Fear, revisited

A lot of people tell me I need to start enjoying my pregnancy more and making the most of it.

Because you know, these months carrying our children inside are special times. Times to be looked back on fondly and treasured.

I wish it were that simple.

If I can't have Hope back, what I would like back is my innocence and ability to find pure joy in a gestation for my babies. I had that. I had it with full force with Hope. I was skipping through life without a care or worry in the world. I was the pregnant person I now hate. I wonder how many babylost mamas I inadvertently pissed off during my nine months with Hope? I wonder how many people were secretly blogging about me being the clueless twat who had no idea how lucky she was? I shudder to think, I really do.

I spose I did have my worries with Hope though, but they were not like they are today, not by a long shot. I'd worry about things like whether our car was really big enough. How long I'd be able to afford take off work. Whether I had enough clothes and wraps. If I was really going to be able to keep up with washing cloth nappies. And if was the pram going to be maneuverable enough in our hilly neighbourhood.

Now my fear is - the baby dying in utero again at or close to full term without warning.

Only those who have had a baby die, especially one who died inside of them, could possibly understand.

I know all too well how quickly things can go from good to bad.

How quickly babies can go from active to still.

How quickly they can go from dead to alive.

How quickly you can go from life source to death bed.

I know, because it is all I know. It is my only experience. Sure, it is not normal. Sure, most of the time that's not how how it goes. But that's all I know. It is the only way it has happened for me. So forgive me for thinking this way, but there is not a positive experience I can fall back on here. I haven't done this birthing a live child thing before.

I've said before and I'll say it again - nights are hard.

Whenever he's not moving, I think he's dead. It is that simple.

This poor little boy of mine, I spend so much time poking at him. When I sleep, he seems to sleep with me, but whenever I stir at night and realise he's not stirring with me, I fret. There seems to be no real way around this though. It is what it is. It is all part of the hellish yet hopeful journey that is pregnancy after loss. The fears are real and they lurk around every corner.

I can have four or five good nights in a row, then I get a bad one. A night where I toss and turn and constantly prod at him. It normally ends up with a late night glass of orange juice and quick use of the Doppler, but I wish it didn't have to be like this. I wish I could just be free of this fear and living amongst the pregnant innocents again. Like the woman I saw in a shop today, buying CD of whale music to listen to through her labour.

I am ok though. Really. This is where I come to vent/share/offload various tid bits of information on my mind. These things don't dominate my thoughts, but I often just need to get them out. Mostly, I'm ok. I am enjoying pregnancy. I am loving carrying this boy. I do lovingly stroke my belly and yes, sometimes I even do that in public where I might be accidentally pissing someone off. I take lots of pictures of my belly. I am making the most of it. I do count my blessings. I do know how lucky I am.

I just wish I could do it without all this debilitating fear. I want to be the woman in the shop buying whale music. Or the woman packing her hospital bag not wondering if her baby will only need one outfit, one that will end up as a burial outfit. I want to be that woman. That woman who is doing it without this fear. A fear of knowing exactly how bad it can get.