer for any of it.
Hydrops fetalis happens. It's rare, but it happens. Only a tiny percentage of hydrops babies are miracle babies and mine, with its chromosomal abnormalities, defects in the umbilical cord, and possible and potential other bodily defects, is simply not one of them that had a chance.
In a warped way, this could have been worse. The baby could have been given a tiny chance on which I would have had to wager. And, in all likelihood, the baby would have died somewhere between twenty-two weeks and birth, if we were lucky. When all this started, I joined a hydrops support group and I cannot tell you how many pictures I have seen of parents tearfully saying 'goodbye' to their little babies. Ironically, each picture made me feel better about the choice we were making.
Why do I have to make
this awful decision and sit with it for almost a week before being able to follow through?
How
did this little fetus even get to this point of development... sheer stubbornness??
None of this is fair. Not even remotely.
So sorry for what you and your husband are going through. I can't think of any other situation where the heart and head are so at odds with each other. I wish you a speedy recovery from the procedure, the grief, and all that ails you. I'm here for you.
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