Deep Breaths

 I'm just past 26 weeks pregnant. I've imagined and dreamed about this phase of pregnancy, where I'd only ever been once before with M. Q is now and has been for 6 weeks, older than Puff when he died. Passing Luke's and Bunny's milestones was relieving, but they were so soon (6 and 8 weeks respectively), that it wasn't as much of a relief as I'd thought. I was still in the dangerous 1st trimester, though having had a 2nd trimester loss and knowing too many people with 3rd trimester losses, I know that there is no "safe point" in a pregnancy all too well.

Honestly, some people may expect that I'll relax more now. Q is past the point where Puff died. Surely that is a huge relief. Puff's death was a fluke. I know all that and it is a relief. I am more relaxed this pregnancy that a lot of the women I know who are going through or have gone through pregnancies after loss (commonly abbreviated PAL). I am a member of an on-line support group on Facebook for women who are pregnant after a second trimester loss, so I do have some frame of reference for how I'm doing. Overall, I think I'm doing well. I am not fully relaxed. There are still rough days where anxiety threatens to get the best of me. I still qualify statements in my mind. The baby is doing well "for now." We are very excited "and hope nothing goes wrong." We should sign up for a tour of the maternity ward since the hospital opened a new one since Puff was born "and I hope we don't have the crying heart on our door this time." The support group has helped me see that this is totally normal. Pretty much all of us ladies in the group feel that way and most, if not all, of the ladies who have gone on to have healthy happy babies felt that way until they held their babies and even beyond. As I've said before, though maybe not on this blog, "there ain't no paranoia like loss mom paranoia." It just seeps in to you.

That isn't to say that I'm not joyful and hopeful. I've simply learned that hope doesn't always look like I used to think. Hope isn't a blind determination that everything will be ok. Hope is continuing to walk the path even though you know it might not be ok, even though it hasn't been ok in the past. Hope is taking steps forward, looking past the anxiety, even when you want to give up. Hope is sometimes sitting down in the road, taking a break and letting the tears flow before getting up to take the next step. I've stayed on the road. I have hope. Trust me, there is no greater joy than seeing/feeling my baby moving, hearing the doctor tell me all about him as we watch him on an ultrasound. Hope doesn't necessarily cast away the fears and anxieties, but it does put them in their place. Hope tells them that I'm going to keep walking, no matter what they say. Hope tells me that I don't have to do more than I'm ready for, that it is ok if I'm having a rough day, because I can keep going anyway. Hope isn't always a strong, lighthouse beacon in the night. Sometimes, hope is knowing that your eyes will adjust to the darkness so you can keep going. Hope is also the sliver of light to which your eyes adjust. Most days are wonderful. Q is a relatively active baby, at least compared to M, and I'm grateful for that (and no, I don't think I'll eat those words when he is born...I know the worse-case alternative and I'll take an active, rambunctious boy over that every single time). Most days, he is kicking and active and there is no doubt that he is fine. Other days, he is quiet and resting...which is normal, but I have to remind myself actively and often of the normalcy of it. And both of those days are ok. The quiet days get fewer and farther between the bigger he gets.

Please believe me, friends and family, I am not always as relaxed and confident as I seem. I sometimes keep up a facade because I need to. I need to act as though it is all ok because that helps me hang on to my hope. A very dear friend who is also pregnant after losses right now and I were talking. She said that she was having trouble holding on to hope. I told her I'd hold hers for her when she couldn't carry it herself if she'd do the same. She immediately understood what I meant and agreed. It is the greatest gift we can give each other, to hold on to hope for each other in the dark times. Other close friends offered to have a shower for me. I love and need the confidence that they have that Q will be fine. Know it or not, they help me hold my hope. I am not ready for a shower just yet (which is also common in the PAL community...a lot of women don't have "showers" until after their babies are born), but their unquestioning confidence was bolstering and happened to come on a day when I'd been having a particularly tough time with anxiety.

A few weeks ago, I came out of M's room and looked at the clock in the kitchen. I realized that I was 19 weeks, 6 days and that it was 8:30 pm exactly...the exact time gestationally that Puff was born into the arms of angels. The next morning, when I felt Q move for the first time of the day, I took a deep breath and sighed. That, my friends, is hope. This little man has made it farther down the road than any of his siblings except for M. May he ever follow in her joyful, happy footsteps and may the sound of them one day fill our ears and our home.