Next weekend will be Mothers Day. It would have been my second mother's day. In a month, on 5 June, it will mark 2 years since I found out my second baby's heartbeat had stopped beating. In some ways, it feels as though it was only yesterday that it happened. In some ways, it feels like an eternity. No matter how long ago it feels, the pain is still there. I've read the stories of others, I know that there are women who lost a baby 40+ years ago who still feel this pain. I guess I'll have to get used to it.
Its funny the things you remember two years later... I remember remember walking out into a waiting room balling my eyes out like a lunatic, and that the room felt like it was full of pregnant women or small children. I don't remember the drive home, but I remember the strong urge I had to get in the shower when I got there. I remember for some reason thinking that if I just got in the shower, it would feel better, that everything would be OK, that maybe I'd wake up and it would be a dream, that maybe a shower would stop the hurt. It didn't.
I remember my ex bringing in a glass with straight bourbon and I remember saying that I shouldn't be drinking that because it might hurt our babies, and then the stabbing pain in my chest when I realised the irony of what I'd just said. Too late for that. I skulled it down. I don't remember the taste or feeling in my mouth. I probably didn't even taste it. I remember having my first coffee of 7 or so weeks, and I remember spilling it all over the carpet when I saw a mouse in the house. I don't remember anything else from there. I know I was given three options about what I could do, but I dont remember any of the conversations, I dont remember any of it happening. I was in shock. It felt surreal, as if it wasn't really happening, yet I had known all along that this is the way it was going to always be.
These days, the pain is much different to those early days. The best way to describe it is some really big injury that hurts like hell when it first happens thats visible to the eye - everyone can see it, but after everything has healed on the outside, on the inside there is that dull ache that remains, and no one can see that. After the external injury has healed, people tend to forget.
The waves of grief have become a little more predictable now, two years later. At first, it was like being out in the rough sea during a huge storm just trying to take a breath before being dragged under the water again, hoping that this one breath will last long enough, just until you can come back up and take another breath of air, and yet in some ways hoping that its not, that you'll drown and you won't have to deal with this pain. It would be easier, after all.
These days, its more like being at the beach. Most of the time, if you look out to the great blue sea, you'll see a massive wave coming down on you, and you can brace yourself for the wave, and most of the time, you can ride the wave because you saw it coming. Mothers Day, the angelversary and the due date/s are these waves. The waves you don't see, the ones that end up dumping you, well, they only come once in a while, and if you're lucky, they don't last long.
I am in awe of women who can go on and try to conceive again straight away. Somewhat jealous too. Yet when I think of ever being in a position myself to be that person, it scares me. Too many unknowns and potential for heartbreak. What if it doesn't happen straight away? What if it happens again? How will I cope with that? I'm definitely not in any hurry for that roller coaster that's for sure. As painful as the not knowing might be, the knowing has the potential to be far more painful.
Each day I wake up one step further away from the babies that I lost. This hurts. For each piece of happiness I feel, I also feel guilt. Why you must ask? If things had been different, if I had not lost the twins, life would be very very different. I would probably not have met my Sydney Boy. I most definitely would never have gone to Sydney last January and therefore I would not be moving to Sydney. Everything comes with a cost. Everything. Think of one thing that doesn't. The cost of meeting my Sydney boy, the cost of moving to Sydney was losing the twins. I'm glad that I didn't personally have to make the choice and I know that I deserve every piece of happiness that I have, but it still hurts.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that I wish I were the person I am today, without having to learn all the lessons in the way I did to get here. Of course, this is a moot point... if I hadnt experienced the things I have, I wouldn't be the same person today, but it's nice to dream isn't it?
Nonetheless, it has happened, whether it was my choice or not, and if this was the price I had to pay for happiness, I figure I'd better make it worth my while, worth the pain to get here. Or else, what was the point?
I remember my ex bringing in a glass with straight bourbon and I remember saying that I shouldn't be drinking that because it might hurt our babies, and then the stabbing pain in my chest when I realised the irony of what I'd just said. Too late for that. I skulled it down. I don't remember the taste or feeling in my mouth. I probably didn't even taste it. I remember having my first coffee of 7 or so weeks, and I remember spilling it all over the carpet when I saw a mouse in the house. I don't remember anything else from there. I know I was given three options about what I could do, but I dont remember any of the conversations, I dont remember any of it happening. I was in shock. It felt surreal, as if it wasn't really happening, yet I had known all along that this is the way it was going to always be.
These days, the pain is much different to those early days. The best way to describe it is some really big injury that hurts like hell when it first happens thats visible to the eye - everyone can see it, but after everything has healed on the outside, on the inside there is that dull ache that remains, and no one can see that. After the external injury has healed, people tend to forget.
The waves of grief have become a little more predictable now, two years later. At first, it was like being out in the rough sea during a huge storm just trying to take a breath before being dragged under the water again, hoping that this one breath will last long enough, just until you can come back up and take another breath of air, and yet in some ways hoping that its not, that you'll drown and you won't have to deal with this pain. It would be easier, after all.
These days, its more like being at the beach. Most of the time, if you look out to the great blue sea, you'll see a massive wave coming down on you, and you can brace yourself for the wave, and most of the time, you can ride the wave because you saw it coming. Mothers Day, the angelversary and the due date/s are these waves. The waves you don't see, the ones that end up dumping you, well, they only come once in a while, and if you're lucky, they don't last long.
I am in awe of women who can go on and try to conceive again straight away. Somewhat jealous too. Yet when I think of ever being in a position myself to be that person, it scares me. Too many unknowns and potential for heartbreak. What if it doesn't happen straight away? What if it happens again? How will I cope with that? I'm definitely not in any hurry for that roller coaster that's for sure. As painful as the not knowing might be, the knowing has the potential to be far more painful.
Each day I wake up one step further away from the babies that I lost. This hurts. For each piece of happiness I feel, I also feel guilt. Why you must ask? If things had been different, if I had not lost the twins, life would be very very different. I would probably not have met my Sydney Boy. I most definitely would never have gone to Sydney last January and therefore I would not be moving to Sydney. Everything comes with a cost. Everything. Think of one thing that doesn't. The cost of meeting my Sydney boy, the cost of moving to Sydney was losing the twins. I'm glad that I didn't personally have to make the choice and I know that I deserve every piece of happiness that I have, but it still hurts.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that I wish I were the person I am today, without having to learn all the lessons in the way I did to get here. Of course, this is a moot point... if I hadnt experienced the things I have, I wouldn't be the same person today, but it's nice to dream isn't it?
Nonetheless, it has happened, whether it was my choice or not, and if this was the price I had to pay for happiness, I figure I'd better make it worth my while, worth the pain to get here. Or else, what was the point?
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