Tag Archives: grief attack

Dear Jensen,

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I’ve really slacked this year.

There was a time I wrote a letter to you every night. They were what I depended on – for so long. It felt like my one connection to you. Sometimes I felt like I didn’t write my day or thoughts down, then you wouldn’t know what was happening. When Mila came and I didn’t have a moment to write to you everyday, I felt broken. Like such a failure, but I started to realize… you were with us, always.

My ‘slacking’ hasn’t just been with your letters, it’s been with writing in general. ESPECIALLY for Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. I used to post and write every.single.day but this year has been so different with what life has in store. Maybe next year will be another story.

As the days, weeks, months, years have passed, there have been constants. I miss you every single day. Sometimes I just find myself wondering what color your eyes were and how you would be with Mila. When I get overwhelmed with her antics, I think of how much I wanted them with you to settle myself. That’s another constant, picturing you. Always. The longing and wondering can hurt, but they bring me comfort too. Most of all, my biggest constant is loving you.

I’ll never be able to accurately describe my love for you. It’s different form loving Mila or family or anyone really. There’s so many levels. The memories. The loss. The remembering. The surviving. The… you. Through it all, you affect every aspect of me and how I handle situations I find myself in. It’s sort of insane how one baby, one son, the one you have changed my life, forever. And all of it’s centered from the love I have for you.

Thank you for choosing me to be your mom. I couldn’t imagine my life without the time I spent with you. Thank you for making me a better person. Thank you for showing me how deeply I can love. Thank you for helping teach me how to hold on to the good moment and breathe through the bad.

I promise to keep doing the best I can do, while holding you in my heart everyday. I wish I could’ve had more time with you. I wish I could see your eyes looking into mine and feel your hand holding mine.

You are one of my favorite parts of myself and I’m so proud to call you my son.

I love you so much.

Your mama.

Family Portrait – Capture Your Grief

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This is my family: Mila, Jensen, and I.

Our family portraits will never look ‘normal,’ but they’re perfect to me. They’re still full of love and an actual representation of who we are as a family.

Story time.

I was being brave today. This whole month I’ve felt exhausted. In the middle of potty training Max AND Mila (yes, I will post those adventures soon), doing school work, and trying to get back in the swing of subbing, plus everything else, I found myself neglecting what actually means a lot to me… Capture Your Grief. Every October I’ve done my best with it and this one, I just have been doing what I can do.

When I saw today’s prompt, I told myself I was 100% participating and going to get a picture of us. I picked out Mila and I’s outfit and Jensen’s bow. We grabbed our fall stuff and a big blanket to take outside. For like 15 minutes, I was in the backyard finding the perfect spot while rigging a stand up for my phone to sit…

I wanted it to be perfect with a fall background and all of us looking in the camera. Let’s just say… that didn’t happen.

Toddler’s aren’t the best at taking direction and Max wouldn’t sit still and Mila kept taking Jensen’s bow off and it seemed impossible to run back and get us all set up in time in a matter of ten seconds.

Did I feel a little defeated? Yes. But, I looked at Mila and held Jensen bear close to me and realized the most important people in my life didn’t care about a picture. They cared about me and know I’m doing my best. I let grief and stress and feeling like a bad mom get the best of me. It happens to all of us and that’s okay.

After my moment, I squeezed Jensen bear again and got Mila to come sit with us. I was going to get this picture no matter what and what’s wrong with a selfie?

This is our life. It’s three and a half years of grieving and a year and a half of parenting after loss. It’s one full of love and craziness. One that the only thing I’d change is having Jensen physically here with us.

I love our little family portrait today. My littles are in my arms and close to my heart. I’m smiling and everything is going to be just okay.

Kisses for Jensen.

Mother.

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Dear Mila,

Early on in your life, you’ll learn that not everyone’s journey to motherhood looks the same. You’ll know that there are moms everywhere around you, even when you can’t see their children. There are some babies us moms carry in our hearts.

You wore one of your ‘little sister’ shirts today. It’s something I am so proud you get to wear because your big brother means the world to me; and so do you. Death cannot steak these titles from you both. You are always connected and have an angel watching over you. Even though we talk about Jensen everyday and integrate him in our daily routine, there is an extra special reason you wore this shirt… today Bereaved Mother’s Day.

I think it’s hard to explain why Bereaved Mother’s Day is important. Why not just ‘celebrate’ everything next weekend? Well, in the past I’ve done that too. Today, for me, is when I can allow myself to grieve. I cried when I woke up, when I put that onesie on you, and now as I’m writing this watching you sleep in my lap. Grief is hard, but this is apart of my motherhood. If I never lost your brother, I wouldn’t know about this day. I wouldn’t know about the many different paths to motherhood. Sometimes I wish I didn’t, but this is how life is now. Loss moms everywhere can share their stories, let each other know we’re not alone, and help educate others.

Being your and Jensen’s mom is my favorite title for myself. Motherhood is the most rewarding and sometimes heartbreaking experience I’ve been through. On this day, I get to mother Jensen in a way that can help others and myself. I also get to mother you on these Jensen days to make you a more compassionate person.

I promise to always mother you in the best way I can. Just as I promise to mother your brother in the ways I can too.

Thank you and Jensen for giving me this title and allowing me to be your mother.

I love you.

Mama

Anxiety.

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Dear Mila,

If a person could feel their mother’s emotions in the womb, you’d know all about anxiety.

I never used to be an anxious person before. Of course I worried about trivial things all children and teenagers face, but nothing like I’ve experienced now.

The first time I had an anxiety attack is when we found out Jensen had Down syndrome. I didn’t expect any ‘abnormalities’ in any of the tests with him. In my naive mind, nothing bad ever happened to babies or pregnant women. You probably think that’s crazy since you know how paranoid I am about pregnancy in general. Anyways, after those results, I couldn’t catch my breath and it felt like the world was sitting on my chest. After a few days, that anxiety went away. He was mine. I would do anything in my power to give him the bed of everything. So, I did what I do best and prepared.

It wasn’t until a few months later that I had my second ever anxiety attack. When we found out Jensen was gone, I fell apart. I guess it was like a major life attack. My blood pressure spiked, my vision went black, and I couldn’t catch my breath. Life felt like that for months after abs sometimes still does…

Nothing traumatic had ever happened in my life before that. I didn’t have any reason to worry about things before. My mind didn’t overwork. Then, as with everything, my world flipped upside down.

I worried every time my phone rang or if someone didn’t text back quick. Then I went through a stage where I didn’t care about anything. My anxiety flipped-flopped like that until I got pregnant with you. Then a new type of anxiety slapped me in the face: pregnancy after loss.

Everyday I woke up wondering if this would be the day you would be gone. When you hit big enough, I’d poke my belly until I felt you moving, then could breathe for a little while. I didn’t sleep much. My mind went through every horrible scenario. At every appointment, I asked my doctor if this anxiety was good for you and that I just needed you to be born alive. They knew all about Jensen so they didn’t think I was extra crazy for bringing it up each time.

With your birth, the anxiety of my body failing ended. You were here and in my arms. The longer you looked at me, the less I felt that anxiety.

Now that your here, I worry about other things, but it’s different. I’m not sure how to explain it.

As a mom and especially a loss mom, I’ll always have anxiety. I worry about you when you sleep, when I’m in the shower, or anytime I’m not holding you. It’s just because I love you so much and want you to be safe.

I hope you never experience the trauma and anxiety I went through with stillbirth. Even though I would never trade your brother or my time with him, I wouldn’t wish the aftermath of the mental madness of child loss on anyone. With that being said, when you are feeling anxious about whatever you’re going through during your life, I’ll help you make it through. I’m always here to listen and if you want my advice I’ll give it to you. One of my jobs for the rest of my life is to comfort you, even when you’re a grown woman facing this big world.

One of the things Jensen taught me that I’m able to teach you is that we can make it through anything. All it takes is a lot of love and a little patience.

I love you.

Mama

Beginnings.

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Dear Mila,

This is how we began this morning. A walk around the big block before it got too hot. You love being outside and I love hearing the birds, that reminds me so much of Jensen, all around us.

Beginnings used to be one of my favorite things. They mark the start of a new adventure. A way to learn more about the world and yourself. Beginnings were awesome.

The beginning of my motherhood is my favorite. When I found out I was pregnant with your brother, I was full of joy and hope for the future. Of course I was scared about certain things, like how crazy different my life would be after he was born and if I was going to be good at the whole mom thing. My heart told me I’d be just fine though and your brother always made me feel so calm. He made this beginning so sweet, I couldn’t have asked for anything better.

What I didn’t realize about beginnings was they sometimes were born out of really horrible situations.

The end of my pregnancy and Jensen’s birth was the start of my grief journey. I didn’t expect my motherhood to lead me to this point, but I was thrown in to this world where babies died and moms had to live without their children for the rest of their lives. It’s so hard.

In that beginning, you wouldn’t have recognized your mom. I know you’ve felt me sad or when I’ve had an anxiety attack, but this was different. Nothing could make me smile. A cloud of grief and shock clung to me everywhere I went. My days and nights meshed together by sleep and tears. I wouldn’t wish the beginning on any person in the world. I hated that my wonderful beginning with your brother brought me here, but I fought not to let grief and depression and everything else I was feeling stop me from remembering him with the light he brought to my life.

A little over a year after Jensen was born, a new beginning happened: pregnancy after loss. When I found out I was pregnant last spring, I felt like I could hope for the future again. Unfortunately, this hope lasted for a short amount of time. This beginning and end sort of go together. But it brought me to the next one, which gave me you.

I wish Jensen could physically be experiencing the beginning of your life here with us. A big part of me thinks he was there picking you out before I even knew you’d be with me.

If he’s taught me anything I could pass down to you, it’d be that no matter how hard things get, you have to keep moving forward. You don’t ever have to move on from something, ignore any of your feelings, or forget, but you have to keep going for whatever reason. You have this beautiful gift of life that so many don’t even get a chance to have. I know that probably sounds like a lot of pressure, but I want you to know how special and lucky you truly are, so would your brother. Take it from your mom, who has encountered some of the worst beginnings, that you are going to do great things in this world. When things go wrong in life (and they sure will) you can start a new adventure or begin again.

You always have me and your brother cheering you on. And I promise you’ll never be alone through any of your beginnings.

I love you.

Mama

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The 2018 May We All Heal prompt list:

Jensen’s a Big Brother!

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On April 14, 2018, Jensen’s little sister, Mila Rae, came in the world at 1:14am, kicking and screaming. Hearing her cry was one of the sweetest sounds I have ever heard and the moment they placed her on my chest is indescribable. The first hour of her life was surrounded by family and full of love. She was introduced to her big brother in that first hour by seeing his picture and his Jensen bear.

I never wanted that hour to end.

Pregnancy after loss has been the second most anxiety/paranoid-filled journey that I’ve been on, only behind losing Jensen. I tried not to take a moment for granted with her. There were a lot of ups and definitely downs, but we made it. Jensen has another thing to check off his to-do list. I truly believe he sent her to me.

They are the only ones who know the sound of my heart from the inside. I made them with all my might and will love them for the rest of my life and beyond.

Although there is so much more I want to say, I’ll write on a different day. Today I wanted to introduce you to my rainbow, Mila Rae, little sister to Jensen Grey.

Mila & Jensen.jpg

The Bittersweet Reality of Pregnancy/Parenting After Loss.

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The morning after Jensen’s second birthday, I found myself in the hospital for extra monitoring. I woke up with an excruciating headache, swollen hands and feet, and vision changes. All of these are signs of preeclampsia. After an hour of the headache not easing, I decided it was best to be safe than sorry, with the help and encouragement of my family.

Honestly, I was terrified even though I felt her kicking. We had just hit the thirty-eight week mark and her brother’s birthday had went off without a hitch. I know how fast things can change though. All I could think was they wouldn’t be able to get her out in time or maybe my minds just telling me I’m feeling her, but I’m actually not. Each of these thoughts resulted in her death.

When they wheeled me up to triage, I just kept wanting to hear her strong heartbeat. Thankfully, the nurse didn’t even have to search for it. Turns out, my excruciating headache and vision changes were just from a migraine and the swelling was from being thirty-eight weeks pregnant…

The rest of the weekend, I was on edge. Jensen died over the weekend after being thirty-eight weeks and I was preparing myself for that. She continues to surprise me. Everyday she moved constantly, letting me know she was a-okay in there.

At thirty-eight and two, I held my breath. That’s when he was born. I had never been pregnant for longer than this amount of time. When I went to bed Sunday night, I tossed and turned, fearing what would happen when I slept.

Then I woke up with one thought…

Mila is officially older than Jensen was ever able to be.

There was such a mix of emotions this morning. I smilies because I knew she was still with me and doing her morning stretch, but tears fell from my eyes. This milestone was only made for her because of the death of her brother. I wept because I wish I could have had him for another day and everyday for the rest of my life. It’s not fair that his time was cut short. Then I wept because I still have her. She’s brought me so much hope and an ability to look towards the future with a smile.

It’s a lot of emotions for this hormonal, grieving, pregnant momma.

I can’t imagine my life never having Jensen and his story in it. Do I wish he could have lived instead? Absolutely. Has his death completely changed my life? Yes. Will it alter the way I parent Mila? For sure. Without Jensen, I wouldn’t have been able to advocate for myself during this pregnancy, like I didn’t with him. It’s also allowed me to celebrate every week with her, in small ways. Every movement she makes, I smile (sometimes I yell too because she’s really hurting me at this point). When I think about the next few weeks with her being a needy newborn, I know I’m preparing for being exhausted and overwhelmed. Yet, I would choose having these pregnancy pains and her screaming 24/7 than not having her at all.

The silence and stillness that flooded my life after Jensen was born was the absolute worst thing ever.

As much as I’m looking forward to every moment with her, I know the same feeling of her achieving all the milestones in front of her will feel so bittersweet. I’ll be so proud. But I know in the back of my mind, I’ll wonder when Jensen would have hit them and/or how he would have helped her get to them too. I’m so scared to not be a good mom to her for this reason. All I want is to give her the world and encourage her to be the best human she wants to be.

Part of me thinks, when I see her it’ll just feel natural. For almost three years, I’ve waited to have a living child to parent. My dreams of having her in my arms are so close to happening. To watch one of the biggest parts of me grow and conquer the world around her makes my heart skip a beat.

As hard as it’s going to be in this new chapter of grief, I know he’ll always be walking with us and would want us to live bravely. It may feel extra bittersweet some days. There will be times I breakdown because parenting a child in heaven and one on earth is hard. Yet, for some reason, these little souls chose me and I’ll be damned if I ever let them down.

Jensen’s Second Birthday.

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I can’t tell you how well Jensen’s second birthday went.

It was such a beautiful day outside, which was a huge contrast to the snowy and rainy week we’ve had here in Ohio. Honestly, it was like the day he was born. I remember it being so nice outside while I sat in the hospital. It was nice on his first birthday too. Maybe that’s his little gift to us as we celebrate his day.

Throughout the day, I received so many messages and comments. Thank you to everyone who reached out and said his name. It made me feel like I was getting this huge, constant hug throughout the day. In person, my house was decorated and we went to get his cake and balloons for later in the evening. We talked about him and looked at his pictures. I bought fresh flowers that were blue and yellow, there wasn’t any orange, but they were still beautiful. Everything went so smoothly.

Another part of his day I was so thankful for was my appointment to monitor Mila. Let me tell you, I was terrified for it. All I could think was why wouldn’t it happen again on his birthday. In the waiting room, I felt my stomach drop waiting to go back to the ultrasound. His birthday was staring at me on the screen and I just hoped to see her heartbeat, even though I had felt her move all day. She was great and let us see her face, finally. In the NST room, they let me have it to myself and let me talk about Jensen. The doctors and nurses all made it a point to say something about him and ask how I was doing. I felt very supported, which is needed on days like that.

When we got back home, we had a little family party. It’s important to me that I have a cake and blow candles out for him every year. Yeah, it sucks he’s not here to do it himself, but I want to make sure everyone knows everyone knows saying his name or talking about him doesn’t make me sad. He deserves to be celebrated. My cousins’ children drew me pictures and held Jensen bear. They sung ‘happy birthday’ so loudly and we left off balloons so Jensen could play with them in heaven. I cannot imagine their thoughts on everything. It would be so hard to grasp, but they do a great job of it. Hopefully, Mila will be just as accepting and loving to her brother’s big day. I never want to make it seem like a depressing day, as hard as it may seem.

After everyone left, the day sort of settled on me. I wrote Jensen a letter and just talked aloud to him and Mila. It turned into me singing the songs I sung to him in the weeks before he was born. I’m not sure how long I stayed up to, but I know I fell asleep singing to him and feeling his sister roll around in my belly.

It feels weird to know I’m in year three of grief. The Jensen anniversary days will end here shortly, his funeral day/getting his ashes back is the last one left. Yesterday was hard on me too, but from the day of Jensen’s birth to his funeral all seems like a blur. I think my brain is doing that to protect me and lessen my pregnancy anxiety.

One of the things I promised Jensen for year three was to write more than I did last year. Granted, pregnancy after loss deterred me from sharing a lot, it has been so helpful to share what’s been on my mind. I know this year will be… different with Mila’s arrival and going through a new type of grief. In the next few days, I’m planning on sharing some ending thoughts on this pregnancy and getting prepared for her.

Again, i want to thank you all so much. It’s been such a crazy journey through life after loss. For two whole years, so many of you have witnessed my growth, grief, and love for my little man. Just knowing his story has been heard is the greatest gift.

The Last Movements.

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I remember this day two years ago as well as I remember yesterday.

It was a Saturday and I was thirty-seven weeks and six days pregnant. It was sort of  a quick day. We were rushing around getting last-minute things ready for Jensen’s arrival. Somehow it felt like the next two weeks or so were going to go by really slow, so we left a few things last minute.

He was low at this point and there was all types of pressure happening. I was so swollen. My face was so puffy and my feet looked unnatural. I never said how miserable I was when I was pregnant with him and I have no idea why because I’ve complained a lot in the past few weeks with Mila. For some reason, every day with Jensen felt like a blessing. I was fearful about Down Syndrome and can remember when they told me he tested positive for it that there’s a chance he could die before birth, but it was low after so many weeks. I don’t know. When he was with me, I felt myself more calm.

Anyways, there was a bassinet at my grandpa’s house and we were looking for other things for my house. His basement was full of my grandmother’s things, which I asked to have and still have them up in my house today from that day. My grandma passed away when I was very young, so her things are one way I can touch what she touched or have that connection. One of the things from that day was an old, orange car that was a cologne bottle. It looks so cute in Jensen’s room. I picked up a lamb she hand-made, so he could have it too. That’s now in Mila’s room, with her odd collection of lambs that I’ve picked up over the months. There’s a couple other things that I brought home with me of theirs. I wanted to bring apart of my family’s history to him, so he knew he’d always have someone watching over him and that he was surrounded by love.

While we were rummaging through the basement, my mom called my one cousin over and we looked through old photo albums and my grandparent’s love letters. I can still hear my grandpa reading them out loud. We saw their wedding photos, which I had never seen before. I was sitting on the couch in front of the window and my cousins daughter was sitting right next to me. All of us there were just listening to my grandpa talk and all of a sudden the lamp to the left of me flickered and Jensen made a big movement. I asked my cousin’s daughter if she wanted to feel him and she could. Then we wrapped the night up after a half hour. When I went to bed, I read Jensen a book and fell right to sleep after the busy day.

I didn’t know then, but that was the last big, memorable movement I’d ever feel from him.

Some part of me thinks that was him letting me know he was in distress. I thought he was just moving and I wish (so damn much) that I would’ve thought that movement was a little rough for him. It really haunts me. I wonder if that was his last night alive, of course I can’t know for sure. Another part of me thinks that if it was him letting me know he was going, that it wouldn’t have been a bad night to go. That whole day was about him and how much love is in our family.

I’ve been over that last weekend with him so many times in my head. For some reason, this day has stuck out for me. Although I can’t speak for other moms, I know I have tried to see where I could’ve saved him, many times. It’s like I have to put the blame on me at some point. I can’t explain it, but I feel like I should’ve known.

Throughout today, I’ve been thinking about two years ago and how different I wish it could all be. Mila’s had great movement and was monitored earlier. I’ve been on edge all day, wondering if this would be the last day I feel her move too. Honestly, I feel so guilty for all my pent-up anxiety and treating these days like they were two years ago. I just never thought he would die. I never thought I would remember his last movements because we should’ve had a lifetime of them…

Tonight, I’ll be watching my belly roll as Mila gets ready for her arrival, thinking of Jensen’s friend Alonzo as his family celebrates his second birthday in heaven, and as always, missing and loving my boy who I am so thankful made me his mom.

The Thirty-Nine Week Rule Sucks.

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My constant current view lately.

Its been another night of fighting sleep.

Me and the early hours of the morning have become well acquainted in the last week and a half. Please don’t tell me how I won’t be getting sleep when Mila arrives. It’s a different type of insomnia of worry and fear that people wouldn’t understand unless they’ve went through the loss of their child. Honestly, I would love to be able to sleep or get tired at night. Instead, I find myself getting quick power naps throughout the day that are keeping me going. How? I have no idea, but here we are.

The last time I wrote here, I said I would update everyone about Thursday’s appointment. Before my appointment, I went to Instagram and asked other moms if they had been induced early with their subsequent pregnancy. While there are some countries that will induce early, as in 37 or 38 weeks, the United States has this lovely 39 week rule. In short, doctors and hospitals and research want pregnant moms to wait until 39 weeks for induction, unless there’s a medical emergency with the mom or baby. You can look it up on Google easily, I’m too lazy to post links right now. Long story short, in the late 90s/2000s, people were scheduling inductions and c-sections for reasons such as they wanted a certain date and doctors would go along with it. This led to babies being born prematurely and having to spend time in the NICU. To prevent the rise in c-sections and NICU stays, they implemented waiting till 39 weeks was best.

Don’t get me wrong. When I was pregnant with Jensen, I wanted him to stay put until he was ready to come out. I didn’t want ANY intervention or pain medicine. The thought behind waiting 39 weeks is great for certain situations and if it has helped babies, then awesome. I’m in no way a scientist or researcher in this area, so I don’t mean to sound cynical with what I have to say next.

What I am though is a mom that’s baby hasn’t made it to 39 weeks.

Jensen was born at 38 weeks and 2 days. We were monitored twice a week by ultrasound at the hospital and the doctor’s office. Everything on his scans looked great and they in no way thought he was in distress while he was in the womb. Yet, in one moment, his heart stopped with no warning.

Fast forward to this past week. On Wednesday night, I couldn’t remember the last time I felt Mila move when I got home. I ate dinner and laid on the couch watching TV with no sound and prompting her to move. Nothing. Instantly, I started panicking. After an hour of more stillness, I decided it was time to go to the hospital. When I finally arrived it was around midnight and they got me right in. I didn’t cry and tried to be as strong as I could on the outside. On the inside… well that’s a different story. They ended up having to have me on the NST (non-stress test) monitor for most of the night. I wasn’t going crazy, Mila was having either a very long nap or a lazy spell. Her and I’s heart rate when we first got in there was skyrocketed, but they both came down, thankfully. Since it took her a little while to get some movements in, they ordered an ultrasound. All the tests came back perfectly and she’s measuring ahead. I ended up getting home at 4ish with her finally deciding to give me huge movements.

The very next day I had my second appointment at my doctor’s office. I went in with my knowledge of inducing early (37 or 38 weeks), my history of stillbirth, the previous night’s experience, and knowing what is best for my mental health that directly has an impact on Mila. I asked for an early induction for the sake of all those things and I was told the earliest they could was 39 weeks.

Part of me was happy there was a set date, but the majority of my mind and body know there’s no guarantee of that week coming. No one, not even my doctor, can promise me she’ll live until that point of time. Jensen never got that chance and so many other babies didn’t and won’t either.

Yeah, I could look at statistics for stillbirth, recurrent loss/stillbirth, and even live births. It doesn’t help. My child was the one before. I am the statistic and could very well be again. When Jensen died, I needed to know all those numbers to know I wasn’t alone or think I did something wrong. Knowledge has always been so valuable in my eyes. I still am glad I know all those stats and what can happen, but it has plagued me to not want to sleep, connect, or even feel hungry until I’m starving. It’s the loss of innocence that was stolen away from me two years ago that I wish I could just get back for the remaining time I’m pregnant with her, then I’ll take it all back.

I never thought I would say that, but here I am, terrified that if I go to sleep for too long at night she’ll stop kicking or have distressing movements and I’ll miss them. It’s terrifying.

People don’t understand the PTSD after loss. Last year, I had horrible flashbacks and nightmares nearing Jensen’s birthday and you can bet I’ve gotten them this year too. Since I’ve known Mila’s dates were so close to his, I’ve wanted her out before the big day. I won’t go on about this since I talked about it in my last post, but I’ll tell you, I probably won’t be sleeping much during his birthday week and all of week 38.

This is why the 39 weeks rule sucks.

There’s so many reasons why she should be induced this coming Friday and I can’t do anything about it. I’m afraid that I’ll unintentionally hurt her from my fear and anxiety. The whole no sleep thing probably is messing with her, as well as my lack of proper diet. (If you’re worried, I do eat. I set alarms on my phone to make sure I’m getting enough and have not missed a day of prenatal vitamins. My body is just not getting hungry like a normal person’s does at this time. This happened for months after Jensen was born, so I learned ways to make sure I was being as healthy as I can be even when I didn’t want to eat.) I also know that there’s not a switch of these feelings going away when she’s born. There will be a whole other set of complex emotions I know I’ll go through. Yet, the lack of control that I feel is happening as I wait these last few weeks is horrible. What will switch instantly is being able to see her alive. Having her breathing in my arms and feeling like I (or anyone else) can help her if she needs it.

I’m not ‘tired of being pregnant’ or just want her out for the hell of it. That’s where the this 39 week rule messes with women who are just trying to do what is best for their self and child. I don’t feel heard or that my feelings are validated at this point. The only thing, besides being able to have Jensen back too, is to have Mila in my arms alive and healthy.

All I want is to hear her screaming the second she is born and finally being able to see her face. I’m just trying to make sure that happens and not let death steal her away too.

So, here’s to the next (less than) 3 weeks of no sleep and endless kick counts.