We are all still hanging in here, lest you fear my silence means something else. Just doing our best to take one day at a time, especially me.
The girls are doing what I can only assume is okay. We told them about the baby almost right away, the day we got the preliminary results, and they are coping in what feels like normal to me for a five-year-old and three-year-old.
There has been a lot of mentioning how "the baby will die" and "the baby will be dead" by Paige, and Hope pretty much avoids the topic, occasionally telling Paige to stop because talking about the baby dying makes her sad. Hope spent about a week hesitant to touch, kiss, or mention my belly, but has recently starting giving my belly raspberries. We all giggle at the thought of the baby laughing inside at the vibrations. Paige told me the other day that she is going to give the baby one of her pacifiers.
These moments, they simultaneously bring me joy and sorrow. I love that we are talking about and enjoying our baby boy right now. But my heart aches for all the things we no longer talk about and plan. No more looking forward to next summer when the baby will be big enough to ride in the swing on our new swing set. No more preparing Paige that her crib will become her baby brother's. No more discussions on realistic expectations for what newborn babies can (and can't) do.
Today was the first time that seeing Hope around a baby made me feel anything but happy. A piece of my heart broke off as I thought about just how much she loves to be around babies, how much she wants to make them smile, how much she wants to be the helper.
She was supposed to become a big sister doubly over this fall, and now she won't. Friends of ours will go on to have new babies in their families and we will visit and love those new babies, but every time we have to say goodbye I wonder if Hope will be remembering that we were supposed to have a baby too, but he didn't get to come home.
I worry about them, my two sweet daughters, and how this loss will affect them. I know they are tough. I know they are resilient. I know they will be fine. But I still worry.
We all just keep on hanging in here, taking one day at a time, and doing our best. It's all there really is to do.
xoxo christine
Oh, my heart is breaking for you. For your family. I just wish I could DO something for you...to carry your pain...
ReplyDeleteWe lost our baby boy seven months ago. I was diagnosed with severe early onset preeclampsia and the growth ultrasound at 20 weeks indicated he had severe intrauterine growth restriction. There was no way he'd grow enough to survive and I was - quite simply - dying. We delivered him just before 21 weeks.
There is no comfort in something like what you're facing and, yet again, there is great comfort in the people who hold you in their hearts and souls. Who embrace your pain. Who stand in your excruciating sadness. And your precious girls...they will become even more of these incredible little people...I've watched my children, even my three year-olds, and it is so true that horrible things really shape us into becoming MORE of who we are. More compassion, more empathy, more contentment.
Your story is different, and yet the same, because it's devastation and it's unfair and it's something none of us ever think we'll walk through. There's no words to comfort, no matter how much any of us wish there were...
Holding you in my heart...
Oh, Jen, I am so sorry to hear about your baby boy. What a horrible thing, to lose a baby! My heart aches for you and your family's loss.
DeleteThank you for your kind words. I know that eventually we will grow from this, and we probably already are in ways I don't even realize. But it's still hard...
Thank you, AM. Your thoughts are much appreciated!
ReplyDelete