* CLICK *

Ugh, I intended for this post to be a photo retrospective of sorts - a cool visual way to end ICLW week. But I just made the fatal error of spending a bit too much time looking at the photos we have of Thomas in the hospital. And now, well, I'm spent.

The very hospital-y shots we have of him are always so shocking. Precious, of course, but startling. In my mind, he's the peaceful, gorgeous baby in the pictures we have framed in our bedroom and living room. No tubes, no wires - no obvious evidence of a hospital. The ones in which the hospital is not disguised, however, always take my breath away. In a bad way.

So this is going to have to do, this funny shot of me covered in cats. It was late summer of 2004, and I was doing what I did best during the first 10 weeks or so of my pregnancy with Thomas. Tired? Who me?

Whilst I was making good use of the couch, I became a mattress for Lucy (our cat) and my sister's two kittens who we were cat-sitting that week.

Apparently cats dig you when you're pregnant. Like, a lot.

Luckily Lucy still digs me now, pregnant or not, which is pretty nice. Pretty nice indeed.

Thanks to everyone who stopped by for ICLW! It was so nice to "meet" you, and I appreciate your visits and your comments more than you know!

Sunday afternoon

Drawn by the chatter of voices big and small, I went to my bedroom window yesterday afternoon and peered out onto the houses behind us to see what was going on (because no matter how hard I try, I simply can't avoid being nosy. I've decided it's a trait that's been genetically encoded and, hence, totally not my fault).

The chatter was simply neighbours with company out in their backyard.

I watch for a few seconds as two moms tended to their little ones. When the woman who lives in the house stood up, I saw a belly in a bright red sweater sticking out from her black jacket like a shiny, ripe apple.

I blinked. A belly? A noticeable belly when her daughter just turned one a few weeks ago?

But there it was.

As if the gods new I needed confirmation, I then watched her place her hands on either side of her tummy, gently rubbing it in small, tender circles, cradling the life inside.

"Yes," she replied to the question I didn't hear but instantly knew from the response she gave, "I guess it starts earlier and earlier."

Because this is baby number three. Their first, a little boy, shares the same birthday our first child was supposed to have. Had it lived, it would have also shared my Father's birthday.

May 17th.

Their second child, a little girl, was born last April.

And now number three is already on the way.

I stared and stared. I'm awed by people for whom breeding is like breathing. The whole row of houses behind us is filled with people for whom, it appears to me anyway, having babies is just routine.

Complication-less life after new life.

I can't even imagine what that would be like anymore. Pregnancy resulting in death is my only personal experience with the process. It's practically unfathomable to me that a live child is ever the result of a ripe apple-like belly.

And yet they are. By the millions. Every day.

And I'm still left in awe with my nose pressed to the glass taking it all in.

A revelation, courtesy of someone else's mind

One of the things that has really bothered me since Thomas died (and during the ensuing childless-but-not-for-lack-of-trying-and-trying-and-trying years) is the way I've felt about other people's pregnancies. I have been riddled with guilt for feeling a whole host of unpleasant things upon hearing pregnancy announcements and upon seeing bulging belly after belly after belly all around me (quite literally, since my neighbourhood is now on its second baby boom since Thomas died).

The intensity has lessened. The shock isn't quite the same. And there is now real joy that I think - or at least I hope - actually comes across when a friend tells me she's pregnant. Because I feel that now. I really do.

But yeah, I still feel some of the bad stuff too. And it still makes me feel guilty as sin every single time.

I've tried to rationalize it, and that usually works like a too small band-aid for a little while. I tell myself that I held my dying child in my arms and kissed him goodbye in a cluttered hospital office, and so it's okay for someone else's happy news about their own live, growing child to reduce me to tears in the privacy of my own quiet little bedroom. I tell myself that, but I don't always believe it.

It seems wrong to feel like I've been drop-kicked in the gut when someone else tells me news that I know (in a way thousands upon thousands of women never will) is such a blessing.

And I wonder each time when the hell that kick will stop coming. Or at the very least when the guilt that follows will ever go away and leave me alone.

I wonder if it'll be when menopause sets in - when I'm no longer physically able to bear my own children. Or if we have another child. Or if we adopt.

I just wonder if this particular hurt and guilt will ever go away.

I came across another blogger's musings on this subject last week. She had an epiphany about the whole thing after hearing the news of a 43-year old friend's pregnancy after just three months of trying. Unassisted.

She said that she did feel true joy at her friend's news, but at the same time she had the unsettling notion that the gods were laughing at her (she's had several losses and undergone every fertility treatment under the sun).

And then (and this is the good part) she realized that it was okay. Okay. Because the way she was feeling wasn't about any ill will she felt towards her friend. It was, as she said, all about her.

WHY DIDN'T I THINK OF THIS??? It's so simple. And it makes such perfect sense.

I don't begrudge my friends their children - their shot at parenthood - nor do I want anyone I know to suffer the loss of a child. I don't. I want them to be happy and to have as many children as their little hearts desire. I do. I really do.

It just happens that the flip side of all that good stuff happening to other people is a whole bunch of not-so-nice emotions for me. Happy news reminds me of my sadness. But it's about me. It's about my sorrow. It's the flood of memories that wash over me, the "what ifs", the "I wishes"...

They're about me. They're about Thomas, my other two angels and the babies I just can't seem to make.

The feelings have nothing to do with anyone else but us, and therefore I can have all of them, theoretically, guilt-free.

And so I'm going to work on that. I have enough guilt crawling the walls of my brain without holding on to any more.

Let's see if this works, shall we?

Things I've noticed the past few days...

If you dream about forgetting the forms you're supposed to take to your pre-op physical with you, you'll probably forget them in real life too.
_______________________________________________________

The winter hides a lot of things. When the warm spring weather lures people out of their houses and out of the protective cloak of their winter coats, you see pregnant tummies that weren't there in the fall.

_______________________________________________________

If you're going in for exploratory surgery to determine why you are suddenly mysteriously unable to conceive when it was once relatively easy for you, it will appear as though people are getting pregnant or having babies all around you.

_______________________________________________________

When a guy you had a huge crush on once upon a time has his second child - a boy - on the anniversary of the day your dead baby was due two years ago, it will feel very much like the gods are laughing at you. And heartily so.

_______________________________________________________

Having your OB approve your request for a little hit of pre-surgery Valium will relax you almost as much as popping one of the blessed little things.

_______________________________________________________

Even though the idea of surgery is terrifying, the thought of not being able to eat after midnight the day before (when your surgery is scheduled for after lunch) is kind of disturbing too.

_______________________________________________________

For some reason bringing a bottle of pee back from the doctor's office washroom through a waiting room of bored, gawking patients is somehow almost as embarrassing as dropping your pants and peeing right in front of them.

______________________________________________________

When you're feeling fragile and really need to be treated with kindness and a modicum of respect by an otherwise brusk and busy nurse, dropping the dead baby story into conversation really works.

______________________________________________________

Realizing you've forgotten your pre-op physical forms when you're more than half-way to your doctor's office, racing back home to get them and arriving for your appointment 10 minutes late will miraculously result in your blood pressure being the lowest it's ever been.

_____________________________________________________

Finding out that your blood pressure is the lowest it's ever been when you're as freaked out as you've been in a very long time will make you worry that the nurse, distracted by your tale of woe, has somehow taken the reading incorrectly. It will take the reassurance of an exasperated husband to quell your fears.

_____________________________________________________

Sometimes pretending you're not afraid fools even you.

_____________________________________________________

Finding a nearby linen outlet that sells really nice pillowcases for $1.50 each feels a little like winning the lottery. Especially when you're very close to having to admit that you're pushing 40.

_____________________________________________________

Writing down "pushing 40" in reference to yourself when you're two days away from exploratory surgery to determine why you have secondary infertility is a stupid, stupid idea.