I’m beginning to feel pissed off and resentful.
The following statement is soaked in a horrific attitude, and I acknowledge that: Some people have it way too easy.
Sorry, not sorry.
I just don’t understand why my husband and I have to suffer so much. I’ve mentioned this before, and I will again: I don’t take pride in the fact or wear a badge of honor because it took three years, six IVF cycles (not to mention pre-IVF treatments), donor eggs, pre-eclampsia, a NICU stay, and the passing of my precious daughter … in order for me to finally have a family. I don’t have or appreciate a victim mentality. Trust me: I would have gladly become pregnant from my first Clomid cycle without hyping it up and trying to relate to an IVF veteran … or something like that.
But I am a victim, and it’s really starting to tick me off. My husband and I have fallen on the other side (bad side) of statistics too many times. We started trying to conceive when I was 23 years old … only to learn three years later that I need donor eggs…? What the fuck? We told multiple doctors multiple times, “I just want them to survive. Will Baby B survive?”
“Survival? Oh we’re not even worried about survival. They’ll survive.”
The survival rate for babies of my girls’ gestational age is, like, 95 percent or something.
Sooo … Why exactly did my daughter die?
Okay, so this entry may read like I’m calling people out, like my TTC sisters have been making me mad and bringing upon these emotions. Nope, I’ve not read a blog or seen a post that has caused resentment.
I just need to get it off my chest, though: Don’t try to relate to me, world. Because it’s going to be really damn hard to.
I remember feeling heartbroken for my sisters who’ve suffered miscarriages. I still feel awful and broken for them. How dare they suffer like that? I used to honor days like National Pregnancy & Infant Loss Day for my friends who’ve suffered from miscarriages. Sure, some people would say I’ve suffered from two miscarriages. I would say I’ve suffered from the loss of two pregnancies, which were and are extremely heartbreaking. I used to think to myself, though, that my losses just didn’t carry the magnitude of my friends’ losses. Please don’t get me wrong: I cherish babies whether they are embryos who have barely attached to the uterine wall producing HCG of 34, or eight-week embryos who have heartbeats and arm and leg buds. They are all precious; they are all people. But the magnitude of a heavy period and feeling out of control as your body loses your baby, and seeing your baby’s heartbeat then losing your baby with human parts and tissue – for me, the magnitude is a bit different. My emotions are raw; I know some of you will appreciate what I’ve written above, and some of you will think I’m a monster. Please bestow some grace upon me.
So, that was my reasoning before October 9. Well, it still is. I just happen to have experienced a different scenario from the ones listed above.
With regard to honoring October 15 and its meaning, I lost my baby. I lost my baby who was born alive. My baby died on my birthday.
So, universe? Fuck you.
Jesus, I asked for you to take care of my babies. I prayed desperately for my babies. I prayed to you that morning over and over again as I watched my Emmanuelle struggle. I prayed to you out loud in front of everyone. I begged of you. I begged you to save her. She was mistreated. What more did you want from me? What more could I have done?
Am I really that terrible of a person to have endured what I’ve endured so far? What the hell have I done? Please tell me. Give me an answer!
Infertility doesn’t scare me anymore. You know, the condition that brought me much suffering? The phase in my life that I believed would be the most difficult one for the rest of my life? YOU TOOK MY BABY FROM ME.
Even the doctors said, “After everything you’ve been through to have a family, I just don’t understand.”
Me neither, guys. Me fucking neither.
Sometimes it amazes me. It amazes me that I haven’t completely crumbled. I can eat. I can take a shower. I can put my damn make-up on. I can even smile and laugh. What the hell? Did this really happen to me? Are my baby’s ashes really in her remembrance drawer in Rowan’s room?
I see ultrasound photos. They were taken down and hidden from me, but I still cross paths with them. I see ultrasound photos of my Baby B – my Emmanuelle – from two, three weeks ago. She was alive; she was living. And now she is ashes? In what world is a baby deserving of that? I know she is with Jesus; I know she is not suffering. But I can’t comprehend her life in heaven right now. All I know is that she struggled, died, and is now ashes on this earth.
It hits me. It hits me whenever and wherever. Yesterday I was gauging my feelings based on my husband’s.
“I can’t feel anything. I’m worried it might be the Zoloft.”
“Don’t worry, it’s not,” he says. “I’m numb too.”
Four hours later, I’m sobbing silently on the couch while a comedian – a fucking comedian – is on TV.
So, universe? Just to give you a little taste of the hell I’m living, allow me to put it bluntly as my husband has expressed.
“How are your daughters doing?” she asks.
“Well, one of my daughters is doing well in the NICU … her breaths are supported by oxygen, and sometimes she forgets to breathe – but that’s normal. She weighs about two pounds. But – she’s doing well … in intensive care.”
“My other daughter is dead.”