I have decided to try to start blogging again. I guess the dismal prognosis part was accurate, but I have so many lost hopes, tears, and memories to process. I think that some posts - like today as an example - my writing will be scattered, much like my own thinking. I have so many thoughts running through my mind...
Most of all, I want to acknowledge that Patrick's one week passed on Monday. I am days behind recognizing this, but the universe knows that I thought of him all day on Monday. Truth be told, I think of Maggie and Patrick all day, everyday. I keep thinking about watching him. It's amazing how much I can cherish and recall the tiniest of things: the day he and Maggie were born, while we held Maggie's body in our arms weeping, I put my hand in his isolette to touch him for the first time and he gripped my finger. I am terrified that I will forget how that felt on my skin and in my grieving heart. Or when he was one and two days old and we could watch him sleep and move his arms and legs around, so congruent with how he had felt inside me. He was so tiny, but he had the nose of a little person already. And he had all his fingers and toes, and he could wiggle them. I am certain that he would have developed into a baby who looks like a little old person, and imagining that brings a small smile to my face. But it is usually followed by deep, deep heartache and grief. My word, they were both such wonderful, beautiful children.
As I approached viability in this pregnancy I became increasingly concerned about my breastmilk. I knew that I wanted to provide it for the babies but felt so uncertain I would be able to do so when they were in isolettes, untouchable, for the first months of their lives. So, as soon as I was able after delivering, I started pumping and trying to stimulate in order to provide for Patrick. I had the lactation consultant come in to see me several times. I sat beside Patrick in his isolette and spoke to him and imagined holding him, while I held the pump to my breasts and tried to get them to produce milk. Expressing colostrum was frustrating because it was so little, but it was enough for Patrick. One day I did not produce enough and they had to give him milk from the breastmilk bank. I worked harder. And when he was three days old I felt my milk coming in - I was so glad to be providing more milk, knowing that one small bottle could feed his tiny body for days. Cruelly, my milk came in fully the day that he died. It was the one thing that I felt I could do for my tiny son, the one thing that might have been within my power or control. And I succeeded. But I lost him anyways. The discomfort of having a large milk supply with no baby but lots of grief was difficult to manage - I wished it away. But now I have barely anything left and I am heartbroken... it's as though my children are farther and farther away from me as my body heals and returns to normal.
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