A Double Whammy

Today is a double whammy: it is both a Thursday and the 28th. Thursdays are the day by which my pregnancy weeks were being counted. I am meant to be 30 weeks pregnant today. And it is the 28th. It was the 28th of October when Patrick died. When better to try to resume blogging than a delightfully emotion-laden day like this?

I keep thinking about being 30 weeks pregnant. I would probably not have been able to even reach the laptop upon which I write this very minute due to a huge belly. But, I would still be feeling Patrick and Maggie move around. Patrick had his head to my right side and bum and feet to the left and he often stretched out. I can imagine how much more uncomfortable that would have been as he grew bigger and stronger. And my Maggie, who was all squished up, her bum sitting right above my cervix. Her movement was so limited that in my last weeks of pregnancy all that I felt was a light wiggle very low in my abdomen, as though she was trying to shimmy her body around. At 30 weeks I would have been able to see much of their movements too.

Most important of all, if I had lasted until 30 weeks gestation, the odds of survival for both Patrick and Maggie would have been significantly improved. I would have had all the reason to hold on to hope by this point. They would have needed NICU of course, but their stories there would have been less tumultuous.

I ask the universe this: why? Why could I not have avoided infection for 5 more weeks? I had already done so for 10 and I would have been happy to remain on bed rest growing Maggie and Patrick. Why have infection set in at 25 weeks? I have done my research and heard the stories, miracles/good luck happen in situations like mine, so why didn't that happen for me? Why is it that I am sitting here on a maternity leave with no children to hold? My arms are empty and my heart broken. Five weeks would have felt like no time at all, in fact, it seems as though it was only a couple of days ago that I woke up shaking and went into labour. And it seems like only moments ago that I had hope and held my children.... I was not asking for much then, just more time.... now I have all the time in the world to remember them and try to move forward but truly I would prefer that time freeze.

As I mentioned above, today is not only the day that I am meant to be 30 weeks pregnant. It also marks one month since Patrick died. I think about him every day. I picture his tiny, knobby knees and his perfect nose. I picture his blonde hair. I can still see his tiny tongue suckling on the breathing tube. Even his tongue was beautiful and perfect. I can remember how he moved. But I can also remember how much his movement changed when he began to experience pain; he did not rest, his long, thin arm waving about. And his tiny little face, beneath tape and tubes, could be seen grimacing and crying. I never heard him cry but I did see it - and I thought that was heartbreaking.... but holding him while he died and missing him was god-awful as well.

One month ago today I woke up with fear. A doctor had told us the night before that Patrick had severe bleeding in his brain. We woke up and went directly to the NICU to find his specialist. The information we gained was bad. But the doctor, like us, clung to hope and suggested we wait for the latest results and manage his pain. I am devastated to recall the moment she ran into my hospital room and explained that it was much worse: that there was more bleeding in more places. My tiny son, such a fighter, was suffering. So, one month ago, Lee and I decided for the second time in four days, to let one of our children die, rather than prolonging the inevitable. We phoned our families and went to Patrick.

I hate to relive the 28th and the 24th. I hate to think of Maggie and Patrick dead; their tiny ashes now in a hand-crafted urn by a dear friend in my bedroom. But, the comfort of thinking of those days is that at least they were still alive then. On each of those days I had some hope and I like that part. The hardest part is remembering that those were also the days that hope for them was taken away.

People often say to me that they can only imagine the pain of losing two children. I have thought about this some, and here is my response: don't. The pain, loss, sadness that I feel is all-encompassing of my emotions, energy and physical self. Patrick and Maggie are the last thing I think of at night, the first in the morning and are often in my dreams. My holidays are planned through a process of imagining that it was supposed to be different - a pregnant Christmas. a NICU Christmas - and then finding a way to include Patrick and Maggie in the celebration. I sleep with each of their stuffed animals in my arms or on my chest; the very places I would have held them if they had survived. When I cry I can feel the sorrow coming in waves from my core. It is awful. So, please, don't imagine it. Do not try. Not because you can't possibly imagine (indeed, perhaps you can), but it is simply too distressing of a thought process. Do not picture losing your child (real or imagined), do not picture their death, or funeral, or your own emotions afterwards. Just know that it is awful and appreciate that your children and family are with you still.