Did I Speak Too Soon?

I read advice somewhere in my early stages of grief that advised couples who lost a child in-utero to only start trying again once they felt their excitement for having another child outweighed their fear of losing said child.

I call bullshit.

While we're excited at being pregnant again, we are terrified at equal levels. Like my friend Keleen pointed out in one of her current pregnancy post-loss posts, we're more familiar with the idea of loss than life. In some ways, I'm more "comfortable" with how to react if this child dies than if it lives. It's the only experience I have. I don't think my fear will ever go away and I don't think that if we waited a year, 2 years, 5 years, that my heart would feel any different. I might actually feel more fear because my biological clock is ticking and complications mount the more time I wait.

I've spent the last 4 months avoiding pregnancy topics, talks, and anything that might "out" me as one of them. I've been desperately hiding my belly so students wouldn't notice. To date, two of them have commented. One said, "You're having another baby?" It's abnormal to see someone pregnant so quickly after their last obvious pregnancy. I get it, kid. I logically responded by looking at him like he was crazy and telling him to get back to reading his story. Another girl commented on how I looked pregnant. I acted offended that she would consider me "fat", though I'm obviously masking a growing munchkin. Another innocent kiddo asked where my son was recently. I responded by saying, "Well, not here!" The child then commented back about him being home with a babysitter. Hah. If only.

The teachers are more keen and concerned for me, often asking questions about well-being. I've got to be honest, though. I have never announced to any of these people, yet they feel the need to ask me point-blank if I am pregnant. I'm a little surprised by this because 1. It's never okay to ask someone if they are pregnant unless they are clearly showing if you aren't at least a close friend or the keeper of their phone number (indicating personal relationship) and 2. Pregnancy is a fragile topic for me. Handle with care. If I'm not talking about it, I probably don't want to. It's also incredibly uncomfortable to feel like I need to validate how myself and my doctors plan to make sure this one doesn't die. They don't outright say it like that, but it usually heads down this road: So... is there anything being done differently this time? Well, yes, but mostly just to protect my fragile heart and reassure me constantly that there's still a heartbeat. The implication is that we didn't do enough last time to save Andrew and therefore were negligent in some way and responsible for his death. No, sometimes it's just an accident. Maybe that's just me being all defensive and presuming too much. I know people are curious and afraid to ask. When they do ask, I make assumptions about their thoughts and become offended. Always a lose-lose. Gah. I can assure you that I wouldn't just get pregnant again to put myself intentionally back in the dead-baby zone. I will move heaven and earth for this child, just as I would for Andrew. There are some wonderful responses like, "We're over the moon for you. Please know that you are in our every thought and prayer for this little one."

Anyway, just babbling my emotions once again. I had a scare on Sunday morning when I thought my stomach looked less bulging and therefore my automatic assumption was that there was a limp, lifeless baby inside my uterus. I asked Ray for the doppler (he keeps it in his car so I don't have freakout sessions without him home) and we found the heartbeat right away along with some movement. I questioned recently if I thought the doppler was a good purchase. I felt it made me crazy trying to figure out if the sounds I was hearing were actually the heartbeat. That one use validated the purchase.

I spent a good portion of the yesterday evening crying. I rarely answer the phone anymore, so the voicemails just pile up.This time there were seven. I know that once I let them play, I'll cry. For that reason, I let them pile up so I can listen when I feel most emotionally stable and get the tears out of the way all at the same time. When I went to listen, I heard such wonderful messages of love and support. What should normally be comforting to most people sent me into a fit of crying. I haven't cried that long and hard for a long time. I was crying because I felt like a terrible friend. Like I've been entirely too antisocial but don't know how to handle things any other way. Crying because people are saying wonderful things to congratulate and offer condolences when I never wanted to be in this position to begin with. I appreciate them but just don't know how to handle things. Crying because I couldn't (still) believe this is the life I'll live forever missing Andrew. It can be really too much to handle sometimes. When tears feel like they're literally pouring out of your heart and could fill up a small bowl with their downpour.

Announcing the pregnancy was a vulnerable experience for me. I hate putting myself out there so much, but I knew it was inevitable. There's so much to talk about that makes this pregnancy a world different than my pregnancy with Andrew. I'm sure I'll get to all those emotions at some point if I can keep my head straight for 5 minutes long enough to blog about them.

Ten months. It stings.