To my little birthday boy,
Your darling little mouth. Your kissable, soft cheeks. Your tender baby hands. Your perfect innocent heart. I long for every part of you today on your birthday.
It's hard to believe it's been a year since I held you - so briefly - because to me, your mummy, you are still so real, so present. Sometimes I can still feel the feather-weight of you in my arms if I close my eyes and imagine you there where you belong.
You are the thought behind my every word and gesture. There's nothing I do where you are not with me, inside my aching heart and all around me.
This time last year we still had hope that you would live. You held on inside me for as long as you could, right up until the very end of the day until night came and everything in the world was calm and peaceful. I know you did everything you could to stay with us - taking a big, strong breath and beating that wonderful big heart of yours - but the challenges you faced were insurmountable. We could none of us survive what you faced. I am so thankful that you tried.
The moments we shared, though there could never have been enough of them, were the most intense, unbelievable and precious of my whole life. I could not believe that you were mine, and as I held you I could not believe how anyone expected me to let you go. I still can't comprehend how this became our fate, my little one. I don't know how I got out of the hospital without you, or how I've ever stepped back inside since.
I wish that you had seen the sun. I'm amazed that it continues to shine without you.
I wish that you could have opened your eyes, just once, to see your adoring mummy and daddy's faces. I only hope you felt our love and adoration in other ways.
I hope you did not experience a single moment of our sorrow. I hope we could at least protect you from that.
I wish - how I wish - that you were still here with me today. I wish you knew what it was like to open birthday presents and blow out candles like all the other little boys and girls I know. I can't look at other children without imagining it is you I see instead.
You have my heart, Max, inside your baby hands, today and always.
With all the love I have to give,
Your Mummy
xoxox
Saturday, November 24, 2012
Friday, November 23, 2012
If I could turn back time
If I could find a way.
How many times those phrases have gone through my head today.
On this night last year I was on the cusp of a tomorrow I could not have imagined. It was the 23rd of November, as it is today, and I was at work complaining of cramps in my stomach and joking about what a low pain threshold I had. I sent Leslie a text message, joking, saying 'if these are practice contractions then I'm in trouble when the real ones hit!' I joked about contractions but I never once - not once - considered that I might be actually having them.
If only I'd known.
If I'd gone to the hospital that night, instead of the next morning, would it have made a difference? Would they have been able to stop them? Would Max still be here? The what-ifs and the if-onlys are back in full force today. I haven't seen those for a few months. I forgot how excruciating they are, how all consuming.
On this night last year Max was still safe inside me. He was still alive. I still thought that a few months from then I would be bringing my baby boy home with me. We'd just bought a brand new cot. We'd just bought a brand new pram. I thought it was just a night like any other. I thought the stomach cramps were just another unpleasant side effect of pregnancy. God knows I'd had enough side effects up until that point.
Today hurts much more than I expected. It's not 'the' day of Max's birthday that I have been long approaching. Instead it feels even sadder. Today marks the last day I was a particular kind of person - innocent, hopeful, naive. I didn't know what I had to lose. I didn't know that I was about to lose it. How can that be? How can I get back to that night, that place, that girl?
These thoughts are all pervasive today, all confused between scenes of back then and now, and all the while I'm disbelieving that a year has passed. A year has passed and I still achingly long for my baby. My poor, beautiful baby. My darling little boy.
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Birthdays
Today I spent the morning helping my sister-in-law prepare goodies for her little boy's second birthday party this Saturday. We had such a lovely time baking and packing treat bags, but amongst the fun I couldn't help but feel a lingering sadness that our little boy's birthday BBQ, which we are holding on the 24th, will be missing it's most important guest - our special little boy himself.
I'm finding it difficult to feel comfortable calling the day his 'birthday'. The word sounds too frivolous and happy. In my head I've been calling it the anniversary of his birth, but that doesn't sit right with me either. Why shouldn't he be able to have a 'birthday' like everyone else? In the end, though, it doesn't matter what we call it. 24th November is Max's special day, and a special day for us because it was the day he came into our lives and changed us forever. It's the only day he was ever alive in the outside world. It's the day he took his only breath before returning to the stars from where I'm sure he came.
That we've lived one year without Max is something I can't quite believe. I guess the last few months have crept up on me as I've been so preoccupied with being sick. This week I've been doing a lot of reflecting, and not all of it in a good way. Much of it has been of this kind: 'on this day last year I had no idea of the tragedy that was just about to befall me'. I've learned that my body would have already been priming itself for labour it's just that I didn't know, I didn't recognise the signs. I want to go back, knowing what I now know. It feels as if any window I had to go back and change things will close once Max has been gone for a year. I won't be able to say 'this time last year he was alive' for very much longer.
I wanted to hold a gigantic memorial service for Max's birthday. In truth I want the whole world to stop, and if it wasn't going to of its own accord then I was going to create an occasion that would make people stop and remember that Max was here, and that he mattered, and that he matters still. Apart from the fact that I've been too sick to organise such an event, and that nothing I organised would have come close to matching what I had in my imagination, I also realised I'd be fighting a losing battle. Not everyone will remember Max. At least not everyone will remember Max in the way I want them to. I have to learn to accept that, for my own sake. Others, like my friends on this blog, will remember him though they have less reason to than many of the people I know in my 'real' life.
So instead of a statewide celebration, Leslie and I are holding a small BBQ at a pretty park not far from our house. I don't just want it to be a BBQ, but I don't know how to make sure that Max is included. It doesn't feel right to have party items or first birthday balloons, though I'd like him to have those. Perhaps I should just take a few of his special things, get a few balloons that I could release skyward. How do you have a 'celebration' that is not a celebration, but something quite different? Something bittersweet?
I'm finding it difficult to feel comfortable calling the day his 'birthday'. The word sounds too frivolous and happy. In my head I've been calling it the anniversary of his birth, but that doesn't sit right with me either. Why shouldn't he be able to have a 'birthday' like everyone else? In the end, though, it doesn't matter what we call it. 24th November is Max's special day, and a special day for us because it was the day he came into our lives and changed us forever. It's the only day he was ever alive in the outside world. It's the day he took his only breath before returning to the stars from where I'm sure he came.
That we've lived one year without Max is something I can't quite believe. I guess the last few months have crept up on me as I've been so preoccupied with being sick. This week I've been doing a lot of reflecting, and not all of it in a good way. Much of it has been of this kind: 'on this day last year I had no idea of the tragedy that was just about to befall me'. I've learned that my body would have already been priming itself for labour it's just that I didn't know, I didn't recognise the signs. I want to go back, knowing what I now know. It feels as if any window I had to go back and change things will close once Max has been gone for a year. I won't be able to say 'this time last year he was alive' for very much longer.
I wanted to hold a gigantic memorial service for Max's birthday. In truth I want the whole world to stop, and if it wasn't going to of its own accord then I was going to create an occasion that would make people stop and remember that Max was here, and that he mattered, and that he matters still. Apart from the fact that I've been too sick to organise such an event, and that nothing I organised would have come close to matching what I had in my imagination, I also realised I'd be fighting a losing battle. Not everyone will remember Max. At least not everyone will remember Max in the way I want them to. I have to learn to accept that, for my own sake. Others, like my friends on this blog, will remember him though they have less reason to than many of the people I know in my 'real' life.
So instead of a statewide celebration, Leslie and I are holding a small BBQ at a pretty park not far from our house. I don't just want it to be a BBQ, but I don't know how to make sure that Max is included. It doesn't feel right to have party items or first birthday balloons, though I'd like him to have those. Perhaps I should just take a few of his special things, get a few balloons that I could release skyward. How do you have a 'celebration' that is not a celebration, but something quite different? Something bittersweet?
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Preterm Labour Surveillance Clinic
Sounds like some kind of police forensic department, doesn't it? With all the monitoring and the 'surveillance'. After my first visit a few days ago I realised it was going to be about as personal as one too. The doctor was very business-like, with little warmth or emotion. I know she's not there to hold my hand, that she's there to make sure my baby lives, but I was still taken aback by the clinical nature of the visit. It was all gawking and probing and vague. It didn't feel comforting. It didn't feel reassuring. I left quite overwhelmed with a whole bunch of questions I now can't ask until my next appointment. This is one frustrating thing about a public hospital - you don't get a phone number for your doctor and you don't have any way of contacting them outside of appointment times.
The results of my examination were as reassuring as they could have been, though. At 14.5 weeks my cervix is still long and closed. That's the best we can hope for. I think she said it's 35cm. They also test for infections and bacteria but you don't get those results on the day. If there are high levels of any bacteria or evidence of any infection they will call me and get me to start taking a prescription of antibiotics.
This is a very medicalised pregnancy. There's speculums, torches, ultrasound probes. It's no worse than a pap smear, though. And given they're not much into the small talk my first appointment was over pretty quickly! I return in a fortnight for more of the same. I'm quite anxious about the whole process. While I know that all this monitoring is for the best I can't help but be apprehensive that on one of these visits, in the not too distant future, they're going to tell me that there is something very wrong. I just can't imagine how things will work out differently this time. I just can't get the mental image into my head that this baby will stay in there, will stay alive.
It's an absolute rollercoaster.
Alongside these anxieties and dreads I am feeling better in myself, though. I'm trying to keep as busy as I possibly can as I still seem to fall into a low mood when I'm sitting with nothing to do. But I've been active and functioning like a normal person for a good 10 days now. I've Christmas shopped (yes, already!), I've cleaned the house, I've washed my hair, I've eaten food, I've visited friends, I've been sleeping better. I'm so grateful for all of this. I'm so grateful to the magic little white pill that has quietened the intense despair and the hopelessness.
Today I was visited by an outreach nurse from the psychiatric clinic I was admitted to. It's a wonderful support service they offer, and home visits are fully covered by my health insurance. The woman that is visiting me is in charge of the mother/baby unit there. I'm not yet sure how she is going to help me, but I feel that she will. It is also nice to build a relationship with her in case I do need extra support later down the track. I know the clinic is there, and that they can help.
Next week Leslie and I are spending the week in Ocean Grove, in anticipation of our Max's birthday. We don't have much planned yet as we don't know how we are going to feel as the week approaches. I'll write more about this soon, and more about Max and the year that has somehow, impossibly, passed since I last held him. One year, two babies. That was not part of our carefully-hatched life plan.
The results of my examination were as reassuring as they could have been, though. At 14.5 weeks my cervix is still long and closed. That's the best we can hope for. I think she said it's 35cm. They also test for infections and bacteria but you don't get those results on the day. If there are high levels of any bacteria or evidence of any infection they will call me and get me to start taking a prescription of antibiotics.
This is a very medicalised pregnancy. There's speculums, torches, ultrasound probes. It's no worse than a pap smear, though. And given they're not much into the small talk my first appointment was over pretty quickly! I return in a fortnight for more of the same. I'm quite anxious about the whole process. While I know that all this monitoring is for the best I can't help but be apprehensive that on one of these visits, in the not too distant future, they're going to tell me that there is something very wrong. I just can't imagine how things will work out differently this time. I just can't get the mental image into my head that this baby will stay in there, will stay alive.
It's an absolute rollercoaster.
Alongside these anxieties and dreads I am feeling better in myself, though. I'm trying to keep as busy as I possibly can as I still seem to fall into a low mood when I'm sitting with nothing to do. But I've been active and functioning like a normal person for a good 10 days now. I've Christmas shopped (yes, already!), I've cleaned the house, I've washed my hair, I've eaten food, I've visited friends, I've been sleeping better. I'm so grateful for all of this. I'm so grateful to the magic little white pill that has quietened the intense despair and the hopelessness.
Today I was visited by an outreach nurse from the psychiatric clinic I was admitted to. It's a wonderful support service they offer, and home visits are fully covered by my health insurance. The woman that is visiting me is in charge of the mother/baby unit there. I'm not yet sure how she is going to help me, but I feel that she will. It is also nice to build a relationship with her in case I do need extra support later down the track. I know the clinic is there, and that they can help.
Next week Leslie and I are spending the week in Ocean Grove, in anticipation of our Max's birthday. We don't have much planned yet as we don't know how we are going to feel as the week approaches. I'll write more about this soon, and more about Max and the year that has somehow, impossibly, passed since I last held him. One year, two babies. That was not part of our carefully-hatched life plan.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Q&A
Two months is a long time to catch up on blogging. Now that I am feeling a little better I hope to be back here with my usual regularity, but I wanted to just fill you in on a few facts that I know a few of you are wondering.
When is the baby due?
10th May 2013.
Who is your doctor?
Senior obstetrician, the amazing Dr Fiona Cullinane from the Royal Women's Hospital.
Where will you be having the baby?
The Royal Women's Hospital in Parkville, where Max was born.
What kind of care are you receiving?
Plenty of it. I've been having fortnightly visits and ultrasounds with the obstetrician, and from this coming Monday I will attend weekly for tests in the preterm labour surveillance clinic.
What is the preterm labour surveillance clinic?
It is a special clinic that runs weekly to keep an eye on women at risk of delivering prematurely. They undertake cervical surveillance using transvaginal ultrasound, they test for infections and bacteria (the leading causes of premature birth), and I'm not sure what else. I'll have a better idea of what this involves after my first visit. It's anxiety-producing, and overwhelming, to have so much medical attention, but I know it is all for the best. I am also seeing my GP every few weeks, and am continuing to see my psychiatrist each week. I'm supposed to be getting support from a midwife from the mother/baby unit at the psychiatric clinic I was in, but they didn't turn up for their first visit today, which I thought was about the worst thing a psychiatric outreach worker could do!
Are you 'showing' yet?
God, I hate that term. But no, not really. I lost some weight through all the vomiting, but have almost caught that back up, helped along by the four butter croissants I just ate.
What do the cats think of the news?
As you can see they so far seem largely unaffected. I don't know what they've been saying out of earshot amongst themselves, though. Will dinner still be served at the same time? That's probably the foremost question on their minds.
Over to you. If anyone has any questions I haven't addressed then feel free to ask them in the comments below!
When is the baby due?
10th May 2013.
Who is your doctor?
Senior obstetrician, the amazing Dr Fiona Cullinane from the Royal Women's Hospital.
Where will you be having the baby?
The Royal Women's Hospital in Parkville, where Max was born.
What kind of care are you receiving?
Plenty of it. I've been having fortnightly visits and ultrasounds with the obstetrician, and from this coming Monday I will attend weekly for tests in the preterm labour surveillance clinic.
What is the preterm labour surveillance clinic?
It is a special clinic that runs weekly to keep an eye on women at risk of delivering prematurely. They undertake cervical surveillance using transvaginal ultrasound, they test for infections and bacteria (the leading causes of premature birth), and I'm not sure what else. I'll have a better idea of what this involves after my first visit. It's anxiety-producing, and overwhelming, to have so much medical attention, but I know it is all for the best. I am also seeing my GP every few weeks, and am continuing to see my psychiatrist each week. I'm supposed to be getting support from a midwife from the mother/baby unit at the psychiatric clinic I was in, but they didn't turn up for their first visit today, which I thought was about the worst thing a psychiatric outreach worker could do!
Are you 'showing' yet?
God, I hate that term. But no, not really. I lost some weight through all the vomiting, but have almost caught that back up, helped along by the four butter croissants I just ate.
What do the cats think of the news?
As you can see they so far seem largely unaffected. I don't know what they've been saying out of earshot amongst themselves, though. Will dinner still be served at the same time? That's probably the foremost question on their minds.
Over to you. If anyone has any questions I haven't addressed then feel free to ask them in the comments below!
The Troubles
This blog has been neglected. I have been sick, so very sick, that my life has been on hold, along with everything in it, including my relationship, my friendships, my household, my work. The last eight weeks I will refer to as 'The Troubles', because that's what they've been. That's how they'll be remembered.
I didn't have a trouble-free pregnancy with Max. Far from it. Unfortunately, this pregnancy has panned out in the exact same manner, marked violently by the suffering of hyperemesis gravidarum, and distressingly, the depths of a major depression.
What I should say first is that this baby appears to be healthy, despite my suffering. This is important. What I should also say is that I am still grateful for this chance, for this baby, although this gratitude has been overwhelmed so far by sickness, terror, hopelessness, and hospitalisation.
Firstly, the hyperemesis. It is so widely misunderstood. It resembles nothing like this 'morning sickness' I keep hearing pregnant women talk about. It transcends amelioration by ginger biscuits, black tea, and dry toast. It involves vomiting that goes beyond the kind that makes a funny story when you vomit one day on the train. It means you cannot eat or drink or move or speak. It requires IV re-hydration and strong medications you'd rather not take. It means you can't work, or socialise. It means you can do nothing but lie in a darkened room and count the hours, the days and the weeks away, wishing to be put out of your misery, questioning the decision you made to get pregnant again, feeling like it will all be for nothing when this baby dies too.
The nausea and vomiting has been bad. I've felt more like I've got a terminal disease than I'm pregnant. I've been taking Maxolon, Doxylamine, Vitamin B6 and Ondansetron since about 6 weeks, when it kicked in with a vengeance, ending up with me at the emergency department numerous times feeling like I would surely die. The drugs have helped, especially with the vomiting, but it's not until the last couple of days that I've felt like eating or that I haven't felt the pangs of nausea as constant background noise in my body. If I don't take the medication on time, the vomiting returns with a vengeance. With Max, the sickness didn't begin to improve until around 16 weeks, which is the usual course of the illness. That's still a lot of weeks to go. These 13 weeks have been so long.
Secondly, the depression...the depression has been something else entirely. Not that it's unfamiliar to me. I've suffered major depression most of my adult life, probably longer. But the speed with which I went down, and the depths to which I fell, shocked and scared me, and those around me. I'd been previously stable on a 20mg dose of Lexapro and weekly sessions with my psychiatrist. I hoped all of this would not come crashing down, but it did. It's been the roughest few weeks of my life.
During my pregnancy with Max I also became severely depressed, and as a result, my psychiatrist increased my medication dosage to 30mg when I was about 13 weeks pregnant with him. And then Max was born prematurely. No one can say for sure it was the antidepressant that caused this to happen. In fact, all of the experts I've consulted have assured me that it wasn't, and that what happened doesn't fit the risk profile for the drug (there are other risks associated with it, though, being a Category C drug, which my doctors and I had made informed decisions about). But it was the one definitive thing I've clung to that I did 'wrong', and so the increased Lexapro dose has rather a nasty reputation in my mind.
So, when I started going downhill this time our approach was to proceed with caution. Not to increase the drug dose until absolutely necessary. It did become necessary, about two weeks ago, after I was admitted to the Albert Road Clinic, a private psychiatric hospital, in a state of absolute despair and distress, unable to go on, unable to function in any way, shape or form. I have to say that the last two weeks have been some of the darkest days of my life, and that's even considering the time I've spent grieving for Max over the last eleven months. Depression is such a debilitating illness, and such a scary one. There have been times when I have feared I would not survive it.
I write today because I've had some small reprieve as a result of intense treatment and new medication. I could not have done this even ten days ago. I could not have done anything to help myself. I feel that I'm far from out of the woods, but the new medication has given me a glimmer of hope that things won't get any worse.
I hated being in the hospital. I felt helpless and abandoned and scared and ashamed and guilty that I was causing everyone who loves me to worry so much. But one good thing came out of it. My psychiatrist sought the advice of a specialist perinatal psychiatrist regarding my treatment. I could not have been more bloody relieved to see him. He is an expert in the field of treating pregnant women with various mood disorders and mental illnesses, including ones far more serious and debilitating than mine. He was the greatest guy. Just the greatest. He took my situation very seriously, but he was also incredibly reassuring that there was a lot we could do to make it better; that we were at the beginning of the road of possible steps, not at the end of a hopeless one that I would have to continue to endure.
There was too much information, too much discussion, to go into here. It was about causes, and treatments, and consequences, and about a giant balancing act between my health and that of the baby. We are treating my depression with a different drug, a 'safe' drug, at a higher dose. The drug has no known associations with preterm labour, but untreated depression does. The drug is working. I am at home. I am eating and drinking. I am dressed and functioning. This is what the experts say is best for my baby - a healthy, functioning mother. I have to trust them. I will not be fit to look after a baby, should this baby live, without this treatment.
There's still some way to go. I'm still so much on the edge, with so little resilience in the tank. And I'm so scared. I'm scared I will not cope with the months ahead. I'm scared I will not cope with another dead baby, and then sometimes I'm scared that I will not cope with a living one. I didn't expect to be so scared. So utterly, utterly terrified.
And where is Max in all this? I haven't been writing to him, or about him, on this blog, but he is here with me as present as he ever was. He is part of everything I experience and feel. He is part of this pregnancy. God, I wish he were here. I wish my baby were here. As the anniversary of his birth approaches this is more true than ever. November was going to be a rough month without all this other stuff. With it, it's not surprising that life has been pretty unbearable, that I've been so helpless and needy.
I want to feel better. I'm trying so hard. But this is not easy. None of this is easy.
I didn't have a trouble-free pregnancy with Max. Far from it. Unfortunately, this pregnancy has panned out in the exact same manner, marked violently by the suffering of hyperemesis gravidarum, and distressingly, the depths of a major depression.
What I should say first is that this baby appears to be healthy, despite my suffering. This is important. What I should also say is that I am still grateful for this chance, for this baby, although this gratitude has been overwhelmed so far by sickness, terror, hopelessness, and hospitalisation.
Firstly, the hyperemesis. It is so widely misunderstood. It resembles nothing like this 'morning sickness' I keep hearing pregnant women talk about. It transcends amelioration by ginger biscuits, black tea, and dry toast. It involves vomiting that goes beyond the kind that makes a funny story when you vomit one day on the train. It means you cannot eat or drink or move or speak. It requires IV re-hydration and strong medications you'd rather not take. It means you can't work, or socialise. It means you can do nothing but lie in a darkened room and count the hours, the days and the weeks away, wishing to be put out of your misery, questioning the decision you made to get pregnant again, feeling like it will all be for nothing when this baby dies too.
The nausea and vomiting has been bad. I've felt more like I've got a terminal disease than I'm pregnant. I've been taking Maxolon, Doxylamine, Vitamin B6 and Ondansetron since about 6 weeks, when it kicked in with a vengeance, ending up with me at the emergency department numerous times feeling like I would surely die. The drugs have helped, especially with the vomiting, but it's not until the last couple of days that I've felt like eating or that I haven't felt the pangs of nausea as constant background noise in my body. If I don't take the medication on time, the vomiting returns with a vengeance. With Max, the sickness didn't begin to improve until around 16 weeks, which is the usual course of the illness. That's still a lot of weeks to go. These 13 weeks have been so long.
Secondly, the depression...the depression has been something else entirely. Not that it's unfamiliar to me. I've suffered major depression most of my adult life, probably longer. But the speed with which I went down, and the depths to which I fell, shocked and scared me, and those around me. I'd been previously stable on a 20mg dose of Lexapro and weekly sessions with my psychiatrist. I hoped all of this would not come crashing down, but it did. It's been the roughest few weeks of my life.
During my pregnancy with Max I also became severely depressed, and as a result, my psychiatrist increased my medication dosage to 30mg when I was about 13 weeks pregnant with him. And then Max was born prematurely. No one can say for sure it was the antidepressant that caused this to happen. In fact, all of the experts I've consulted have assured me that it wasn't, and that what happened doesn't fit the risk profile for the drug (there are other risks associated with it, though, being a Category C drug, which my doctors and I had made informed decisions about). But it was the one definitive thing I've clung to that I did 'wrong', and so the increased Lexapro dose has rather a nasty reputation in my mind.
So, when I started going downhill this time our approach was to proceed with caution. Not to increase the drug dose until absolutely necessary. It did become necessary, about two weeks ago, after I was admitted to the Albert Road Clinic, a private psychiatric hospital, in a state of absolute despair and distress, unable to go on, unable to function in any way, shape or form. I have to say that the last two weeks have been some of the darkest days of my life, and that's even considering the time I've spent grieving for Max over the last eleven months. Depression is such a debilitating illness, and such a scary one. There have been times when I have feared I would not survive it.
I write today because I've had some small reprieve as a result of intense treatment and new medication. I could not have done this even ten days ago. I could not have done anything to help myself. I feel that I'm far from out of the woods, but the new medication has given me a glimmer of hope that things won't get any worse.
I hated being in the hospital. I felt helpless and abandoned and scared and ashamed and guilty that I was causing everyone who loves me to worry so much. But one good thing came out of it. My psychiatrist sought the advice of a specialist perinatal psychiatrist regarding my treatment. I could not have been more bloody relieved to see him. He is an expert in the field of treating pregnant women with various mood disorders and mental illnesses, including ones far more serious and debilitating than mine. He was the greatest guy. Just the greatest. He took my situation very seriously, but he was also incredibly reassuring that there was a lot we could do to make it better; that we were at the beginning of the road of possible steps, not at the end of a hopeless one that I would have to continue to endure.
There was too much information, too much discussion, to go into here. It was about causes, and treatments, and consequences, and about a giant balancing act between my health and that of the baby. We are treating my depression with a different drug, a 'safe' drug, at a higher dose. The drug has no known associations with preterm labour, but untreated depression does. The drug is working. I am at home. I am eating and drinking. I am dressed and functioning. This is what the experts say is best for my baby - a healthy, functioning mother. I have to trust them. I will not be fit to look after a baby, should this baby live, without this treatment.
There's still some way to go. I'm still so much on the edge, with so little resilience in the tank. And I'm so scared. I'm scared I will not cope with the months ahead. I'm scared I will not cope with another dead baby, and then sometimes I'm scared that I will not cope with a living one. I didn't expect to be so scared. So utterly, utterly terrified.
And where is Max in all this? I haven't been writing to him, or about him, on this blog, but he is here with me as present as he ever was. He is part of everything I experience and feel. He is part of this pregnancy. God, I wish he were here. I wish my baby were here. As the anniversary of his birth approaches this is more true than ever. November was going to be a rough month without all this other stuff. With it, it's not surprising that life has been pretty unbearable, that I've been so helpless and needy.
I want to feel better. I'm trying so hard. But this is not easy. None of this is easy.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
12 precious weeks
This morning I went for my 12 week scan.
There's a baby in there, despite my greatest fears. It looks healthy and happy. It has a low risk of downs syndrome (1 in 6525). It was jumping about. Two little hands. Two little feet. A perfect profile. It is already practicing swallowing.
It's not the first time we've seen baby. I've been getting fortnightly scans, but they are just brief ones to check the heartbeat, and the pictures aren't worth showing. It's amazing to see its growth from one to the next, though. The baby is growing so rapidly. At the moment it is measuring past its dates. I'm 12 weeks 6 days, and it is measuring 13 weeks 4 days. It's a big baby. A big, strong one, I hope.
Here's what's been causing all the trouble over the last eight weeks (more about that soon):
There's a baby in there, despite my greatest fears. It looks healthy and happy. It has a low risk of downs syndrome (1 in 6525). It was jumping about. Two little hands. Two little feet. A perfect profile. It is already practicing swallowing.
It's not the first time we've seen baby. I've been getting fortnightly scans, but they are just brief ones to check the heartbeat, and the pictures aren't worth showing. It's amazing to see its growth from one to the next, though. The baby is growing so rapidly. At the moment it is measuring past its dates. I'm 12 weeks 6 days, and it is measuring 13 weeks 4 days. It's a big baby. A big, strong one, I hope.
Here's what's been causing all the trouble over the last eight weeks (more about that soon):
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