Is the price too much?

"Life is both pain and pleasure.  If this is the price you must pay for the hours you enjoy, is it too much?"  -Paolini (Eldest)

We are TTC...again.  In February my DH quietly, and with an overwhelming look of fear in his eyes, relented.  I won.  I guess.  If being granted the right to proceed into horrifying territory where monsters lurk, waiting to trample our hearts again, can be considered a win.

I thought I'd be happier.  I thought I knew what I wanted.  I thought I had it all figured out and under control.  You see though, now that the reigns have been passed to me, I am frozen with fear.  How much of a price am I willing to pay to find that elusive happy place?  How much am I willing to sacrifice, to forgo?  Who am I willing to sacrifice?  Myself?  Absolutely.  Not a question.  I'd do it again and again and again.  Been there, done that, survived...twice, if you can consider what I've done as surviving...I didn't off myself, so...  I know that in the end, if I get a healthy, living baby, its all worth it.  But what if a hundred die and not one ever lives again?  What if the child is so ill that I find myself wishing that the baby would have died.  [GASP!!]  But in reality I know that my two dead babies never suffered, never felt pain.  Is not my wish for their life, even with horrific handicaps and deformations, pure selfishness?  I struggle with this notion.  But, I have learned to disconnect myself from the reality of the horrors.  My husband?  Not so much.  Then there is the Muffin to consider now.  How will by daughter, who is 4 1/2, handle another dead sibling?  She knows of the other two.  It affects her more than I like to admit.  She mourns for them, cries for them, misses them.  She knows they should be here, and she knows she should have living siblings to fight with and to play with.  She knows of the still birth of another very close friend's child.  She was 3 1/2 when he died, she cried.  I believe she understood.  Am I willing to put her through another trauma because maybe, just maybe, this one will work out?

Most days I feel like a selfish bitch.

This past cycle was our first try.  Immediately I got sick.  I had a fever for 3 days.  I was freaked!  A week later my daughter breaks out in this weird rash, Molluscum is going around.  It can last for 4 years.  I freaked again!  Freaked so bad that I had my baby biopsied.  The spots have faded, Molluscum doesn't do that.  The derm is almost certain it was an allergic response.  Almost.  So, I'm still freaked.  Yesterday I started my cycle, 3 negative pregnancy tests later and one day early.  And get this, I was relieved!  Relieved!!  What?!

And I wonder.  Do I really want another baby, or do I just want control over the decision?  Was that the bigger issue, that I didn't have control over whether there would be another baby or not?  Am I ready for sleepless nights, screaming, diapers and toddlerhood all over again?  With the Muffin knocking on the door of five, we are finally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.  The old argument that she needs a playmate is invalid at this point, its been too long, the gap too wide.  They will not be playmates.  But I stand firm that people need siblings  (I have 6).  They need someone to go complain to about their parents, and who better to understand than a sibling?  They need someone they can turn to when they don't feel like they can turn to friends or parents.  They need someone to have when we are dead and gone.  And yet, some siblings hate each other.  Some siblings rarely speak and are like strangers passing bye.  Some siblings die earlier than their parents.  My argument is losing its water...

This is it.  My husband said he can't do it again after this.  Frankly, I wouldn't put him through it a 4th time anyhow.  So, if we don't naturally conceive (and soon), or if another baby dies, I'm done.  We're done.  My DH seems to be in a constant state of panic.  Making babies isn't the innocent fun it used to be.  Fear lays there in the bed next to you, stares at you from the corner of the room.  Anxiety screaming in your ear.  Its a wonder either of us can even perform.  Sexy, eh?  Romantic, eh?  No.  Its not.  Its terrifying when you take that leap of faith.  Its terrifying when you put yourself out there on the limb again, waiting to be knocked off of it again.  Waiting for what surely must be the inevitable.  Outsiders don't get that.  "Try again, surely it won't happen again."  Surely.  But we know, don't we?  How many of us have lost multiple times?  Too many to count.  But the outsiders like their ignorance, and why shouldn't they?  But its huge, and its scary.  And each day of those two weeks are spent in a constant state of anxiety.  Am I?  Could this be it?  Please God, let me keep this one!  The turmoil and anxiety that engulfs us during those two weeks of not knowing is insane.  Then the huge let down when we are not.  The weird twisted and conflicting emotions if we are.  Yeah.  Its scary.  You see, even though this is our first official cycle TTC, there have been a few other times...  Times when I prayed one way and he prayed another.  Times when I tried to hide the anger and frustration and disappointment while he tried to hide his relief.  How are we a comfort to each other?  Luckily I am married to a patient, understanding man.  Luckily he can put aside his fears and comfort me in my disappointment.  Because even though he desperately does not want to go through this again, he wants me to have a shot at happiness, or at least contentment.

Though, we all know, one living baby just does not replace the dead one.  If only it were that easy.

How high of a price are you willing to pay?  How many dead babies can you suffer?  In the end, is all of the anxiety worth it?  Have you had another child post dead baby?  What did you do if you and your spouse were on separate pages (or even books)?

Waiting for the other shoe to drop

Do you fear the death of your living children?  I feel stupid crazy weird odd admitting this, but I do.  It's like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.  And this week it's beating me down.  Next week my four year old, my only living child, my first child, my real fluke it would seem, is having her adenoids removed.  I know, I know.  Simple.  Common.  No big deal.  No big deal, I suppose, if you've never held your dead child.  I'm not even allowed to voice my anxiety over her looming surgery, because no one gets my fear!  And frankly I'm tired of the looks and I'm tired ot the arguments that are supposed to win me over.  You see, its not that I'm afraid of the surgery in and of itself.  I think the doctor is great, he's a pro, he'll do a great job...but...what if she doesn't wake up from anesthesia?  What if she gets MRSA or some other horrible disease while at the surgery center?  What if we find out the hard way she's allergic to some med (like her grandfather who had his heart stop during back surgery due to Demerol, though the doctors assure me this is not hereditary...but what if it is...)?  And then, to add to my anxiety, a fellow BLM sent me an article on this genetic mutation that causes children to over-metabolize Morphine causing an overdose and death.  You can freak yourself out if you want and read it here on Baby Center.  So, freak concerned mother that I am, I called the doctor and asked the nurse to ask him if he's heard of this and can she have something else...you know...just in case.  Shockingly, he called me back and left a message.  Yes, he's heard of it, and yes they can prescribe something else, call him back if I have any other concerns.  Nice of him.  He probably rolled his eyes and cursed Google.  I bet doctors hate moms who call all freaked out about something rare they read on the Internet.  I try to not be one of those mom's, but I couldn't help myself this time.

And then today...

Today Aubrey fell and smacked her mouth on the wood floor.  People, her head bounced!  And I tried to be all cool, shaking like a leaf and trying not to pass out (because though blood doesn't freak me out, HER BLOOD does!) while comforting her and cleaning up the blood, and praying that she still had teeth below all of that blood.  And I spent the entire day running her around.  First stop, pedi.  Does she needs stitches?  We don't stitch.  No kidding, but you'd know if she needs stitches, so clue me in.  Could use a stitch, but better to not traumatize her.  Ok great.  Let's get ice cream. Two hours later, its still bleeding.  Run into nurse, what do you think?  Needs a stitch or two, shouldn't keep bleeding.  Go home.  Call MIL.  She looks, nah, put wet bread on it.  WHAT?!  Seriously?  You should take her to dentist since she is complaining that her teeth hurt.  Ok.  Went to dentist.  DD has a mini melt down and won't allow Xray.  Weird, but ok.  Exam.  Looks ok.  Don't stitch.  Sigh.  Good.  But, she has several cavities!  WHAT?  Sigh.  I need a margarita.  Went for a walk instead.

You see, I know that I'm a freak.  I get that.  I don't live in denial about my irrational fear.  But today I felt like a bad mom.  And not because she hurt herself.  Hey, it was sad and I felt bad for her, but these things happen.  No, I felt like a bad parent because all day I was terrified that this was the beginning of some hideous end to her little life.  That this innocuous fall damaged her brain (which isn't that far out since the poor kid had a concussion at 3 from what seemed like a minor bump to the head and I wasn't even aware of it!).  That the gaping wound in her mouth would fester and introduce some hideous form of bacteria that I can't pronounce, much less spell.  That, if nothing else, her cute little baby teeth would die and/or fall out and it would somehow damage her self esteem and self image before she ever had a chance.  And all of these ridiculous thoughts make me feel stupid and weird.  I can't even be a normal mom to my living daughter anymore because I'm so consumed with terror over what feels inevitable to me.  Her death.  And all the while trying to be light and play it off to her so that she isn't in a panic and scarred for life because her mother is a FREAK!

Feeling like a freak is tiresome.

Being from a Christian family, I asked my brother to pray for my daughter that she doesn't have any complications next week.  My brother texted back "Don't worry sis.  God protects the little ones.".  I mean, what do you say to that?  Because what I wanted to say was something along the lines of "Sometimes, I guess."  What do you say to the moms whose little ones were not protected?  Logan wasn't.  Rudy wasn't.  So why should I believe that Aubrey is?  Because I want it so bad to be true?  What about all of the other babies?  What about all of the kidnapped children, the molested ones, the abused, the murdered, the neglected ones, the ones who get MRSA and die, the ones who get cancer and die, the ones born with holes in their hearts or water on their brains?  Were they protected?  God protects our little ones when it is in his plan and there isn't a lick we can do about it if its not!  What about the 4 children last year who they discovered had this weird genetic mutation?  Three of them died with in 24 hours after having their tonsals removed (another simple, common procedure).  God didn't protect them.  So who am I to believe that I am the special one?  That my begging and pleading to keep my daughter will make a difference this time, when it didn't the last two times I begged to keep my children?  In the end, and I know he was trying to comfort me and be helpful so I take it for what its worth and I don't hold it against him, but its that lack of understanding that makes me feel so alone in this world. 

Yes, I believe God is in control.  That's the part that scares me.

Dusty Ovaries

I'm turning 35 this weekend.  Sigh.  I hate my birthday.  I don't know why Logan's death has had such a profound impact on the way I feel about my birthday, but it has.  Maybe its that whole getting older thing.  Three plus years ago, when Logan was conceived, my ovaries spit out a dry shriveled up egg that let my son down.  And here I sit, 35 looming like the biggest freight train you have ever imagined, and its barreling down the tracks at me...carrying my dusty ovaries.

That's what my friends husband calls them.  Dusty ovaries.  He said this, a few beers loose, to my friend (who is a few months younger than me) the other night.  Bastard.  And anyways, who's he to talk...more than a decade older than us with his wrinkly old balls!! [Enter Adam Sandler]

So every year, around this time, I get ugly.  I stomp around and snap at everyone.  I hate everything.  I overindulge on everything from sugar and fat to booze and TV.  Coincidently this turns me into a real bear the week after my birthday when I jump on the scale and see that, YUP, I'm still fat!  I guess that the only difference this year makes is that I am now aware of why I am being such a jerk to everyone around me.

Sigh.  I hate the time that has lapsed.  I hate the years that continue to move me further away from the memory of my son.  The faint, dream of a son, that I had so briefly.

We create the illusions we need to go on...

"We create the illusions we need to go on.  And one day, when they no longer dazzle or comfort, we tear them down, brick by glittering brick, until we are left with nothing but the bright light of honesty.  The light is liberating, necessary, terrifying.  We stand naked and emptied before it.  And when it is too much for our eyes to take, we build a new illusion to sheild us from it's relentless truth."  -Libba Bray "The Sweet Far Thing"

We do don't we?  We build illusions to help us cope, to forget, to move on.  My illusion, or dillusion perhaps, is that one day I will feel whole and complete, that my family will be complete and that I won't forever feel the gapping holes of the children who never came home to us.  I hold tight to this hope, and when it slips, I feel like I am drowning in that forever sorrow of missing children I didn't get to keep.  Building the illusion that "next time" it will be different, better.  It won't happen again, not three times.  The world isn't that cruel...but it is just an illusion.

I fight to go back to the blissful ignorance...

I fight to go back to the blissful ignorance, but it is too late.  The dull pain of truth weights my soul, pulling it under. I am left hopelessly awake.  -Libba Bray "The Sweet Far Thing"

Oh, how much I miss that ignorance!!