I have been having a lot of bad days lately. I had a complete meltdown yesterday at the unfairness of it all; I keep feeling like I’ve been terribly robbed (probably because I have). It seems criminal to me that, because someone else fucked up, I don’t get to have my baby. Someone made a grievous error, and I am forever a different person as a result. I’m still so mad about that. I don’t know if I’ll ever not be mad.
I wasn’t that mad at the start, but the longer I think about it, the more I find myself seething, and the more likely it seems to me that this could have been prevented if I’d been taken seriously. He wasn’t moving much on Sunday, but he still had a strong heartbeat. If we had got him out then and there, I retain hope that there is a good chance he could have pulled through. I won’t know until the autopsy – and, even then, I might be proven wrong. To be honest, I kind of hope I’m wrong, and that he was doomed on Sunday… if not, that will just make the loss hurt even more. Losing my son is devastating no matter which way you slice it, but it would be all the worse to find out that he was perfectly happy and healthy until his final few days.
I miss you so much, Brock. That might seem bizarre, seeing as I never really got to know you that well, but I miss everything I knew about you. I miss everything from your feet in my side to your head bearing down on my pelvis and making me sit down every ten minutes. I miss the heartburn, the nausea, being able to rub your backside through my belly. I miss being terrified by what awaited me in motherhood, and having to get up two or three times a night to pee. Now, all I have to remember you by is a few extra pounds of weight, a bunch of itchy stretchmarks, and an IV scar on my left wrist.
Going into pregnancy, the idea of childbirth really scared me. I was especially anxious about the idea of tearing, and about the possibility of needing a c-section, especially when they (incorrectly) told me that you were measuring large. Now, I don’t even remotely care what awaits me next time – as long as there is a live baby at the end, they can do anything they want to me. No price would be too large if it resulted in a happy, healthy baby in my arms at the end.