My coughing at night has been replaced by worrying. I have spent my nights up in bed palpating my uterus, trying to inspire motion in the newest little Bayly. With our Sophie, from 16 weeks exactly, she was kicking with a vengeance. Sweet motion, which ceased, but for that reason was even sweeter. Now, this little one seems lazy in comparison. Here I am, 16 weeks and a couple of days, and feeling only lackadaisical shifts in position, and wriggles from side to side. No kicks. And, really, that just started for sure.
I was convinced for the last few days that I was feeling nothing.
For any mom, the idea of feeling no movement is terrifying. But, for a mom that has felt absolute still inside, it is beyond comprehension. The fear has been frantic. I have spent the last few days resigned. Sure that yesterday's appointment would be my last. Sure that I would hear those gut, tear and heart wrenching words again - "I am sorry. I don't hear a heartbeat." If you haven't heard those words, you can imagine how awful they would sound. You can imagine the literal anguish as your breathing stops, and you wish your heart would as well. But, think for one moment, if those words were like a broken record in your mind. If in your lowest moments of feeling the utter silence of your house, and seeing your unused, still-packed diaper bag collecting dust in the corner, those words leapt to your brain. If you could see the doctor's face, sterile and unsmiling, and silent shaking tears running down the faces of five or six nurses like towering monoliths around the white labcoat-room. If you had wanted to tear open your own flesh and sinew to reach to your baby, gone but needing so badly to be held by her mother. Imagine, carrying another baby. Trying to pour your heart out in a way you can only hope is enough. Then, in the silence and dark, you hear those words. At night, as your try to sleep, as you drive to work, as you walk the dog, as you shower, as you choke down another's days worth of prenatal vitamins, sure it will be your last.
Then, as the words are resonating in your head, booming, repeating, beating you further down into the carrying darkness, you feel something. No longer nothing, still, silent. You feel the kick of new life returning. Somewhere, deep inside broken womb, you feel the shimmy and shake of your chance to prove yourself a mother. You feel your tribute to your lost and huddled family burst to life again. Each beat of baby's tiny new heart is more miraculous than the last. Each tension-rubber-band-snapping inside is enough to give birth to hope. Like an orange sunrise, you love your baby each time the rise and fall of its arms and legs reach out for you, and wake you with new light. How can your heart break so beautifully?
3 comments:
Whew! You have an amazing gift in your writing in that it has a physical effect on me! I *felt* your words so deep inside! It gives me a mere glimmer of what you've been through and what fears continue to haunt you.
Thank you for being honest and for sharing so openly. Gosh, I wish I could think of something more poignant to say, but I'm still speechless by your post. It was raw and intense and I'm blown away. I'm fast becoming one of your biggest fans :)
Oh, Catherine. Once again, a post of yours has me in tears. I would get so concerned if I didn't feel Sam move for a couple of hours when I was pregnant. But to have gone through what you did last year, and then to feel no movement with this new little Bayly - well, the fear and terror must be palpable. I was just dumbstruck with the horror you sometimes feel on a daily basis.
Like Lora, I thank you for sharing such intimate thoughts for all of us to see. I'm also becoming one of your biggest fans!
To the amazing Cat:
I'm not a mother. It's scary to be a mother. You have to be giving and nurturing and self-sacrificing all day. To give your heart can be scary. To leave your heart so vulnerable. You are one of the strongest, most fabulous people I know. You are that and so much more as a mommy. Your babies are so blessed. I thank you too for being so real and open. It must be an incredibly difficult thing to do. I cannot fathom your pain. I try to imagine it, but just can't. All my love and best wishes to you Bill, and new baby. Never stop writing.
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