Thoughts and Emotions

How does one go forward when you've spent a little over 8 months, or two-thirds of a year, eagerly anticipating the arrival of a person that you and your husband created only to have that dream taken away?  How can I go on when she cannot?  I can neither wrap my heart nor my head around this.  I doubt I ever will be able to.  I call this the coulda, shoulda, woulda.  If I could have traded places with her I would have.   I should have done more for her as her mother.   And I would have done anything I could have to spend just a fraction of a second kissing her and telling her I love her while she was still living.

I want to rage and lash out at someone or something, but I don't even know who or what to lash out to.  I want to march up to God and scream at the top of my lungs - why was our baby taken from us?  I don't even care how sacrilegious that is or if that offends some - it's how I feel.  At this point, even if he sent me straight to Hell for it, I'd tell him that I'm already there so it wouldn't matter.  And if it wasn't God's doing, I'd like to know why nature chose to take our baby from us. 

I want to be mad at the doctors - after all, they have all given conflicting information on my vasa previa condition from the start.  One said that our baby probably wouldn't have made it no matter what we did - if I started bleeding at some point, it would have been too late, even if we had caught her distress, it would have happened so fast we couldn't have gotten to her soon enough.  That same doctor told us that unlike the rest of the umbilical cord, there is no natural protective coating over the exposed membranes so it was easier for her to crimp her own cord.  My doctor and the other doctor never explained that to us - but I wish I had known that little tidbit.  The maternal fetal specialist thought the condition did not carry any additional risks of the baby hurting her own cord.  Who am I supposed to believe?  Modern medicine for all of its advancements still ultimately sucks.  I keep telling myself that if I had advocated more that morning that I was worried about the dip in her heartbeat, maybe they could have done more.  But I know they would have said it all looked normal.  Even if I had told them to do something, it would have been irresponsible for any of the doctors to just outright take me downstairs for a c-section at 32 weeks and 6 days for what to them seemed like a perfectly healthy, developing baby.  I know all of this, but I still feel that I should be angry with myself.

I used to be a fairly religious person when I was younger, but since my college years I haven't been so religious.  Don't get me wrong - I am spiritual in my own way and have been for awhile, I just don't know where I stand on the whole religious thing.  I believe in a higher power and whatever form that falls in, I'm angry with it right now.  This blog isn't about discussing religion or spiritual beliefs though, it's just a way for me to talk about how I feel so please don't take offense to what I'm saying if you don't necessarily agree with my positions.

I want to feel angry that this outcome happened to Doug and I.  Are we not good people?  Are we not deserving of all the happiness that most mothers and fathers feel holding their babies?  Would we not make amazing parents who would give Ellison all of the unconditional love imaginable?  We see so much negativity in our line of work all the time - children and babies who are mistreated, abused, born to inadequate or uncaring parents, who are unloved, neglected, and sometimes who even lose their lives at the hands of a loved one or caretaker.  Why do these individuals get to have babies, and we cannot have our baby?  I know that fair is not a concept known to nature, but this certainly does not seem right.  How could this be?  I've always been a rational thinker - I'm not an idealist, I'm a realist.  But no rational thought can explain this tragedy to me, and it kills me every day.

I feel jealous of others' joy.  I know that sounds terrible, and deep down I know that I am very happy for all of my friends who have beautiful babies all the time.  I would never wish this pain on any of them.  But I do feel jealous and upset that Doug and I cannot feel this overwhelming happiness that occurs when your baby comes crying into this world and you get to hold them for the first time and cry tears of happiness and kiss their little forehead and tell them you love them.  I will never be able to do that with Ellison.  What I wouldn't trade for one minute, one hour, one day, one week, one year, 10 years, or a lifetime with Ellison.  Just to be able to reach down, hold her, and kiss her little forehead or cheek while she was still living and tell her how much I love her.  I sit here and wish this every minute of every day.

I wake up early every morning with all of these emotions crashing inside my head.  Utter and complete sadness, anger, and disbelief.  Wondering how I can even get up and move.  Sometimes just wishing I could sleep it away for a day and not have to face it.  What I wouldn't give to be able to just turn back time and make them take her that morning so that she'd be here - in our arms or sleeping in her room.  In fact, every morning when I get up, I go into her room and sit in the rocker.  I just talk to her and tell her that even if she can't hear me, that I have to tell her that I love her, and miss her, and wish that things had been different.  I play songs for her - songs like "You Are My Sunshine" or "You Are So Beautiful" or "To Make You Feel My Love," or whatever speaks to me at the time.  I look at her pictures, and her little box of ashes - all I have to remind me of her.  I smell her clothes - that is the only sense I have left for my daughter.  I can't touch her, or see her, or hear her ever again.  I can only smell her scent.  I have no idea what I will do when that scent fades from her clothes...

I'll never be able to post online or tell my friends all of the things that normal mothers get to about their babies.  I won't be able to commiserate with those who talk about their babies crying all night, or being fussy, or wishing that they had time to themselves since the baby has been born, or all of the little complaints that normal mothers often have and have the right to have.  I won't be able to post her milestones - when she first smiles, or laughs, or rolls over, or sits up, or crawls, or talks, or walks.  I'll never be able to share memories with her and watch her grow and evolve.  I'll never know who she would have become or who she would have favored - me, Doug, or some combination thereof.  These thoughts consume me.  And fill me with extreme sadness.

Doug and I have discussed the possibility of a future pregnancy.  We both agree that we want to try again.  Not because we want to replace Ellison, for this is impossible, but because we feel we have much love to share.  Doug was quite apprehensive when he first learned that we were having a girl - he was so sure it would be a boy.  It took him awhile to accept that he was going to have a little daddy's girl princess to raise.  But when he first held Ellison, he felt all of his apprehensions fade.  She already had him wrapped around her finger, and she wasn't even there to realize this.  So when we do welcome another child into our family (because I have to believe that we will, one way or another), we will tell him or her everyday about Ellison.  They will know about their big sister and how amazing she was. 

It will be a struggle to enjoy that pregnancy for thoughts of a similar outcome and sadness will creep over me.  But I will just have to accept that I cannot control nature and will just have to let it transpire as it may.  And the day that I do hold my baby in my arms will be bittersweet.  I will cry both out of happiness and sadness, knowing that Ellison did not get to experience it.  Until then however, I will continue to fight through my anger, sadness, and guilt I feel for our loss of Ellie.  I will continue to talk to her, and love and miss her, and long for what may have been.  This will consume me forever.

-Next up will be the hopes and dreams that we had for Ellison.  I'm trying to attach a video my brother made about our journey with Ellison.  This was part of his grieving process, and I find it beautifully sad and fitting tribute to Ellie.  I hope it loads.  If it doesn't, I will post it separately to Facebook later.