My Many-Headed Monster

I am 6 weeks out from delivering and handing back to God my 21 week daughter. Six weeks seems like a minute and a lifetime all at once. Sometimes the weight of it all hits me so hard I can physically feel it on my bones.

Photo by Mandy Baughn Photography

My grief is like a many-headed monster; each morning I wake up to find a new head grew overnight and I don't even know until it snaps at me. 

I don't realize something hurts until I look down and see the puddle of tears in my lap.

...

Over the last few weeks, I've been "forgetting" quite often to do my shot. I am supposed to continue my heparin shots in my stomach until 6 weeks postpartum. Let me tell you, having a twice daily physically painful reminder that your womb is empty is cruel. I fight taking them so hard. I get angry nearly every time I have to do one. Rusty reminds me to do it, and I bicker with him, taking out my frustration on him. I keep telling myself I am just tired of doing them, I'm over it.

I realize I am running low, and don't have enough to get me to my 6 week appointment. I call, asking if I need a refill. They tell me when I run out, it's fine to stop, no refill needed.

I fight harder about taking them. I skip them on purpose.

And then it hits me. When that last needle has been filled and plunged into my stretch mark riddled soft belly, that's it. That's the last bit of pregnancy hanging on. I subconsciously (purposefully) leave the last one. If that last shot still sits on my counter I don't have to face the finality of throwing it all away. 

Another head to my monster, quietly growing until it's snapping at my heels. 

...

I have to go to the store. I've been several times in the last few weeks, nothing new. As the sun sets and I am crossing the threshold, I realize I am here with everyone else. Until now, I have come in the middle of the day, when grownups are at work and littles are at school. It looks like a sea of people inside the store, ready to swallow me up. The anxiety suffocates me. I practically bolt through the store, very careful to make zero eye contact. I don't want to speak to anyone. I'm too afraid they'll think I'm grieving too much, or not enough. Thank God for small mercies in the invention of the self checkout; because of it I don't have to make small talk with a cashier. I'm out in record time and can't breathe until I'm miles from the store. 

Another head, nipping at my legs. 

...

No one has mentioned her name today. While yesterday that was fine, today I am angry. Does no one care? That's ridiculous, of course they do. They're only trying to keep me from crying. But I cry anyway. There's no need to guard words around me, it's not like I've forgotten. I feel the need to stand on the side of the road with signs and a megaphone, shouting her name to ensure no one else has forgotten either. 

Another head, gnawing on my clothes. 

...

I am sitting quietly at home. Suddenly, I'm struck with a thought. What will I do when someone sees me with my son and asks if he's an only child? It's been asked dozens of times before, just like when I was pregnant with Nora I was asked if she was my first. I honestly felt weird, guilty even, when I said she was my second. I wanted desperately to say she was my fourth, but I wouldn't have been able to bear hearing, "Wow, four kids! You're going to have your hands full!" Oh, if you only knew how empty they feel. I know someone will ask. I know it will happen. I imagine I will respond with something like, "No, he has a sister. She was due in March, 3 days before he would turn 3. He kept saying he was getting a baby girl for his birthday. She lives in Heaven now. Oh, thank you for the tissue and for picking me up out of the puddle on the floor. Sorry about that, kind sir."

Ah, that didn't go as I'd hoped, even in my head. I just don't want to be silent. I want to make her proud. 

Another head, lapping at my fingertips. 

...

I am angry. I am bitter. I have been pregnant FOUR times. Four times, I have gone through the miracle of conception, the joy and exhilaration of seeing those double lines, the excitement of telling friends and family, the nausea, exhaustion, and mood swings of the first trimester. All 4 were planned, and prayed over, and loved. And so far, all but one of those has ended in disaster. Thank you, Jesus, for that one. One out of four.

In October, for pregnancy and infant loss awareness, you'll see the statistic of 1 in 4 pregnancies end in a loss. I'm the opposite. One in four have ended with a healthy baby. Why? Why does this have to happen to me, when women unfit to be mothers have children every day. Women who abuse and neglect their children. The anger consumes me like fire and jealous flames burn uncontrollably. The fire burns until what's left is ashes of guilt. I shouldn't be jealous of others for getting what I long for. I hate the feeling of jealousy. It is ugly and sends me into a downward spiral of self-loathing and just make me feel worse than when I started. What's more, I'm genuinely happy for all of those pregnant mamas around me, and I really do feel lucky that I at least have my 1 out of 4. I go back and forth with myself in my head for what can feel like days on end. 

Another head, clawing at my face. 

...

It is the middle of the night. I lay silently staring at the monitor. I cannot close my eyes. If I do, dark, terrifying thoughts creep into my mind. So I watch him, anxious to see a flicker of movement. I check on him compulsively if he isn't with me, I hold him tightly when he is. I throw myself into worrying about him. If I go too long without seeing the movement on the monitor, I quietly slip out of bed and creep up the stairs, careful to open his door ever so slowly so it doesn't creak, and I watch, willing my eyes to stay open in the blinding darkness to see his chest rise and fall. I can't take my eyes off him while he plays, desperate to etch every movement and facial expression he makes into my mind, his little toddler personality so fleeting. I feel like time is sand under my feet being washed away by the ocean, slowly eroding away even though I dig my toes in as far as they will go. I must hold on to him, keep him little, smother him with love and adoration.

I know I am becoming overprotective, I can feel myself anxious to be a bubble around him to protect him from anything and everything. But how am I supposed to go back to normal when I've lost a child? I have to protect him, make sure nothing happens to him, he's my only living and breathing child now. The terrifying thoughts are back and I try to steady my breaths so as not to wake him as I gently rub his warm cheek before I force myself back down the stairs and in to bed. 

Another head, swallowing me whole. 

...

I am bombarded by guilt. Guilt over everything. And if I am not feeling shame and regret, my mind makes something up. I am ashamed I didn't rest more, I regret the cup of coffee I had every day, I feel guilty for going trick-or-treating, I regret not waking Rusty the last night in the hospital to feel her kick. She was kicking so hard, perhaps he would have been able to feel her. I don't even remember that night until now, weeks later, when Satan is using it to make me feel crazy. Deep, deep regret washes over me.

Another head, here to finish me off. 

...

It comes in many forms. It grows and changes every day. One day I realize I haven't cried yet. It makes me cry harder. Another day I can't stop the tears. New memories pop into my head and the weight of them is crushing. I remember how she held on to my finger, and desperately wish I had held on to hers longer. I wish we had kept her with us longer, held her more, I wish I'd kissed her cheeks until my lips were raw. Every day brings a new wave of grief and every day I think that must be the last one. I guess my many-headed monster will only continue to grow and develop. I've only just adopted this new little creature so I'm not really sure what to expect. 

I do hope one day I'm at least able to tame it.