This place is my place to say what I'm feeling; it's always full of people who understand or want to, or has been so far and hopefully I won't wear out that welcome with this post. But I'm really struggling right now and I haven't even been able to start really talking about it on here or otherwise, recently, probably because it was a genie so big I didn't know if I would get it back into the bottle. But it is too big for me, so I'm here.
Firstly, Sausage is fine. Another scan today showed he's growing beautifully, and when I say beautifully I mean it. He's heartbreakingly gorgeous already, I can tell, but it breaks my heart that he is in a way, because I'm so close now I can almost feel him and I'm left terrified he'll be out of my grasp again. But he's fine. To anyone I'm worrying with this post, you really can stop here, as the rest is for me.
When my son Joe died in July last year we were devastated. There was no reason, and no warning, but he died somewhere between weeks 29 and 30. He was gone. I miss him every day, the baby he was and the boy he would be now. I also miss the sister S would have been, and the parents Mr M and I would have been.
We decided early, fiercely, that we would try one last time; that our yearning for a 'whole' family was too strong. 'Whole' was like a nicely knitted and sewed blanket, compared to the raggedy flapping edges we had everywhere at the time, with missing pieces and too many knots. We checked out the physical side of things; there was no reason not to try again from that side, and so we did. We were amazingly lucky, in that we fell pregnant quickly and within 10 weeks of Joe's death we were officially pregnant again.
Now we 'knew' this would be a difficult pregnancy. We said the words, and we cued up the support we thought we might need. We 'knew' that being pregnant again would be hard. We thought we knew. We didn't really know, of course.
When you're on your ninth pregnancy the experience is different. I won't say its worse than other situations of difficulty and tragedy, or even other pregnancies. I'm in no position to judge. But it is different. Each of us on here have our own stories to tell, our own difficulties, tragedies and pain, and they are relative to the rest of our life. No person has a more 'worthy' story, but even I have to admit that being in a small kleek of baby loss is very different.
So there's the threat of early miscarriage. I've had five losses before 10 weeks. Knicker watch doesn't even come close to explaining my activity in those first weeks. Scan after scan, appointment after appointment, all fine. A cocktail of cyclogest, aspirin and clexane. And as those who have sadly lost or feared loss know, an unstoppable, constant extra heartbeat alongside my own 24 hours of the day beating 'It's Gone. It's Over. It's Gone. It's Over...' And feeling like actually a tiny part of me wanted to hear those words because then it would all at least end.
The hollow ring of 'safety' at 13 weeks, knowing that my daughter Jamie was born at 16w. On and on and on with the heartbeat constantly beating alongside mine in my head 'It's Getting Harder, It's Getting Harder, It's Getting Harder...'. Waiting for the movements. Waiting to find out whether my new baby would be a boy or a girl. Waiting for this baby to die too.
Of course in some respects I sail through pregnancy. I don't get morning sickness. I never have. I would have killed for it in my time, a reassurance. Of many of the ailments that dog others in pregnancy I know little, and of course I am very glad of that. Every check was coming back clear. Every appointment and scan was a 'good' one. But when you no longer trust your body to keep a child safe, and no longer trust the story to have a happy ending it's all just words, and breaths in and out, and waiting to find out when everything will go upside down again. The lack of movements till relatively late on was unhelpful. I shall wag my finger at whoever is in charge when I get the chance.
On to 20 weeks; the anomoly scan (all fine). To 24 weeks. Suddenly the climb which was almost imperceptibly ascending, is getting steeper and steeper. Actually it's not even steep, it's a bloody escalator. It's not in my control, and I can't see the top, and it's relentless and alternately too fast and too slow, just enough to keep me permanently off balance. now the longed for movements are my enemy, because when they stop they might be the last ones. When they start they might be foetal distress. Because I have no trust at all in anything except that an awful thing has happened before, many times, and I've never had any control over it. My brain doesn't stop, even at night, and insomnia is unhelpful (understatement). The heartbeat continues, except it's a jumbled mess of 'It's over, Something's Wrong, Something's Right, I'm scared, I can't control this, I don't know what to do, nothing I do matters anyway...' and repeat. I really do have this extra beat accompanying me every waking minute. It's exhausting. I am exhausted. My life is a conjugation of the verb 'to be exhausted'.
The guilt of delivery early, into NICU/SCBU because I'm not coping, has been immense. I'm basically past that now as I can now see what my consultant was gently trying to tell me; that he will not be delivered when they believe it's unsafe to do so on his account, but that my health, including my mental health, is deteriorating and it's now about how long I can go on. Which feels about five minutes today. Five minutes ago. Of course I still have the guilt stick in my cupboard, with a shiny bow on it, and shall make sure it's in my hospital bag (I might as well, it'll be in there anyway) for when he is here, whatever the outcome.
I'm 27+3. Today I saw my beautiful little boy on the scan and I cried because he's so beautiful, and I'm so scared for him. Words can't express how that fear is for me. I just know that I started crying on that scan room table and haven't stopped much since. I probably need to, but then I also need to live my life, that little bit of it which actually isn't about being pregnant, and tears can't help me there. He's so close. He's so far. My bodies don't keep my babies safe; even my beautiful daughter S, who is three tomorrow, was a difficult pregnancy with threatened miscarriage and other issues. I have no-one to pass the job onto while I have a rest. The enormity of it is beyond words.
Knowing that this is the last time is huge. It has to be, but at the same time it's another pressure to end the story 'properly'. It wouldn't bring any of my babies back, particularly Joe, nor would it make me forget or say 'well, that all turned out okay in the end then', but I need to tie that loose end and God knows I want to finish the pregnancy story (all 5 years of it) on a high.
Onwards we're basically setting up camp at the hospital. I cannot fault the majority of my care this time, and I have a wonderful consultant. I think I'm in for weekly scans now, doppler and growth. Sausage is 2lb 6oz they think. I'm still on aspirin and clexane. My bruises are huge but manageable, though I'm running out of loose skin to inject. It's my bedtime 'keep safe' ritual now. I'm going to start going in for monitoring at the DAU twice a week from next week. I get my steroids to mature his lungs next week, alongside my Anti-D (yeah, wouldn't you know some joker made me Rh- too?!). I'm waiting for my neonatal paeds appointment to try and prepare. Ditto my perinatal mental health appointment.
I have a date to deliver him, and he may come earlier. Knowing I have a date gives me a focus and a countdown, but obviously if anything happens to me or to him in the next six weeks he could be here earlier. I'm going to try and go into hospital in secret (like a sleb lol), so I have logistics to work out. Mr M is doing a skydive in April to raise money for SANDS and I don't want to deliver before then (priorities huh) so I have things to work on.
I have my amazing daughter's birthday fortnight to wade through, after she turned almost-3 overnight and stopped being my newborn (thankfully!), but I'll bore you all with that tomorrow.
I have good friends, particularly my bessie wierdies, all of whom keep me busy, active, and laughing, and inspired in many cases. I have good news to look forward to from many of my friends - not just baby-related but about daily demonstrations on even the tiniest scale that life can be good.
And in the meantime, while I wait, I have that heartbeat to listen to. My awful backing track. It's better than silence, I suppose. I shall just count the days till my baby son drowns it out with a good strong cry.
Thank you all for being here.
Mx