Catching Up: Just a quick (and thankfully, boring) update to say that the Deuce's non-stress test went okay today. He/she didn't have the accelerations they were looking for (again), but I was better prepared to handle that. Plus, we came very close (the nurse thought the doctor might let us slide, but I appreciate that he was cautious). Bio-physical profile took a while (again) but movement and tone were great, fluid was fine, and eventually Deuce got around to showing off his/her breathing skillz (right about the time I was asking the nurse if I'd have to come back tomorrow because I was sure we were looking at score of 6/10). So we ended up scoring at 8 on the report card, and I left feeling reassured.
Breaking Down: I got home tonight and heard some news that shattered any sense of complacency I might have had (we all know there wasn't much of that), and--more significantly--left me breathless, speechless, and brokenhearted. Another bereaved mother, whose first baby died around the same time Eliza did, just lost her second child--a baby girl born at 36 weeks.
All that bullshit about lightning not striking twice... All that bullshit about everything happening for a reason... I swear I will punch anyone who dares utter those words out loud in my presence.
We who have journeyed to hell and back with the loss of a baby say that we could never survive another loss. I think, there's no way I could handle it. But you know what? I thought that first time, too.
Now I know that the worst thing about it is that you do survive. You do wake up the next morning and you find that eventually you have to brush your teeth and put on clothes and eat something and try to remember what it means to be alive when your baby is dead. It takes months to find your way back to the point where you can stand to exist in your own skin again. It staggers me to know that an ordinary couple who just wanted to have a baby is enduring that level of pain for the second time.
Profoundly fucking unfair doesn't even begin to cover it.