Turner Syndrome

I just got the news from the doctor. Our daughter died from Turner Syndrome, which I guess is a missing chromosome that only occurs in girls. I’m feeling rather detached at the moment since, for some reason, I was convinced it was a boy. We’d even come up with a name for him. Our doctor said that this was the best possible news we could get from the workup - there are no hormonal problems, and nothing to suggest that I’m any more likely to have another miscarriage than anyone else. But I’m still feeling terrified as we start TTC again.

I know most people don’t have a chance to get bloodwork done after a first miscarriage, but my doctor (whose wife had multiple m/c) made sure we got that option after the D&C. Now I know what happened, which I thought would be a comfort, but I’m not sure it is. Right now I just feel confused, and sad.

Easter weekend

I didn't realize how hard it would be to be at home. My parents are walking on eggshells about what they say, and my husband isn't here to hold my hand when I'm sad. He's taking care of our herd of animals and spending Easter with his own family. It's the first holiday we've been apart since we were engaged. That's part of what makes it difficult, of course.

Equally uncomfortable has been the people we've run into. I started crying in the grocery store when one of my mother's friends from work - one who has helped her get through the loss of what was her first grandchild, after all - came over and said how sorry she was. It hurt, and it made me angry, in a stupid way. How dare she bring something so painful, so private, into the open in a grocery store? I know she only meant to express her sympathy, but I thought here I might be free of it, at least for a bit. And tomorrow will be worse. Tomorrow after church, we spend the afternoon with my aunt and uncle, and my pregnant cousin and her family. I don't want to hear them say how sorry they are. I don't want them telling me that I'll get to meet my baby someday, when God wills it, and that look, my cousin is pregnant and carrying to term after a miscarriage of her own. I don't want them to be understanding. I just don't want to talk about it. I have a whole slew of friends who still live in my home state, and I haven't told more than one that I'm here. I just don't want to see them and explain. I should be 14 weeks pregnant, and I'm not.

Home for Easter

Tonight I hop a plane and head to the frozen north to spend the weekend with my parents for Easter. It is, literally, a guilt trip. My mother felt so guilty that she couldn't be here to hold my hand before the D&C that she immediately bought me tickets to come and visit. It's going to be uncomfortable. I'm going to be visiting my cousin on Easter. She's five months pregnant, and was so, so excited to be pregnant at the same time as me. It's crushing just to think about it, but I think I need this. I think I'm ready to see her, and I know she's devastated for me. Time to cross my fingers and hope for the best.

A welcome vacation

One lovely weekend in the mountains later, I'm feeling a great deal more settled, although the sadness came back as I walked into the baby room to look at my husband's new plants. It made me a little bitter. There's something growing in there, but not my baby.

The weekend was restful, though. My knitting group headed up on a retreat that I planned about a month and a half ago, and everyone seemed very happy with the job I'd done of it. We got to hit up a bunch of wonderful knitting stores, and I got a GORGEOUS skein of lace-weight yarn, and picked a pattern for it, to boot!

Unfortunately, it reminded me that I'd promised my pseudo-cousin some baby things. She's at five months, now. I'm horribly jealous, even though I don't want to be. It's her second child, and she's a wonderful mother. Her son is a joy to be around. The thought of making something for someone else's baby is hard to bear, though. Two of my good friends offered to do the hard work if I supplied the yarn and pattern, and as much as I hate to pass my work on someone else, I might take them up on it.

An empty room

I am a prolific knitter, crocheter, and spinner. My large stash of yarn and fiber is stacked nice and neat in what was our extra closet. It just happens that the extra closet is in the room that I haven't opened for the past week and a half. It was the room that was supposed to belong to our son.

For the first time, today, I opened the door. The hand-me-down strollers are still sitting in the corner, where I saw my husband run up and stash them when I was still in shock, lying in bed and unable to so much as move from despair. So is the pile of baby books so helpfully provided by my and his mothers, and the half dozen baby outfits that his mother picked up on sale at Kohls and just had to get for her first grandchild. So also hangs the gift I got for my husband for Valentine's Day - a onesie with the Duke logo on it, so our child would proudly display his school spirit when he inevitably got dragged to that first basketball game.

I could deal with all of that. Even the onesie. I know logically that we have an excellent chance of being able to conceive again and carry to term. We have no known genetic or hormonal issues that might have caused a miscarriage. We have an excellent chance of being able to use all of the items in that room in the next two years, less with any luck.

But then I opened the closet and in searching for a particular skein of yarn, I found his socks.

They were an impulse purchase at Target, just a couple of weeks after I found out I was pregnant with him. They were selling off all of their baby holiday socks, as it was the end of January. Hidden in the pile were a pair of teensy tiny white socks with blue toes and heels, with little puppies embroidered on them. They were some ridiculously cheap price on clearance, less than a quarter, and they were my first baby purchase.

I held the socks and sobbed. I never thought such a tiny object would mean so much to me. They were just a pair of socks that cost barely more than a few pennies, and yet they meant so much to me. Those little socks were tucked away in my purse at my first ultrasound, when I saw his little heart beating.

I don't think those little socks can ever belong to anybody else. They're his, and noone else's. I couldn't leave them packed away in the closet, so I moved them, stashing them away in my side table in the bedroom, so I'll always know just where they are. They shouldn't mean so much, but they do.

Memorials

Each day gets a little bit easier in its own way. Some days have their tough moments - the play, the television show, a text from my cousin informing me that their healthy baby is a boy. Each day I do a slightly better job of living. I'm certainly not "over it," nor do I think I'll ever be completely, but one week and one day past the moment that my dream fell apart and I find I can work again. I can smile again. I still can't go into the room we were saving for him without breaking down into tears, but that step will come too, eventually.

This blog entry is a step as well. This is the first entry that I've written without crying. I don't want the memory of my first child, however briefly he existed, to be one that always hurts. I had wonderful moments that I shared with that little tiny spark of life. Someday, God willing, I want to share with the other children we'll hopefully have that they have an older brother, even if they can never meet him in this life.

I've been thinking a little bit about ways to remember this first child. I went out and bought a piece of jewelry, a ring, with an opal and blue topaz in it. Opal would have been his birthstone. Blue topaz is mine. Now I get to sit here and glance at it any time I want and remember him, even if it's only a ring.

Things that should have warning labels

Apparently "Miss Saigon" is far worse for me than the five minutes in Battlestar Galactica. Mother in law gave hubby and I tickets for the show so we could go do something fun together. We left at intermission, both of us sobbing. It's probably easier if we don't tell anyone. She'll just feel guilty for putting us through more pain.