Anger, Disappointment, Frustration, Resentment, Failure
& Grief. These emotions have passed
through me so many times over the last 7 yrs.
Each time I celebrate one of my children’s birthdays, each time I go to
a baby shower, each time I see a very pregnant person doing things I was never
able to do. Fly in a plane, take a trip,
go shopping, wander about somewhere so everyone can see my baby bump, have a
baby shower while still pregnant so I can have my belly measured for the stupid
toilet paper measuring game.
“You should be Thankful!”
they say. “It could have been worse.”,
so I have heard. “You have three
perfect, healthy children you must be grateful it all worked out.” they
explain. Yes, I am, grateful. Grateful, that I was lucky. Grateful, that I
have my health and that my life was never at medical risk. Grateful, that I have three beautiful, healthy
children with no issues whatsoever. What I am not grateful for is feeling like I
missed out on something. For feeling
like I did something wrong. Like I
somehow messed up somewhere. Like I am a failure at the most basic female thing
the woman body was designed for. I have
given myself three chances and I have failed all three times. You see I am a preemie mom. Not of one, not of two, but three. Three babies all born early. I have never succeeded in making past a full
34 weeks of pregnancy. For some reason
my body decides that these precious little beings, that it’s supposed to be
growing and protecting, are ready to come out.
My first was born at 31 weeks. It was a surprise, a shock, and something completely not understood. Why had I gone into labor this early? They didn’t know. I wasn’t sick at all, I wasn’t anymore stressed than a normal pregnant woman, I wasn’t suffering from any of the bevy of things that will cause a woman to go into preterm labor. I didn’t smoke or use drugs, I drank maybe a few sips twice of wine during the whole pregnancy, I had good prenatal care from 6 weeks on, and I was only carrying one child. It was unknown, spontaneous labor it was labeled as. I secretly blamed my old boss and my old job. “The amount of stress they put me through in the early months of my pregnancy must have caused some trauma somewhere.” I thought to myself in the dark, angry corner of my brain, “Maybe it was that stupid turbulence on the plane or the incompetent pilot with his bumpy landing” Surely there was some reason, any reason. But it couldn’t be me…. Right? I played the role of the stoic preemie- in- the NICU mom for 51 days, all the while screaming silently inside. Raging at myself, the world, my luck for my lot and what I had somehow failed to provide for my son so early on.
The second baby we were slightly more prepared for the possibility. Since I had a preemie before I was at a
higher risk. So I had been taking 17P
shots. Every week past 16 weeks I got a
shot in the butt. Then for some reason, at almost the exact same time as I
started to go into labor with the first, it happened again. 31 weeks I went in for contractions and sure
enough I was in labor. Again. They were,
by the wonder of modern medicine and maybe by some sheer force of will by me,
able to stop to it. I was sent home on
bedrest where I made it to just over the 34 week mark, almost touching 35
weeks, when my water broke. I was amazed
when they didn’t feel a need to take her to the NICU and sent her straight home
with me. I was frightened and elated all
at the same time. Here amongst the
failure was some success.
The third time… I dreaded it. Feared it, half let it control
me, but hoped that among all lost hopes that it would not happen again. I was made
all the more frightened, but optimistically hopeful, by the early miscarriage experienced
between 2 and 3. That I would somehow make it past that 34 week mark, forward
onto the 36th week and perhaps against all odds to the ultimate goal
of 40. Again with the barrage of weekly
shots. Again with the choosing purposely to slow things down on my own after
reaching so many weeks, letting others pick up some of the slack in our
household. I was even going so far as to
limit myself in other areas that my OB assured shouldn’t have anything to do
with anything. I was taking no chances
this time. I would (HAD) to make
it. To reassure myself that I wasn’t
broken or the failure I was concerned I was.
But that dream was burst quickly
when at almost 29 weeks it happened again.
I randomly started to have contractions that resulted in another observation
period in the hospital with medicines to stop the labor. I was again placed on bedrest at home where I
made it a few days before I had to go back and spend 2 weeks on bedrest at the
hospital for a very slight rupture and small amounts of leaking. Those
2 weeks were hell. I missed my husband,
I missed my kids. I felt even more like
a failure than I possibly ever did before.
I was a living breathing but barely working right incubator. Finally I
was able to go home again where I made it another 2 weeks before once again my
body decided it was time for this child to be born. I was 34 weeks on the dot. She only spent a week in the NICU but my soul
felt crushed again. The panic from the
previous NICU experience threatened to spring forth each day I visited her and
had to leave her there when I left. My body only going through the motions of
life during the moments when my mind would break quietly down. I felt that had
failed…again.
It’s been almost one year since the birth of my third child
and I know now I am experiencing is quite possibly some post-traumatic stress
disorder in combination with depression during the moments of flashbacks. Of these in your face reminders of what I have
not been able to accomplish, of what I have failed at. I attended a baby shower today. I had prepared myself for the sight of the
honored mother to be. What I was not
prepared for was her 4 other very pregnant friends. They were happy, moving around on their own
two feet, one even eagerly wanting the evacuation of her child to begin. I was happy for them. I want nothing more than full term
pregnancies for them, with blissful and safe labors that end with healthy
babies. But I hated them all at the
same time. Hate is a strong word; I
should say I despised them, envied them.
Them… who did not realize that they were flaunting their accomplishments
in the face of one who had failed to do what they were succeeding at. These women who wanted to talk with my about
my own pregnancies with some joy but more commiserating of the woes of pregnancy
especially at the point they were at.
That point which I have never truly made it to and never will. Not without the shock of going into labor and
being robbed of my last two months. No
without shots, bedrest, or constant worry if I will make it to that critical 34th
week point to give my babies to best chance possible. Of not knowing WHY I can’t
carry a child past 34 weeks and being unable to do anything fix it. I found myself excusing myself to check on my
middle child or feed my youngest to avoid the conversation. My heart was not in
it and I did not want to upset these happy women with my tales of woe and embitterment.
When asked if I plan to have more kids
I shook my head, forcing the tears threatening to leave their ducts to roll
down my face to stay put. I have given
myself three chances to do it right and each time I have failed for some
unknown reason. I honestly don’t think I
can willingly put myself through it again.
I am tired of playing the game of Russian Roulette with my pregnancies. I have wanted my children more than anything
and if I could be guaranteed that I could have more children without the fear of
preterm labor I just might add another to our family, but that may be the loss
of my third pregnancy speaking. But that guarantee is not possible, so I
accept the good fortune and luck that I have children that are beautiful, healthy,
and perfect and are not affected at all by their preterm births or NICU stays.
But
the pain is still there. The scars were
cut deep and will never fully heal. The
pain fades most of the time only to come rushing back at moments when I least
expect it. I know that I am not the
failure my depressed side thinks I am but there are moments that it is hard to
fully make myself believe it. The reminders
of how I should be grateful that everything worked out in the end don’t help
during those times of darkness and only lead me deeper into the drowning despair. At those times I just to need rage for a bit, to
let the anger out so that once I feel empty of it I can once again to allow
myself to see the light of what the ultimate end result of all pregnancy is. My children.
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