One Month

How has it already been a month? It seems like just yesterday I was rubbing my tummy and talking to my little boy as he kicked me in the ribs (yet again!). I remember the day he was born so vividly, like it just happened. I remember that entire day, work that morning, going home and trying to relax, the bath that made teh contractions worse… I remember the moment I realized I was in labor, and the realization that I had no one to drive me to Darryl’s job. I remember the drive, wandering through the aisles, and teh guys who told me where he was. I remember the car ride, the numbness that went through my body as the pain got worse, the moment he crowned while we were still driving and I knew for sure that he would be making his grand entrance that day. I remember entering the hospital, (I must have been a sight!), riding through the coridoors, thinking they must be crazy to expect an obviously laboring woman to be able to speak coherently over the phone, then finally getting to a room. I remember screaming at Darryl (It was the only way I could muster my voice!) that I needed to wait to move onto the bed. It came out more of a, "NOT NOW!" I felt bad for screaming and I did apologize later on. I remember the nurse checking me and then everyone started to rush around. Liam was not like his brother, he wasn’t going to wait around! I remember arguing with the nurses while they got me settled in yet another bed and stabbed me with the IV needle and I remember the moment they said to push, and my son entered the world. I can still see his little body wiggling on the bed and I can hear his tiny cry. I remember telling them he was so tiny. They told me it was because he was early, but I had said the same thing about Ville and he had been almost two weeks late! Neither of them were all that small. Ville was 7lbs and 6 oz. Liam was 5lbs and 12 oz. I remember the nurse (I loved that nurse, she was a Godsend!) asking me a bunch of questions and when she left I assured Darryl that everything would be fine. I remember the nurses coming to the room and telling us we needed to come to the NICU, "It isn’t looking good." I hopped off the bed, not thinking about the IV that I was still hooked to or the fact that I’d just given birth. I needed to be with him. I needed him to be ok. I remember seeing my son on that table, the NICU doctor telling us all they had done was all they could do, and I remember just shaking my head. I couldn’t speak, but I wanted to tell them to do whatever it took to make him ok. I wanted to tell them that they couldn’t take away his life support, the problem was, they could never actually get him on life support. I remember them asking me if I wanted to hold him and I nodded without thinking. See, I’m terrified of dead people. I couldn’t even give my mom a proper final goodbye because I knew she would be cold and stiff and that terrified me. But my little boy wasn’t dead, these things don’t really happen. Miracles happen and he was my miracle baby, surely my touch, my tears, my love could heal him. As I sat there staring at him, willing him to move, to sigh, to blink, anything to let me know that miracles really do happen, but I was wrong. My love wasn’t enough and miracles only happen in movies. It hadn’t sunk in yet, but I was now part of yet another club that I had no desire to be in. I was yet another statistic and so was my poor baby. I remember the doctor making me feel like crap teh next day, not listening to me, just telling me that I needed to be on bed rest. I’d had no signs that I was leaking fluid, I would have come straight to the ER if I had. After looking into it, there’s no guarantee it would have made a difference even if I had known. I’ve read reports of mother’s being on bed rest and monitored constantly and it still not make a difference. I believe with all my heart that God didn’t let me find out so that I could enjoy every second I had with Liam. Despite everything that happened during my pregnancy, it was a happy time for me. I hate being pregnant because I’m so anxious and worried, but I also love it because it’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever experienced. Even labor, both of mine were relatively painless. (There is obviously pain, but natural childbirth is nowhere near as painful as I expected.) I loved both of my birth experiences, despite what happened before or after them. I hope and pray I can do it all again, though I’m trying so hard not to obsess over it. I’ve been reading a blog about a woman who’s son was stillborn after a perfect pregnancy. She’s written a lot about leaving things in God’s hands and I think that’s what I need to do. I need to just live and let his will be done. Hell, that’s how I got pregnant in the first place. I remembered something as we walked through the park yesterday. Two years ago, August 18th, 2011 I went for a walk. I was in the midst of a major ED relapse and I was working out and while I was walking I started talking to God about my angel. I told Him about how much I missed her and how much I’d longed for another baby. I broke down, knowing that I needed to be healthy for that to happen. It took a year, but last year I finally felt in control enough to try and recover again. August 18th, 2012 I made a promise to my angel that I would get better and live the life I needed to live in her honor. I struggled at first, but by October I was on the road to recovery. Liam was conceived the day before my birthday, on November 21st. I took things as signs to mean that he was my miracle baby. He was my early/late birthday present. I hit the 12 week mark the day after Ville’s birthday. He was due four days before Miracle’s angelversary. He was a miracle, he still is. He has instilled a passion in me to help others who have children that he gets to play with. He has instilled a passion in Darryl and I both to try and be even better parents. He has touched the lives of so many people and because of him I have met so many people who know and share my pain. I am grateful for these things, but I still wish I had my son here with me. Even of the pain does get better, I don’t think that ever does. I think that when I’m 80 years old, I’ll look at my grown children and wonder what he would have looked like, what he would have done in life, and I would wish with all my heart that he was there.

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