We went to see the famous Santa on 34th Street in NYC. Not sure the logic we put into that one, but I was in "land of the cutest kids and cutest families" line forever. It sucked. I should have a 3 year old by now, we've been trying since I was 27. It cued a lot of emotions and we had to go back to the hotel for awhile.
I hate the unknown and I'm struggling so much with the shock of what was just ripped out of my heart. I seriously am missing pieces of my heart; those babies were physically a part of me. The closest one human being can get to another. At the hotel, I explained to Darren that women have the curse of ALWAYS being aware and not being able to just "turn thoughts off." I think about Jude, and Brinly, and miscarriage, and needles, and ivs, and ivf, and transfers, and success rates, and blood, and pain, and fear, and hope, and doctors, and pills, and risks, and money, and what if's, and whens, and hows, and how much and how soon, constantly. Even when I'm happy, I'm sad because in some form, in some shape, I'm aware of the past and future pain. That's just the start of it. Often at night when I try to fall asleep my cruel mind replays the horrendous scenes from the hospital room: when I quit denying when I was in labor and went to the ER, the cord hanging out, the spinal shot, the epidural shot, the first loss in the bathroom, the 2nd loss knowing a live healthy child was going to be killed in the labor process, the look on the doctor's face when she removed my cerclage, the look on the doctor's face when they saw my contraction chart, the fear, the audible sobs of my Dad and Darren and my mom and Darren's mom and dad, and my sister and Darren's sister and me. The insane amount of I-can't-breathe-cries that fell from my face and came out of my gut those days in the hospital. Darren and my mom in the room watching helplessly as I slowly drowned.
On the plane ride home I sat by a woman who looked about the size I would be right now. She wouldn't stop rubbing her stomach. I tried so hard not to look-not to remember. Why was I next to her?
Today a friend texted me about someone else that shares my struggle with becoming a mom. This threw me off guard. I AM a mom. According to Angela Miller, I am the "mother of all mothers" because I have to love my child in death. I had to sign papers for the cremation. I felt their kicks and kissed his face. I carried my children to the halfway mark and then had to go through ALL the crap normal moms do-I labored and delivered each twin in the labor and delivery ward.
I don't know why the need to be acknowledged as a mom is so sensitive to me? Maybe to acknowledge Jude and Brinly were actual little people? Maybe because I don't want to forget them? Maybe because I want to remember that I CAN get pregnant and that my embryos CAN implant? It's such a lose-lose situation. People from the outside will most likely assume our delay to reproduction is because we are "focusing on our careers" or something like that. If people ask "Do you have kids?" I don't want to say no. How could I? I want to say "I lost twins at birth but we are hoping for the future; but that's heavy. Why dump that awkwardness on people? Maybe I haven't quite earned the "mother" title. I mean, normal moms get to flaunt pictures of their babies. I have to hide my pictures of Jude's face. It's death. It's uncomfortable. To me he is this precious beautiful face but to others? I cannot proudly show off my baby. My best friend was at my house last week and I told her I made a photo book of every picture of Jude. She asked to see it. I asked her like 5 times if she was "sure" and I had to do a long disclaimer "don't be scared, he is just miniature, he is small. His face is bruised because he was breached and had to be pulled out."
I turned to the page with his beautiful face. I turned it around slowly. I felt so vulnerable for some crazy reason. I felt like I was getting naked in front of a crowd. She is the first to see his little face outside my immediate family (honestly, if roles were reversed, I would pass. As mentioned a lot, I haven't even looked at Brinly). She looks. She smiles. "He looks just like Darren," she says. I feel my body relax; I smile too. He does look just like his dad. This is not the normal situation by flaunting pics of newborns.
Mother's Day will come. Where do I belong? What am I now? I am infertile yet I'm a mother. I'm a mother, yet I'm childless. I'm trying to conceive. I'm a grieving mommy. I'm an empty armed mother. I'm a working woman with no children. I am the mom of Jaden and Isaac (although that seems so distant) and the mom of Jude and Brinly (this seems so unfair).
I feel like I have just been totally beaten up at war, I've been in a bad battle, I'm injured, but I have no proof. No scars to show. I look normal. No one would ever guess I was holding my dead baby in my arms just a month ago. No one outside would ever know that I should be 27 weeks pregnant. I carried and delivered 2 babies in a hospital room. My stomach is full of loose skin. My milk came in full force. Yet I sit her typing in a very clean house. No little fingerprints on the furniture. No screaming sounds coming from the backroom.
I joined a couple of online support groups and someone posted this video. I felt like I could have written 99% of the content-the shock, the disappoint, the pain that comes with stillborns; simply posting it for awareness and a taste of what this sad event does to a woman.
I don't want this to be a dark and sad post. I'm truly going to come out of this some day. We are working it through. One day at a time. I believe it will always hurt but I also believe brighter days are ahead. I don't know why God does what He does but I know He isn't done.
