I'm not sure that I really felt like a mother until they told me that my son was going to die. I loved Scarlet, but had severe post-partum depression and it felt like I was taking care of someone else's child a lot of the time. Maybe it was just because of so many years of taking care of other people's children, and loving each of them deeply, Whatever it was, "motherhood" didn't hit me over the head until I got that phone call. I was so excited for that call...they were going to tell me the gender of my second child. It was only later that I realized I had never asked about the gender at all and had to call her back. Being told that my son had trisomy 18, and what that meant, was overwhelming. The next day they set us up for a CVS but on the ultrasound they saw that his problems were so severe that there was no need. It was simply fact. He had trisomy 18 and it was going to kill him. Soon. I went home and felt grief like an earthquake through my whole body. I thought I would split in two with the force of it. We decided to name him Orion, so he would always be with us, shining down from the night sky.
Later that night, when everyone else was asleep, I woke up deeply troubled. I went downstairs and started running water for a bath. Orion had violent seizures. It was awful. I wanted to hold him and kiss him and comfort him, but we were separated by my own body. I rubbed my belly and tried to calm him, frantically thinking about all I knew about death and how to help the dying. And told him that he didn't have to fight anymore. That we knew he couldn't stay with us, and we would love him no matter where he was - whether here on earth or up in the heavens. That we didn't want him to suffer. He could go if he was ready. They were the most difficult words I have ever said. It tore my soul apart to say those words...but that's what mothers do. We tear ourselves apart to spare our child any suffering that we possibly can. His body calmed, I rested in the bath for a while, and went back to bed. In the morning I knew he was gone. I have never felt so alone in all my life. It was valentine's day.
I spent the next few days researching birth options and funeral options and tried to plan a meaningful birth for my dead child. In the end, his birth was beautiful and sacred and wonderful. The staff were amazing and compassionate, the labor was spiritual. He was blessed by a clergyman shortly after he was born, we took photos and hand and foot prints. We cradled him and smiled at him and cried. He had the cutest little nose. We decided on cremation, so that we wouldn't have to leave him behind yet.
I went home and kept living, for Scarlet and Derrick, because that's also what a mother does. She keeps going, keeps loving, keeps mothering, no matter how impossible it is.
But now I am nearing the end of my third pregnancy, a pregnancy that has triggered memories and flashbacks and grief with every kick, every nuance of being pregnant, every night, every day. There is no break from the reminders. There is no break to regain my composure or separate my grief from my joy or catch my breath. I try to make time for each of them each day: for Iris, for Orion, and for Scarlet. It is very hard to do. I'm exhausted with trying to convince my heart to be rational, to keep their pregnancies and births separate. To keep moving forward. And the further we get, the more I am also reminded of Scarlet's pregnancy and birth and all the trauma it held.
So when I say that I am ready for this pregnancy to be over, it is not because I wish for a preemie...I would do anything to spare Iris any suffering...even continue on through Orion's first birthday, continue on until 39 weeks and 1 day to when the doctors say it is the safest for her to be born. I just feel like I used up all my grace to get through Orion's pregnancy and death and birth. I don't have enough left to get through this pregnancy with composure and a shining face. I am terrified, and I am doing it anyway, I just can't do it with a smile at this point. We have our moments of wonder as Iris shifts and wiggles inside of me, moments of joy and happy anticipation...but "grace" has been elusive. And I'm okay with that. I don't need grace to give birth to a healthy Iris. It may look like a mess to everyone else, they may want to cheer me up or tell me to focus on the future or focus on the positives or to let go of my grief. But I don't have the energy to do any of that. I have enough energy to be a MOM, to all 3 of my kids, and that's what I'm going to keep doing. Because its the right thing to do. For them. For me. And for my husband.
Because that's what mothers do.
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