There were babies inside of me. Growing. And then they stopped. And now they’re gone.
My body is on board with this whole concept. Symptoms are gone. My heart on the other hand, still hasn’t let go. It’s strange to me that I can look at the picture they gave us of the embryos, and think that they are just gone. Those embryos came from the batch that gave us N and J. Was the embryologist THAT GOOD the first time around? Were the rest of my embryos that bad? I know N and J are miracles, for a whole host of reasons, but this gives me a whole new perspective on it.
J has been so sweet. Bringing me blankets, touching my face while I was laying on the couch, giving me hugs. As frustrating as she can be right now, she’s a natural at the caretaking. She’s such a mini-me. I’ve really started to see my face in hers. The way she wrinkles her nose, the way her hair falls around her face. I see a lot of me in N too. He’s started to read. Really read. Words he’s never seen before. Letter combinations, long vowel sounds with the “e” at the end of the word. He gets it. I did too at his age. He’s intense, just like I am. In many ways. His emotions are always right there. There’s no hiding them. If he’s mad, you know it. He falls apart at the drop of a hat. I want to wrap my arms around him and protect him from the world that will tell him it’s not ok for a boy to be sensitive, caring, emotional.
I wonder, looking at those three embryos, what they would have been like. Would they be quick and fiery, like J? Emotional and sweet, like N? Would they look like me? Would they look like N and J as much as N and J look like each other? Would they have been easy babies like J or colicky like N?
We don’t know at what point the embryos stopped growing. Early. But that doesn’t change the way I see them. I know it’s not like losing a pregnancy further along. I know the anguish is much different. At the same time, people diminish it because it was relatively early. “At least it happened early;” “Much better it happen now.” Yes. They’re right. But it doesn’t change that it hurts. That it’s a loss. That I feel like I lost a part of me on Wednesday. Even though I know that they were already gone.
I don’t know if I’ll ever have the chance to be pregnant or have another child again. I don’t know how people handle miscarriage after miscarriage. Maybe it’s different because I have N and J and I don’t feel like I have to endure loss after loss to get there. I can say that I don’t ever want to go through anything like this again because I go home and can crawl into bed and snuggle with two stinky, leggy, 4-year olds who need to brush their teeth and ask when they can play wii. We never intended to be done after N and J. We always wanted one more. Maybe we asked for too much.
I have a fertility doll on my mantle. I’m not sure yet what to do with it. The one I bought for H’s friend at work worked for her. The IUI she had the day we had our transfer resulted in a pregnancy that seems to be going well. Hell, the fertility doll in our house worked, it just worked for the wrong person (see The Beginning of the End about the ex-nanny). I’ve thought about burning it, but I’m pretty sure it’s treated and wouldn’t burn. I’ve thought about smashing it. Nothing feels right. And like I said, it did work. Just not for me. Any suggestions? I actually thought about sending it to the ex-nanny, since the story behind it is that it’s supposed to hold a special place until the child is born safely into the world, but she wouldn’t appreciate it in the least (or probably understand the significance, both of the doll or of my actually sending it to her).
The songs from my transfer CD, well, it might be awhile before I can listen to some of those songs again. The one that’s probably the hardest for me right now is The Greatest Discovery, by Elton John. And Godspeed, by the Dixie Chicks. One of them, Jewel’s version of Twinkle Little Star, has given me a lot of comfort. From the moment we knew they were gone that’s how I thought of them. As little stars.
I never really saw it turning out this way. At the same time, I felt like somehow something was off the whole time. Good beta numbers never comforted me. Pregnancy symptoms didn’t make me feel better. Was I paranoid? Or did I know something everyone else didn’t? My doctor said she would send everything to pathology, but we won’t get any answers from that. And I’m not sure we need them. It doesn’t change things.
I know we have some stars up there shining down on us. And two four year olds who hung the sun and the moon living under our roof.
There are things coming up that will be really hard. My birthday. A baby shower for a friend. New babies will be coming one after the other. My nephew’s birthday is also my due date. Every time one of these things comes up, I will do my best to look to the sky. For the stars. For the sun. For the moon.
To N and J: I hope you never read any of these posts and think that you aren’t enough for me. You are everything. So much so that we wanted another one just like you, for you to grow up with and laugh with and argue with and make fun of your moms with. There is no life without you in it, and I would give everything to make sure you know that you are loved, special, wanted, and adored. So wish upon stars little ones, because you have some very special ones up there for you.