Life with a rainbow.

Almost two years ago, I wrote my first story on Medium about the seemingly never ending journey to motherhood. If you have five minutes to spare, please read that one first and come back here. This is my follow-up story. My sequel if you will. I’ve been meaning to write about the next chapter for a while now, but I suppose time got away from me. Or I felt like this part of the story wasn’t as important to be told. But it is. Because life after loss, and specifically, pregnancy after loss, is complicated. Really, complicated.

Life after loss

So here I was, on the verge of my 31st birthday, empty womb, empty life, empty heart. But if I’m being honest, I know that’s not entirely true. I had my husband, and my family and my friends. But even still, I felt isolated. People didn’t know what to say, and often times chose to say nothing. Which is OK. But it was hard to see that through the cloud of grief that hovered over my head. I found that to be selfish of them. So instead, I shut out the world. It was just me and Mike. And a lot of the time, just me.

I threw myself back into life, into work, into getting back into shape and into becoming the healthiest version of myself so that I could get pregnant again. After all, I never had a problem getting pregnant before. But I did seem to have a very serious problem with staying pregnant.

Just four short months after my loss, I was pregnant again. I found out about 10 days before the twins’ due date, which meant this next baby would be born awfully close to the twins’ first birthday. Talk about surreal. It was hard to be excited. I wasn’t even sure I was allowed to? I mean, wasn’t I supposed to still be sad? Would they be looking down and wondering why I had moved on?

Not to mention, I was terrified. And, I was still grieving. Before I was pregnant again there were times where I would think about the twins, or reflect on a moment during that time and I would lose it. Like when they made the unsuccessful “rescue cerclage” attempt, they had told Mike and I separately of the results — or lack thereof. So when we saw each other after I returned from the operating room, we both broke. I wailed so loudly they had to move us into a private room. It is a memory that is so vivid in my mind that even to this day if I think about it, I can’t help but cry. Even worse is trying to live through those memories pregnant and hormonal AF. The flashbacks would hit me like a ton of bricks. And always when I’d least expect it. That’s the thing about grief…its always there waiting to come to the surface. It never fully goes away. And being pregnant again didn’t affect that.

Is it your first?

That’s the question everyone asks when you’re expecting. I had a hard time answering yes. But I also had a hard time answering no. And if I said: “I actually had twins last year” people would be really confused. “Where are the babies now?” they’d ask. Or, “wow! that was quick” they’d say. So instead, I found myself answering “not exactly” or “technically”. And I’d wait for a follow-up question. Often times, I wouldn’t get it. And that was fine. But every now and then someone would look at me funny and say “what do you mean”? I’m sure they probably thought I had step kids, or maybe adopted first, or something like that. So I’d tell them and would get the typical response of “oh, I’m so sorry to hear that”. But here’s the thing, I wasn’t looking for sympathy. I just needed (I still need) for people to remember them. I have this burning desire to remind people that they were real. They were born, and we held them and they existed. And for a brief moment in time, they were ours and we were a family. Its a concept that people just can’t seem to grasp. And it infuriates me.

So I clung closely to a couple of people who had been where I had been. Pre-term loss. Pregnancy after loss. And most importantly, healthy rainbow at home. They are the only ones who understood. Who got that even though I was experiencing a healthy pregnancy, I was still grieving my loss. That every milestone along the way was not exciting, but terrifying. They were just check marks I was gathering along the way. Hopeful that I would collect enough. Cerclage, check. 13 weeks, check. Genetic testing, check. Anatomy screening, check. Glucose test, check. Viability, check. Cerclage removal, check. I took my pregnancy one appointment, one ultrasound and one week at a time. In the end, I went to the doctor at least every other week, until I started going once a week. By my calculations, that is approximately 25 appointments. At least 25 ultrasounds. And 20 weeks of shots given by a very gracious neighbor and friend.

It was the most anticipating, horrifying and psychologically screwed up period of my life.

A rainbow is born

And then one day, all check marks were achieved and we were ready to be induced.

On October 24, 2017 — just one year and 20 days after the twins were born — we welcomed Lucas, the most precious rainbow baby, into this world. I will never forget what it felt like when the cord was cut and that healthy cry echoed through the delivery room. Our lives were instantly changed. I remember whispering to that sweet baby: “hi, I’m your mom. you have a brother and sister in heaven who love you very much.” I don’t know why I said that. I didn’t have it planned. I never rehearsed what I’d say. I wonder if it’s some weird form of “mom-guilt”? Because even in that moment, which could have or should have been all about Lucas, I couldn’t allow myself to forget them.

730 days ago, they were born. And not a single day has gone by that I haven’t thought about them or longed for them. A lot of people told me, “you’ll get over it when you’re holding a healthy baby”. But they were wrong. Because even now, 730 days later, with healthy rainbow baby in tow, I haven’t moved on. Don’t get me wrong, I have never been as grateful for anything as I am for Lucas. He is my greatest blessing and I thank God for him every day. It just hurts.

To all the moms who are now where I’ve been: you are not alone. I know your heart is broken. You may never quite move on, but I am living proof that it will get better, it does get easier and the pain does become a little less severe. And I can tell you, that while your heart may never quite be whole again, it does eventually start to feel a little less broken.

And to my babies: I haven’t stopped loving you. I haven’t forgotten you. I am still your mom, I will always be your mom and I will never stop missing you. Happy birthday AB. 10.04.16

Photo credit: Natriya Rampey Photography