I know all about the grief cycle - we studied it thoroughly enough during our psychology and psychiatry training at medical school and I have supported various families through their losses, both in the neontatal period and with older children. So here I am, in the midst of my own experience and all I feel is empty. Perhaps because at the moment I don't feel there's any closure, I almost feel distant from the whole experience. If I hadn't been for my scan on Wednesday I would still be pregnant (in my head, at least). I would be planning my future with my new baby, and thinking about all the logistics of adding to our family. Instead I'm in limbo, neither pregnant nor actually NOT pregnant. I'm hoping that my operation tomorrow will mean I can start facing my future again. Planning a very different future, but still a future.
I'm staying strong at the moment for the family. James has no idea what is going on and is going through a rather challenging time at the moment. His current favoured activity in the car is to undo his seatbelt and wind down the window, throwing himself out, Dukes of Hazzard style. I'm hoping a friend is going to be able to lend me her spare five point harness car seat suitable up to age 8, as it's getting quite dangerous now.... He's very hyper at the moment too, and perhaps that's because I don't really feel up to spending time with him. I feel so guilty about that and David is managing the brunt of his difficult behaviour but I need to look after myself at the moment.
The weekend has actually been easier than I expected. I had a stall at Duck Pond Market selling my crafty bits and bobs. I've been going there since April, and this was my most successful weekend. The scarves went down very well and my hand dyed yarn is proving very popular. I'm guessing I'll be back to dyeing over the Christmas break, to restock. I had avoided dyeing whilst pregnant as there is a risk of respiratory difficulties with inhaling the dye powders. So now I can do as I please! The other crafters at the market are amazing people - I have shared my difficult news with them and they've all been so supportive this weekend. I wouldn't have got through the weekend without them. I also indulged in some therapeutic spending, which was lovely.
Think of me tomorrow, my friends. I will be waiting and knitting a therapeutic project to keep my mind occupied. I'm sure there will be a lot of tears and heartache, but it will be the beginning of a new phase, the start of a clean slate, and some sort of closure.
Showing posts with label pregnancy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pregnancy. Show all posts
Sunday, 13 December 2009
Friday, 11 December 2009
Falling apart
I'm sorry to come and share such terrible news, but feel it will be cathartic to get it out.
In my last post I mentioned that things her had gone from mad chaos to madder chaos! Part of that was driven by the lovely news in October that we were expecting our third, and much wanted, baby. Ironically, I had just increased my working hours to two days a week, with the intention of taking on a third day in the New Year. Life was about to get complicated again. We talked and worried about the future - what if James regressed again when the new baby arrived, how would I cope with three children, what would the summer holidays be like, juggling a new baby and James (as well as Bea), how would Bea cope - she's already playing second fiddle to James and a new baby would possibly sideline her even more. And we made plans for the future, where the baby would sleep, what new car we would buy, sorting out all the clothes that I've hoarded in the loft, planning names, excitement at the prospect of a summer not working and looking after my lovely children. The future looked bright and exciting, as well as challenging.
Three days ago our world fell apart. I was 12 to 13 weeks pregnant (my dates are a little uncertain and whilst I had pushed for an earlier scan it never happened) and went to my nuchal fold scan. We had agreed that if the nuchal fold was suggestive of any abnormalities I would go forward for further testing. We never anticipated what happened when I entered the room. I took Bea along, and will probably regret that for the rest of my life. I wish I hadn't allowed her to experience what was the most painful morning of my entire life.
There were two sonographers in the room, the trainee and her supervisor. The trainee started the scan and David and I were beaming with excitement. We were about to meet our new baby. At first all she could find was my (very full!) bladder, then there was a gestational sac. There was something inside it, but I wasn't convinced it was quite what we should be seeing at this stage. The supervising sonographer took over and as soon as she put the probe back on my abdomen I knew what we were facing. She asked me if I had experienced any pain or bleeding and I felt like saying "not until you asked me, and now I am breaking in two". She asked me to empty my bladder so I could have an internal, and I went to the loo all composed and serene as if it was happening to someone else. I'm still not sure if David understood at this point or not. The internal showed the sac and a collection of cells but no heartbeat. I told her I could see there wasn't a heartbeat and I knew what had happened. I needed to know when my baby had stopped growing and she said around 9 or 10 weeks. I got dressed and was taken to a side room, where I shed a few tears and then composed myself for Bea's sake.
The next hour was the most horrific of my life. We went up to the Gynaecology ward, and waited, and waited, and waited. There were no tissues, there were posters about Chlamydia screening, there were other women in there laughing and cuddling their partners (I now know most of them were waiting for early scans because of bleeding or pain) and I just wanted to die. I felt as though my life had come to an end, that it would never be the same again. I just wanted to close the book, and reopen it at a new and happier ending. I wanted them to be wrong and to still have my baby inside me. I finally saw a nurse and she suggested I should just let things happen naturally. Or I could take some drugs that would induce a miscarriage. But I want the possiblity of some answers, and have pushed to have an operation as that way histology can be performed. If I can find out that there was some sort of reason for this to happen I will feel more at ease. Perhaps it was a genetic defect or an infection that meant the baby couldn't survive. Then I can stop torturing myself with all the questions I'm currently asking myself.
Think of me on Monday, when I will be spending most of the day at the hospital. I don't know how it will go but I will come back and share with you as soon as I feel able.
In my last post I mentioned that things her had gone from mad chaos to madder chaos! Part of that was driven by the lovely news in October that we were expecting our third, and much wanted, baby. Ironically, I had just increased my working hours to two days a week, with the intention of taking on a third day in the New Year. Life was about to get complicated again. We talked and worried about the future - what if James regressed again when the new baby arrived, how would I cope with three children, what would the summer holidays be like, juggling a new baby and James (as well as Bea), how would Bea cope - she's already playing second fiddle to James and a new baby would possibly sideline her even more. And we made plans for the future, where the baby would sleep, what new car we would buy, sorting out all the clothes that I've hoarded in the loft, planning names, excitement at the prospect of a summer not working and looking after my lovely children. The future looked bright and exciting, as well as challenging.
Three days ago our world fell apart. I was 12 to 13 weeks pregnant (my dates are a little uncertain and whilst I had pushed for an earlier scan it never happened) and went to my nuchal fold scan. We had agreed that if the nuchal fold was suggestive of any abnormalities I would go forward for further testing. We never anticipated what happened when I entered the room. I took Bea along, and will probably regret that for the rest of my life. I wish I hadn't allowed her to experience what was the most painful morning of my entire life.
There were two sonographers in the room, the trainee and her supervisor. The trainee started the scan and David and I were beaming with excitement. We were about to meet our new baby. At first all she could find was my (very full!) bladder, then there was a gestational sac. There was something inside it, but I wasn't convinced it was quite what we should be seeing at this stage. The supervising sonographer took over and as soon as she put the probe back on my abdomen I knew what we were facing. She asked me if I had experienced any pain or bleeding and I felt like saying "not until you asked me, and now I am breaking in two". She asked me to empty my bladder so I could have an internal, and I went to the loo all composed and serene as if it was happening to someone else. I'm still not sure if David understood at this point or not. The internal showed the sac and a collection of cells but no heartbeat. I told her I could see there wasn't a heartbeat and I knew what had happened. I needed to know when my baby had stopped growing and she said around 9 or 10 weeks. I got dressed and was taken to a side room, where I shed a few tears and then composed myself for Bea's sake.
The next hour was the most horrific of my life. We went up to the Gynaecology ward, and waited, and waited, and waited. There were no tissues, there were posters about Chlamydia screening, there were other women in there laughing and cuddling their partners (I now know most of them were waiting for early scans because of bleeding or pain) and I just wanted to die. I felt as though my life had come to an end, that it would never be the same again. I just wanted to close the book, and reopen it at a new and happier ending. I wanted them to be wrong and to still have my baby inside me. I finally saw a nurse and she suggested I should just let things happen naturally. Or I could take some drugs that would induce a miscarriage. But I want the possiblity of some answers, and have pushed to have an operation as that way histology can be performed. If I can find out that there was some sort of reason for this to happen I will feel more at ease. Perhaps it was a genetic defect or an infection that meant the baby couldn't survive. Then I can stop torturing myself with all the questions I'm currently asking myself.
Think of me on Monday, when I will be spending most of the day at the hospital. I don't know how it will go but I will come back and share with you as soon as I feel able.
Monday, 23 March 2009
Happy Mother's Day!
A day late, but as you'll see there are reasons for that. Yesterday was Mother's Day, a day I find slightly bitter sweet. Some of that is no doubt to do with the way it's become yet another commercialised merchandise driven celebration - I'd rather a hand made card and an hour in bed than a bottle of perfume (or, as I was shocked to discover, some anti ageing cream, advertised as "the perfect gift for Mother's Day - call me ungrateful, but if my son or daughter gave me anti ageing cream for Mother's Day, I'd be quite offended). The other reason is that it's yet another reminder of what we don't have.
Six years ago, on Mother's Day, I found myself holding a white stick with two clear pink lines. We danced around the flat, shaking, crying (with happiness), amazed that we had achieved this incredible thing - we had made a baby. I was stunned, as I had previously been told I would probably find conceiving difficult and need medical support, but it had all happened naturally, within three months of trying. We held each other close and from that moment on, I began to see myself as a mother. I imagined future Mother's Days, with cards, hugs, kisses and joy. I wondered what my baby would be like, how s/he would be at one, two, five, ten. In all my imaginings I never considered that I would be mothering a severely disabled child. I was realistic - things were never going to be the same, it was no longer just me and my husband, we had another life to consider, another human being to nourish, teach, love and support. But not once did I consider that I might have to deal with continued frustration, constant worry, stress, anxiety and rejection from my own child. I guess you tend to look at child rearing with rather rose tinted spectacles during your first pregnancy.
This was the first Mother's Day, of six, that I was greeted with "Happy Mother's Day!" by my child. But not by James, by Beatrix. I don't know whether James will ever learn to use phrases like that, he's just about stringing a two word phrase together, mainly "Want x or y or z" relating to food! Perhaps with time he will. I was treated to a leisurely afternoon, relaxing in my summer house, knitting and reading the paper. Though I had taken James swimming and then on his weekly social exercise at the supermarket, so I felt like I deserved some time off. I watched as the children jumped on the trampoline and climbed their new climbing frame and I felt blessed. I think this is a reflection of me having accepted things more readily now, and seeing that we can't change James, and love him as he is. For me, and for my husband, we share the view that if someone could take away James' autism, we would do it without a moment's hesitation, but that's not going to happen, so acceptance eases the burden of grief and loss.
So I'm relaxed and bathing in the hazy glow of maternal love when my husband asks me to take a look at Bea's neck - she's got lots of red spots. My bubble bursts - the dreaded chicken pox. That's a full week of quarantine at home. And then in a couple of weeks James is going to get it too. Quickly do the maths, and realise it will be the school holidays. Joy. Oh well, onwards and upwards! Happy Mother's Day - I wasn't expecting that sort of present!!!
Six years ago, on Mother's Day, I found myself holding a white stick with two clear pink lines. We danced around the flat, shaking, crying (with happiness), amazed that we had achieved this incredible thing - we had made a baby. I was stunned, as I had previously been told I would probably find conceiving difficult and need medical support, but it had all happened naturally, within three months of trying. We held each other close and from that moment on, I began to see myself as a mother. I imagined future Mother's Days, with cards, hugs, kisses and joy. I wondered what my baby would be like, how s/he would be at one, two, five, ten. In all my imaginings I never considered that I would be mothering a severely disabled child. I was realistic - things were never going to be the same, it was no longer just me and my husband, we had another life to consider, another human being to nourish, teach, love and support. But not once did I consider that I might have to deal with continued frustration, constant worry, stress, anxiety and rejection from my own child. I guess you tend to look at child rearing with rather rose tinted spectacles during your first pregnancy.
This was the first Mother's Day, of six, that I was greeted with "Happy Mother's Day!" by my child. But not by James, by Beatrix. I don't know whether James will ever learn to use phrases like that, he's just about stringing a two word phrase together, mainly "Want x or y or z" relating to food! Perhaps with time he will. I was treated to a leisurely afternoon, relaxing in my summer house, knitting and reading the paper. Though I had taken James swimming and then on his weekly social exercise at the supermarket, so I felt like I deserved some time off. I watched as the children jumped on the trampoline and climbed their new climbing frame and I felt blessed. I think this is a reflection of me having accepted things more readily now, and seeing that we can't change James, and love him as he is. For me, and for my husband, we share the view that if someone could take away James' autism, we would do it without a moment's hesitation, but that's not going to happen, so acceptance eases the burden of grief and loss.
So I'm relaxed and bathing in the hazy glow of maternal love when my husband asks me to take a look at Bea's neck - she's got lots of red spots. My bubble bursts - the dreaded chicken pox. That's a full week of quarantine at home. And then in a couple of weeks James is going to get it too. Quickly do the maths, and realise it will be the school holidays. Joy. Oh well, onwards and upwards! Happy Mother's Day - I wasn't expecting that sort of present!!!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
