The things people say

8.23.14

     Sometimes, people try to say the right thing, or just plain don't have a filter and sometimes you want to look at them sideways when they say things to you.
      The first incidence of this was earlier in our pregnancy, maybe about week 19 or so, when one of the nurses I work with was talking to me about how I feel with this pregnancy. It was only towards the end of the conversation that one of those things just came out of her mouth.
       "How far along are you again?" she asked.
       "19 weeks..." I replied.
       "Oh you're good then," she replied, as if nothing could ever go wrong after week 12.
       "Well I'll never really be good until I get a screaming child in my arms." I responded softly.
       "You know what I mean, statistically you're good," she shrugged.
        Statistics. Statistics are what creep into my head late at night when I let my guard down and start thinking about how naive to this world I was a year ago. 1 in 160 pregnancies end in stillbirth, that's not a small number. I didn't say 1 in 1000, I didn't say 1 in 1500. 1 in 160. And stillbirth is just the tip of the iceberg because it doesn't even include losses before 20 weeks gestation.
         Statistically, lightening shouldn't strike twice. Statistically, you're safe flying on an airplane. But statistics are just a way of rationalizing ourselves out of fear for the most part.

        On Saturday, I had plans to go to Elyse's baby shower. It was so cool to get to celebrate with her, because when she was pregnant with Emma Kate she didn't have any showers because they knew that she wouldn't make it. It hurts my heart for her just to type that.
        Saturday morning I packed up myself and drove down to Dallas about 20 minutes. There, I meandered through the neighborhood with the big, shady trees and houses that were mostly set up above the street so you'd have to take stairs up to the front of the house.
        The shower was held at her sister-in-law's house, and it was absolutely gorgeous with skylights letting the morning sun pour in to the living room. All around the house were pink decorations, and off to the side was a cute little buffet with snack food for all the women.
         Elyse and I hadn't known each other but about 6 months (seems like a lot longer!), but our other friend Lauren was also planning to come. Lauren had lost her baby boy, John Luke, last November, and Elyse and I had met her at the retreat. I was amazed at Lauren having the courage to attend a retreat a mere 2 months after her loss, and as she told the story of how John Luke had lost his heart beat during labor, I cried with her at the sudden loss and knowing how that feels. Lauren had also gotten pregnant around the same time as me and Elyse, and her boys would be Irish twins, her second baby being born a week before John Luke's first birthday.
          Lauren was running a little bit late that morning, so I sat a little awkwardly around a group of women that I didn't know and waited for the present opening to begin. Eventually, one lady came and sat next to me and asked the question I should have prepped for but had completely forgotten about.
          "So," she started, "How do you know Elyse?"
          Crap. It's not that I was ashamed or embarrassed that we had both lost our babies, it was just more of being the "debbie downer" in the room. I hated that on this day, when we were celebrating life, that I would be the reminder of the loss that had come less than a year ago for both of us.
           "Oh, um..." I started. "We met through a group called Hope Mommies."
            A look of recognition on her face, and then she leaned forward and lowered her voice to say, "Oh I'm so sorry for your loss. What is your story?"
            Again, I have to tell you this is one of the most awkward situations ever. I'm proud to be Kaitlyn's mom, and I know that Elyse is proud to be Emma's mom, but at the same time it is so hard to be "that person" in the room. People don't know how to react to you.
             I told her the short version of Kaitlyn's birth, and at the end she was nodding with recognition because I guess Elyse had told her my story just like I have told hers.
             After a minute or two, she said, "You know, your story scares me the most."

             Bless her.

             Our story scares me, too. To not have any warning that your child wasn't going to make it and at the very end of a pregnancy being pulled into a world of loss and grieving you never knew existed. It's still insane to me that this is my life. That this is truly what happened to our precious baby girl. Some days, it just feels like a horrible nightmare. It feels like none of that really happened.
             Other days, it is so real its tangible. I can feel Kaitlyn's soft hair between my fingers as I twirled it out of the little mohawk that the nurses had styled it in. I remember the weight of her in my arms.
              Yes, our story scares me. But I know, there is purpose in her story. There is always purpose in the pain.