Sitting in the room at the doctors office that day, after being told that our baby was dead and listening to our "options" for his delivery, OBitch mentioned that not having another c-section would mean a quicker recovery and that would mean we could 'try again' sooner, if we chose to do that. (She also made the now infamous comment about how I would feel "great" afterwards, if I delivered vaginally, cuz you know not every woman feels great after delivering their dead child but if you do it vaginally, well then, it's happy time...I know I'm beating it with a dead horse but I am still so pissed she said that to me) Anyway, when she mentioned the 'trying again' I looked at my husband and whispered to him, "Will you let us try again?" I was pretty sure I knew what the answer would be from him. "Not in a million years, give or take a lifetime.". He looked at me and just said, "We can talk about it later, let's just get through this now.". I knew that was a no, he just didn't want to upset me, anymore than I already was anyway, by telling me right then that our third child, the one I wanted so desperately, that we had finally agreed to have, was really going to be our last, even though he was going to be born still.
In my mind, I was already planning on another one. Before we even left for the hospital, as I sat on the examining table I started thinking that if I got pregnant right away the next baby would only be 5 or 6 months younger than the one I was carrying at that moment, had he been born as 'planned'. You know, alive and all that. I know it's horrible isn't it? It is so callous. I had already decided to move on from the nightmare. Fill in the gap. Make another baby, pretend like it never happened. Life goes on, blah, blah blah.
I know now, I was in shock. I was searching for anything to make the indescribable pain, the unbelievable heartache and utter helplessness I felt, go away. The only thing I could come up with was, make another baby, quick like, then you won't have to be this person, this dead baby mom, for more than a few moments. People will forget, you won't be the "poor lady whose baby died", it'll be a blip, not the exclamation point at the end of the sentence. A new baby will fix everything.
I was so wrong. Obviously. I know I will always be a dead baby mom. I know nothing will take away the loss. That I can't fill the void, not even with a hundred living babies could I even begin to mend the crevice in my heart that has been carved out by C.a.leb's death . You can't fix a dead baby. You just can't. Why then, do I keep trying?
I still hope against hope for a healthy, alive baby. I still hope against hope that a healthy, alive baby will take away some of this pain, that a healthy, alive baby will magically make me 'better'. That a healthy, alive baby will be my "Get out of Dead Baby Land Free" pass. Why am I putting this pressure on myself and worse on another baby? What will happen to me if I never get there? If I never get that healthy, alive baby? How much of my grief have I totally denied by throwing myself back into the "Let's Make a Baby" game? How absolutely crazy am I to put myself and my family in a position to have to relive this nightmare again if things don't go as "planned"....with a subsequent pregnancy?
Am I still in shock? Am I still in denial? Am I just seeing things clearer since easing up on the ah, booze and quitting all the medicinal, umm, aides, but still mentally fucking myself with baby dreams?
That's my new fear. That's the big worry, not that I won't be able to live with this, but that I won't be able to live with the aftermath, the reality of putting all my eggs in one basket. And having the basket get run over by the truck coming round the corner, the one I can hear but can still pretend is headed in another direction, while I stand here frozen, holding all my eggs in one very tiny, fragile basket.