Waiting for answers

Since Max’s birth/death (for it seems they were one and the same thing sometimes) we have had 3rd January in our minds as an ominous date. It seemed like a lifetime away the day we left the hospital, but the time has passed quickly somehow. 3rd January is the day of my follow-up appointment at the hospital. It’s the day I meet with the obstetrician to find out if they were able to ascertain any cause for my early labour. That day is tomorrow and I am terrified - terrified of them finding an answer and at the same time terrified that they will not. I have spent much of the last few days dreaming up my potential reactions to a variety of scenarios that might arise. In one scenario they tell me that there is something terribly wrong with me which means I will never be able to have another baby. In another they tell me that Max’s death was caused by a normally ordinary infection that I should have treated and that it didn’t have to happen; that it was an entirely preventable thing. In the final, they tell me that my baby died because I poisoned him with medication I took throughout the pregnancy for anxiety and depression. It’s ironic that I was depressed when Max was alive and thriving. If I was depressed then, what does that mean I am now?

These situations are, obviously, my greatest fears. In my imagination, I react with anger - pure fury - in the doctor’s office and start yelling and screaming. In the scenario where they tell me there was no obvious answer for why this happened I am also yelling and screaming and losing the plot. I think this is indicative of my whole emotional state at the moment. I’m fucking angry. So angry that I did not think this amount of anger was possible. I do not deal well with anger at the best of times, preferring to internalise it, suppress it, and turn it against myself. At the moment it’s all but destroying me as I cannot get the feelings out no matter how much I try.

A friend suggested I put an old computer out in the backyard and take to it with a cricket bat. Others have suggested a punching bag or some vigorous exercise, but I can’t seem to bring myself to attempt any such thing, so instead I constantly feel like I’m about to be eaten alive by the anger; swallowed whole. Instead, I imagine myself expressing it in less than socially-acceptable ways. In my head I have gouged pregnant women’s eyes out in cafes, pummelled my obstetrician in the guts, cut babies out of their mother’s tummies and ran away with them, and drowned other people’s babies so they, too, can know what this feels like.

I hear what you’re saying - somebody get this woman a psychiatrist - but in truth I already have one. Worst than that, she’s telling me that all these feelings are normal. That I’m allowed to think malicious thoughts and wish people ill-will. I’m finding this ‘new’ me to be rather confronting. I don’t want to admit that there’s a new side of myself that is so jealous and bitter and angry. But at the same time I feel that this part of me is here to stay - that the old Janelle is gone forever.

I’m scared of how I am going to react going back to the hospital tomorrow. Not just because of the trauma that occurred there, but because I am going to have to sit in a waiting room full of about a hundred pregnant women who are there blissfully ignorant of the things that can go wrong; of the tragedies that can befall. Is it wrong to want to shake them and tell them that their baby could die when they least expect it? Is it cruel to go around telling them that I’m there because my baby died, making them deal with the awkwardness of the situation? Is it selfish to expect that they make for me a special space that’s immune from all of these potential confrontations and from the excruciatingly painful reminder that everyone else gets to take their babies home after they’ve been pregnant with them all those months? I feel like all sorts of exceptions should be made for me now that my baby is dead. Haven’t I suffered enough?

Anyway, back to tomorrow… when we were in the hospital they told us that there is only an identifiable cause in about 50% of cases. The rest of the time things happen for no apparent reason, which is so hard to comprehend. I desperately want there to be a reason so that if I am brave enough to try for another baby I will have the knowledge to be able to prevent this from happening again. At the same time I am terrified of finding out the reason in case it is my fault - something I did or didn’t do - as I don’t think I would be able to live with myself. It doesn’t matter how many people tell me that no matter what, it wasn’t my fault, it still already feels like it was no matter the reason. It was my job to keep him safe and my body failed me, and as a result I failed him. In giving birth to my son I also killed him and I go to sleep at night and wake up in the morning with that thought as a constant whirring in my head.

The obstetrician that saw me was a lovely woman and I’m sure she will give us every comfort that she can. I’ve compiled a list of questions that I want to ask her. Some of them I know she won’t know the answer to, but I want to ask her anyway. I just hope that we are not rushed out of there too quickly and that we get the time to get the answers we need. Part of me wants to record the session as I know from experience now how hard it is to remember things that happened while you were stressed, upset or in shock.