Hey Jude — Ending a Chapter

Today, Jude is two years and 10 months old. In exactly eight weeks, we’ll (okay, I’ll because let’s be honest about who’s doing the ‘heavy lifting’ here) hopefully deliver our fourth and final baby via scheduled C-section on December 21 at approximately 37 weeks.

I don’t know if it’s the sleep deprivation that’s –this time—come from excess work or the reality that this is it, but I’ve been so much more emotional in the past few months than I have been in the past year when I think about and talk about my Jude.

If you’ve ever lost someone, first, I’m very sorry. Second, you know that most of the time…you’re okay. You mourn privately and usually on anniversary days, perhaps their birthday or the day they passed away, but otherwise, you don’t walk around with your emotions bubbling below the surface (that’s not to say you’re not always thinking about your that you don’t still love the person you lost, of course).

I’ll admit that I thought I was past the point of spontaneous tears, but it seems I’m not. Because we don’t know the gender of this “mystery baby”, I ordered a very cute “Baby’s First Christmas” outfit in the newborn size. As soon as I did, I thought about the what ifs…a great thing for when I’m writing fiction; not so much for when I’m thinking about what could happen between now and December 21 and even afterward (I’m very anxious about delivering at 37ish weeks and about possibly having to have a steroid shot to develop the baby’s lungs prior to; I’m also anxious about the baby having medical complications due to being delivered so early.).

But, the what ifs…they come whether you want them to or not. Before I could hit stop and eject on the thought process, my mind was at Jude’s funeral, and I was standing in front of that little teeny satin box, and his teeny body was in it and dressed in his little blue outfit, and he was there, but he wasn’t, and …just thinking about it, it makes me cry. I miss him so much. I’m so afraid of going through that again. The thing is, it’s okay that no one can say anything to make it ‘okay’ because it’s just not okay.

There are some things, some circumstances in life that are too complicated for words to make right. I think about my friend who brought coffee the next day at like, 6:00 in the morning before her shift at the hospital. It was coffee. That stuff most of us drink every day so our facial muscles function properly (I might be over-sharing here.) But, you know, it was so much more than coffee. It was just…showing up and wanting to help and bringing that one little comfort that I couldn’t get. It was her tact in not trying to say the “right” thing because there really is no right thing you can say.

I’ve observed more and more people put their foot in it trying to say the right thing instead of just keeping their mouth shut. I’m still a member of the Pregnancy after Loss group, and what some of these women endure is surreal. One pregnant “friend” asked a mom two months after her loss if she could buy or have her baby things since she wouldn’t need them. Other times, people suggest that the women can always have more babies, or they suggest that if they already have one child, “At least you have (first child / children).” They don’t understand why the women don’t celebrate when and if they can / do get pregnant again.

I know I’m not as sensitive to some stimuli as other PALs, but I get being pregnant again not necessarily being a cause to celebrate. It’s like walking across one of those broken wooden rope bridges in an Indiana Jones film. Maybe you’ve made it once, maybe you haven’t, but there was that one time where the board beneath your feet broke and you fell. You almost died, and it took every ounce of hope and humanity that you possessed to get up and to climb back to the top of the cliff and to start walking again. The walk is never the same. Every step, every board looks nefarious. It doesn’t matter that a team of engineers are encouraging you and assuring you that everything looks great with this bridge. There’s no reason for you to not make it to the other side. You want to believe them. You want to enjoy the scenery on the walk, but there’s no foregoing the trauma from “the fall.”

Eight weeks, especially the last eight weeks are the most treacherous part of my pregnancy journey. I’m trying really hard to hold it together as I cross the bridge, but I’m scared of heights, and I don’t like pain if I can avoid it.

I don’t want to fall again. I want to make it to the other side just one more time because this is the last time. No matter what happens on this journey, this is it. It’s not that I couldn’t try “one more time” if the unthinkable what if happens. It’s just…I don’t want to. It’s too much on me and on Sean and on our family. Being able to have children is and has been a blessing to us, but the emotional and physical burden isn’t healthy.

At the same time, closing this door somehow causes me to feel like I’ll lose a little piece of Jude. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve felt kicks or had headaches or experienced some other nuance that reminded me of Jude’s pregnancy. I’m going to miss that. I don’t want to let go of feelings that make me feel more connected to him, even if those are the same feelings that make me cry uncontrollably when I hear about someone else’s trauma or when I think about the “what ifs”.

Like all endings, this will be bittersweet. Right now, the hope of just having a healthy baby in eight weeks fully overshadows the gravity of this life transition, but I know that once it sinks in, I’ll (hopefully) be complete in a sense and can celebrate starting a new chapter while reflecting more meaningfully on the one that I’m about to turn the page on.

***

Dear Jude,

I don’t know what to say other than I love you, and I miss you. I wish I could remember you better. A PAL was asking if other moms looked at their baby’s tummy or patted their little bottoms, the kinds of things that moms do when their baby is alive. I’m sorry that I never saw what color eyes you had or changed your little diaper or gave you a bath. I remember your feet and hands; I love your feet and hands. I love the way it kind of felt like you held our hands. There’s a part of me that’s not in this world because you’re not here. I appreciate that you make me a stronger, better person in so many ways. I wouldn’t be who or where I am if not for you, and that’s not something I can necessarily say to your sisters or to mystery baby, so you’re very special to me. I just miss you, and there’s a selfish part of me who wishes she could have you here. I wish I was planning a little third birthday party right now and perhaps complaining about how hard it is to plan a birthday party at Christmas time and just be completely unaware of how nice it is to have that problem. I don’t mean that people who have that take their precious babies for granted because I know that they don’t, but I just wish…that was the most of my problems.

Anyway, I love you so much my beautiful boy. I’ll see you one day –sooner than later in the grand scheme of things.

You’re in my heart.

Love,
Mommy

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