A few weeks ago in church, a darling young mom who I had not yet had the opportunity to meet, came and found me after our meeting. I looked at her face, red and tear-stained, and then at her beautiful round basket ball of a belly.
I knew.
I just wrapped my arms around her and cried.
Within seconds my mind was in that moment. My emotions were instantly elevated to the surface and it was as if I could re-live every single second of that day.
...It was a blizzard that morning Blair and I drove to the perionatologist's office. I was about 22 weeks along and had just started to really show my pregnancy. The 40 minute drive to the hospital took us almost two hours; apparently many people in Utah forget that it snows a majority of the Winter, and there were accidents all over the place. It was a Wednesday morning, the day after Valentine's. The commercials and all the red and pink decorations that had been displayed to celebrate the Holiday I later wanted to rip to shreds. How could anyone celebrate? I couldn't feel anything.
In the office there was a bulletin board with pictures of gorgeous newborn babies; giant bows on the girls, the boys placed in baseball mitts. I remember looking at every single picture, momentarily hopeful that I may get the opportunity to send out invitations for the son I was carrying in my newly obvious belly.
We had to wait for quite a while, due to the weather, and were finally lead to a room. The doctor was a woman, which was somewhat comforting...until she spoke.
There was nearly nothing said for a long time. She conducted the ultrasound very methodically and would occasionally point out, "Oh yes...there is a flat bridge of his nose" and "I don't think he has five toes" and "See, his forehead...it is flat" and "He has a protruding lip...right there" as she pointed to the pieces of his body.
His beautiful, perfect body.
But, it was clear she did not see beauty.
After glancing at his heart and brain and finding no significant abnormalities she then wiped the jelly off my stomach and began her speech.
"It is my strong recommendation that you abort this fetus."
Not...baby, child, infant...fetus.
"The laws are kind-of tricky in Utah, but I can get around them."
I remember just sobbing and asking repeatedly "Why? Why should I abort him?"
Her reply was not matched with gentle looks or tender gestures, just a scientific "Well...he will die anyway. Most likely in utero, or soon after birth. If he lives, he will be profoundly retarded and have no quality of life. You will most likely not be able to have future children as well. Don't you want another child?"
As if I didn't want this one.
As if I cared at all about his nose, or toes, or forehead or lip.
I turned to Blair and said, "No. I am not aborting him. I am keeping him."
Blair's eyes were welled with tears and he confirmed the decision.
The doctor, rather disgustedly, then asked if she could do an amnio. I agreed and she scheduled a time to do it later in the afternoon. In the interim, she sent Blair and I to see a genetic counselor. I don't remember much of her nonsense, other than some bull crap about how I should "Go home and hug the daughter I had."
Really? Grief 101 says NEVER compare the dying to the living.
If I hadn't been in such an out of body, emotional state, I would've schooled her.
That was when the floating began...
Floating from the office, down to the cafeteria.
Floating through the phone call to my father where I said through tears that my only hope was to hold him alive.
Floating through the amnio and the giant sized needle that went into my stomach.
Floating through the doctor's discontent with my decision.
Floating through scheduling another appointment with her for three weeks later.
Floating...
The car ride home was nearly silent. It was bumper to bumper the entire way due to the storm, which in hindsight was a beautiful gift. It gave me a little time to come down from the cloud I was floating on and into reality. I needed reality before I could greet my very alive and perceptive three year old Abby.
The next three weeks were a living nightmare. I woke up each morning and pushed and pushed until I could get Deakon to move. I truly never dared to fall asleep for fear it would be the last time I could feel him. I refused to wear maternity clothes...they were just a stark reminder of what was not going to happen for me. Boxes of baby clothes I had ordered online were delivered and carefully stuffed away inside closets by my sister. I remembering showering each morning and planning his funeral; the announcements, the blankets (which I wanted to make), the songs.
Raw grief is never pretty.
Then, one day, I woke up.
I woke up and made a choice.
A conscious choice to have hope.
A conscious choice to fully live the time I had with my sweet boy.
I woke up, and I got to work on being happy.
And, although I have "moments", I have not looked back. Period.
...This darling woman and I made plans to go to dinner within the next few days. We were there for hours, and hardly had any time to eat (although I think I drank 6 diet cokes). I really consider it an immense privilege to have maybe been a small glimmer of hope and empathy during a time that is nearly indescribable with words. Words I haven't put to paper, except for once right after Deak's birth, until now. Words that simmer up buckets of emotions I can proudly say I muffled and waddled my way through. Words that describe an experience which brought me one of the two most important gifts in my life. Words that describe an experience which forever changed the human I am capable of being.
