60 freaking days

A few weeks ago, I was desperate for a baby. I considered getting pregnant before the exome results came back just so I didn’t feel chained to this unknown, and also because in September I will be of “advanced maternal age.”

I guess 35 is the new 40.

Since then I have done a thorough soul searching. Why do I want a baby? Will a new baby make me happy? Will it be like balm to my raw heart? Will it lessen the pain of losing my boys? Will it save my marriage? (Note: I am happily married now, but the stress of two dead babies in the first year of marriage is getting awfully heavy for both of us. I’m noticing the cracks).

The answers are plain and simple. “No.”

The sound of my mental answer to my own insane questions was the sound of brakes being applied to my future. Sanity has returned - no baby making until we have an exome report.

With exactly 60 days left until E-day, my heart has given up - mostly because it can’t take any more sorrow.

I was doing better - emotionally cruising after a wonderful out-of-state visit with family. I took a jet plane to a place where none of this exists - there are no rooms with sad memories, no in-laws to avoid, no waves of disappointment to surf.

Then came Valentine’s Day. Now why, you might ask, does the most romantic day of the year bring me so much sadness? On Feb. 17, 2012, I went in for my routine ultrasound - you know, the fun one - with the expectation of eating lunch with hubby after and then zipping to my daughter’s school to tell her if she was going to have a baby brother or a baby sister. A few days before, on Valentine’s Day, I gave my husband a sports-themed baby bib set in our baby excitement. My Valentine’s card is full of his love for me and the anticipation of being a father.

Instead, of course, on Feb. 17, I left the doctor’s office in tears, sat for an hour on hold with my insurance company — which did not want to cover a high-risk ultrasound that same day — and ended up having an amniocentesis. Then I went to my in-law’s house and told them that their grandson would not likely be born.

Fast forward a month. After all the tests and ultrasounds and MRI’s and EKG’s and meeting after meeting with doctors and specialists - the baby dies two days after my grandmother dies. At her funeral, my family treats me like a crazy person who had a hysterical pregnancy. Like I made the whole thing up. My imaginary dead baby, conjured for dramatic effect.

I find that I link all my bad memories to holidays. Valentine’s Day = almost dead baby. St. Patrick’s Day = dead baby, dead grandma. Easter = dead baby estimated due date. Fourth of July = dead baby estimated due date. Halloween = dead baby. My birthday =  almost dead baby. Christmas = too much sorrow to handle all in one day. I won’t even talk about Mother’s Day and Father’s Day.

So I get off the airplane from my states-away vacation and I’m back to dead baby reality: the one year anniversary of that “supposed to be fun” ultrasound. The kick off of a year of sad ‘one year anniversaries.’