I never thought I'd be sad to put my maternity clothes away. Usually, by the time I do, I'm so sick of wearing them that I don't want to even see them for at least another year or so. Usually when I put them away there's a newborn baby keeping me company.
Not this time.
After three babies my body & muscles just knew what to do; they softened & gave way to my expanding uterus, making room for the tiny life growing inside. The bump appeared much sooner than it had before that I wondered if I might be carrying twins, & hoped that wasn't the case. Just thinking of having two babies gave me anxiety - thinking of how that would stretch my body, what it would mean if I tried to breastfeed both of them, thinking of having to buy another car seat & crib. But that wasn't the case. By the time I had my first appointment to go over my medical history, get weighed, have my urine checked the baby, the single baby, was already gone, unbeknownst to me.
Part of me knew. I wasn't as sick as I had been in the past, & that worried more than relieved me. I had dreams of miscarrying. Dreams of giving birth too early. Dreams of something happening to me that would make me lose the baby. I find myself wondering if when I first had that type of dream if that was when it happened. My mind or my soul of what-have-you preparing me for the news to come.
The doctor, the same one who delivered my third child, assured me that it wasn't anything I had done. Most likely, he said, it was the result of a defective egg or sperm or both coming together. Nothing I could have prevented or predicted. I knew that, as he said it, & I know it now. But I still found myself going through the list of things I had done wrong: was it the glass of wine? the processed foods? the caffeine? lifting too much? I find myself apologizing to someone who's not here for something I didn't do, something I couldn't control.
In between those thoughts are realizations. Realizing this child will never feel the wind or the sun of their skin; never be adored & pestered by their brothers; never be held in my arms. Born into Heaven this child will never know pain or cold or hunger, but they will never know the beauty of the world, either. It's comforting to know this child is in the best possible place with the best possible people, surrounded by Love itself, but I still wish he or she was with me. Incompatible with life. With transient life, anyway.
The worst part right now is the waiting. Waiting for the bleeding to stop, for the cramping to cease, waiting to have something we can bury & say good-bye to. I at once dread it as I look forward to it. I dread losing the last physical evidence of the baby's existence, but I know it needs to come for me, for closure.
And so I'll keep waiting. Waiting for the bump to shrink again so I can fit in my normal clothes. But I don't have it in me to keep wearing the maternity pants & shorts, & so I put them away in hopes of another blessing, one that I pray will stay with me.
Not this time.
After three babies my body & muscles just knew what to do; they softened & gave way to my expanding uterus, making room for the tiny life growing inside. The bump appeared much sooner than it had before that I wondered if I might be carrying twins, & hoped that wasn't the case. Just thinking of having two babies gave me anxiety - thinking of how that would stretch my body, what it would mean if I tried to breastfeed both of them, thinking of having to buy another car seat & crib. But that wasn't the case. By the time I had my first appointment to go over my medical history, get weighed, have my urine checked the baby, the single baby, was already gone, unbeknownst to me.
Part of me knew. I wasn't as sick as I had been in the past, & that worried more than relieved me. I had dreams of miscarrying. Dreams of giving birth too early. Dreams of something happening to me that would make me lose the baby. I find myself wondering if when I first had that type of dream if that was when it happened. My mind or my soul of what-have-you preparing me for the news to come.
The doctor, the same one who delivered my third child, assured me that it wasn't anything I had done. Most likely, he said, it was the result of a defective egg or sperm or both coming together. Nothing I could have prevented or predicted. I knew that, as he said it, & I know it now. But I still found myself going through the list of things I had done wrong: was it the glass of wine? the processed foods? the caffeine? lifting too much? I find myself apologizing to someone who's not here for something I didn't do, something I couldn't control.
In between those thoughts are realizations. Realizing this child will never feel the wind or the sun of their skin; never be adored & pestered by their brothers; never be held in my arms. Born into Heaven this child will never know pain or cold or hunger, but they will never know the beauty of the world, either. It's comforting to know this child is in the best possible place with the best possible people, surrounded by Love itself, but I still wish he or she was with me. Incompatible with life. With transient life, anyway.
The worst part right now is the waiting. Waiting for the bleeding to stop, for the cramping to cease, waiting to have something we can bury & say good-bye to. I at once dread it as I look forward to it. I dread losing the last physical evidence of the baby's existence, but I know it needs to come for me, for closure.
And so I'll keep waiting. Waiting for the bump to shrink again so I can fit in my normal clothes. But I don't have it in me to keep wearing the maternity pants & shorts, & so I put them away in hopes of another blessing, one that I pray will stay with me.
Comments
Post a Comment