LJ and I have been sharing our ugly, dark & twisty thoughts lately. It's so wonderful to have someone to discuss these things with. Although our thoughts are on completely and totally different topics, we both have the ability to understand how much they suck. I know you already know this, but I heart you LJ. :-)
Since LJ had the guts to post her thoughts, I will too. These aren't exactly Earth-shattering and there will be many pregnant infertiles alike that will nod their head as they read them, but it was cathartic to get them out of my noggin to LJ (I actually slept a few hours last night -- woohoo!), and perhaps it will be even better if I put them out there for the IF world to see. Feel free to comment and tell me I'm not totally crazy.
A big problem I'm having right now is that I can't sleep. I can't get comfortable in the physical sense one bit. But I also can't quiet my mind...
The bigger problem I have is the dead baby thoughts. Every time I feel the baby kick, I look at the clock. No, I'm not doing kick counts. I'm noting the time so that later in the day when I call my OB in a panic to say I haven't felt any movement in X hours, I know exactly how long it's been. This is exhausting. It's like eternally being on the "fight" side of the fight or flight reflex. I wish I could stop.
The DBTs are always, ALWAYS there but I became totally irrational on Saturday night. After spending, oh, I don't know, about 2 hours reading blogs of stillborn stories (which I do often), I decided to turn in for the night. Usually when I settle into the glider to pretend like I'm going to get some sleep, the baby starts going crazy. I swear he's rearranging furniture in there most days. Well, on Saturday night he was completely still. Nada. Nothing. I pretended like it was okay. Finally, when I started to break into a sweat, I started poking and pushing him around. I wasn't exactly gentle, I was really manhandling him. That always elicits at least a roll or elbow or something. Again, nothing. I started sort of hyperventilating and trying to figure out who I could call at 1am to stay with Megan while Kevin and I went off to the hospital to confirm the worst.
Finally, after 5 straight minutes of torturing this kid, I went downstairs. Still nothing. I drank some milk, ate some Oreos, and sat on the couch. I stared at my stomaching, willing it to move. Still nothing. It must have taken another 5 minutes of jacking around, jabbing myself in the midsection, to get him to wake the hell up and move. Then he was up for the night, ready to party (totally my fault). But I didn't even care, I was so happy to feel it that it didn't matter.
I'm just having a hard time understanding why I should get a live baby when so many people experience horrible late term loss. I'm still not fully on board with why I ever got knocked up in the first place when totally deserving, wonderful people are not. I don't mean to be hard on myself, but I am not sure why I got so lucky when others don't. Therefore, I'm always on high alert expecting tragedy to strike at any moment. It's not like I think that 3 years, tens of thousands of dollars, 2 miscarriages, 4 IUIs and 3 IVFs isn't "enough dues to pay". Perhaps it is. But I still feel so sad and so empty that so many of my IF friends are still being tortured. I suppose I'll never understand.
But, the hormones, the lack of sleep, and the reality of what's about to happen here is clearly fucking with my head. I need to try to be happy and stop obsessing about when my baby will up and die inside of me. That's not helpful. I countered all of that shit on Sunday by acting wildly optimistic. I pre-ordered envelopes for birth announcements so I could get them addressed. I wrote thank you notes for baby presents that people had already sent us. We hung pictures and other stuff on the walls in the baby's room. All in all, I acted like I really think this is going to work out. God knows I hope it does, but I still have a hard time believing it.
Is this Survivor Guilt? I don't consider myself a survivor yet, not until he gets here safe and sound. But I think I'm perhaps trying to assuage my impending Survivor Guilt by assuming that the worst will happen. Why I do get to be a survivor? Why do I get to be the inmate in the dirty and tattered striped prison pants on the outside of the fence? It hurts so much to see all the other wrongfully imprisoned inmates on the "wrong" side of the fence, looking forlorn and banging their tin cups up against the chain link. We are all trying to tunnel our way out, digging to China with a broken plastic spoon. Why did I hit less rocks, why was my fence seemingly buried a bit less deep? For Pete's sake, why can't I just be happy for myself and not obsess about everyone else who isn't?
This has all been rattling around in my head for some time now and hopefully it's cathartic to get it out. I've hesitated to post this because I feel foolish putting stuff like this up here. Who wants to read an infertility blog when it's paragraph after paragraph of an enormously pregnant chick complaining about being pregnant? No one, that's who.
Thanks to everyone who listens to me whine. Poor Rho usually got the brunt of it but goodness knows she's got enough on her plate right now. Therefore, I've been torturing LJ and a select handful of others (lucky you!). I pray each and every day that things will turn out okay. Words simply can't describe how much it would suck to get this far and then lose it all. Dear God, please don't let that happen.