When Every Good Thing Was Still Possible

At one point, I confessed to David, sobbing, that it would be easier if Eliza had never existed at all.  If we could just pretend that I'd never been pregnant and we were going to start trying to have a baby in the new year and we could just be hopeful instead of heartbroken.

The moment I said it, I felt beyond terrible.  What kind of mother wishes that her baby had never existed?

You may think that was a rhetorical question, but it has a real answer:  The kind of mother whose baby has died.

Which, of course, begs another question:  Would I really wipe it all out if I could?

And that is just a stupid question because of course the answer has to be no.  Her life has to have meant something.  It did mean something.  It meant everything to me.

Shortly after we were home from the hospital, my mom said to us that parenting opens you up to great joy and great pain and it is truly unfair that we get all of the pain and we're robbed of the joy.

Eliza's death does feel like a robbery (and I know Mark Twain thought the same about his daughter).  But even in the darkest moments of those early days, I had to protest when my mom suggested we only got sorrow.  Yes, we absolutely got more than our fair share of that.  But before she was gone, Eliza had brought us joy.  Eight brilliant months of it.

From the moment I got two pink lines on a pregnancy test, we were thrilled.  It was Mother's Day, and I declared that morning to be my First Official Mothers' Day.  And then we went back to installing our new floors, giddy with excitement.

We loved Baby Duck from that moment on.  And we quickly starting stringing together celebrations in her honor...

* The first ultrasound.  We saw her on the screen and the lovely ultrasound tech exclaimed, "There's your little peanut!" as though she truly found our baby as amazing as we did.  We heard Baby Duck's little heartbeat "wow-wow-wow-wow" and I gripped David's hand and stared at the blob screen with a huge grin plastered across my face and tears welling up in my eyes.

* Spreading the news.  We waited twelve weeks before we even told our parents.  I just wanted to be sure, you know?  Once I was obviously pregnant, I never minded people asking me about the baby (a big belly forced me to be more social with strangers than I'd even been before).  I used to tell people that we were almost as excited about the baby as my parents were.

* Finding our she was our girl.  We had this carefully orchestrated plan with the ultrasound tech and the receptionist at the doctor's office and the bakery near our house so that our cake surprise could be ordered without us knowing the color of the frosting...  David and I opened the envelope over dinner at the park that evening, just the two of us, sitting and looking out at the water while the storm clouds rolled over the Grand Basin (I look back now and think of those clouds as a sign of the storm to come, but still that night was pure joy).  I had been saying all along that she was a girl and I was thrilled to be proven right.  A mother's intuition, I told David with delight.

* The fuss of the "Gender Party" with the gender-surprise-cake.  Our friends and my parents helped us much such a big deal out of her, what with the taking of boy/girl votes and the cutting of the cake:  "Pink or Blue, May your wish come true!"  We cut the cake and everyone squealed over the pink frosting and we took pictures.  I gave my parents a pink striped baby outfit that said, "I love Grandma and Grandpa."  And when the party was over, I wrote my first letter to Baby Duck, telling her how lucky she was to have so many people who loved her already.

* The shared excitement with so many of my friends who were also expecting.  In my close circle of friends, four of the girls and I had overlapping pregnancies.  Our babies were going to grow up together, have playdates together, start kindergarten the same year, graduate in the same class.  I love these friends so much and it was so amazing to see all of us embark on this new stage of life at the same time.

* Our trip to Korea.  Baby Duck scored me a seat on the subway at the end of long days spent sightseeing.  We bought her a children's book about Korea at one of the museums, imagining the day we'd read it to her and tell her about the trip she took to the other side of the globe when she was still in her mama's belly.

* Buying baby things, planning a baby registry, decorating the nursery.  I was so particular about everything.  We both were.  Between the two of us, we researched virtually every baby item we purchased.  We were determined to be well prepared and I spent so many hours looking at different cribs, different mattresses, different car seats, and imagining the baby girl who would use them and how it would feel to be a mom.

* The clothes.  Oh my word, the baby girl clothes were so much fun.  I tried to restrain myself from going totally overboard but by the time we got through two baby showers, a few clearance sales, and three enormous hand-me-down boxes from her cousin, we might never have had to go shopping again.

* The baby showers.  Surrounded by my best friends and then a week later by the women in my family, I felt so happy and so loved.  I hoped that some day my baby would have such amazing girlfriends.  I couldn't wait for her to be part of our family.  I knew how lucky I was.  I really did.

* Prenatal yoga.  It was an hour a week that I didn't want to miss, no matter how much grading I had to do.  One hour to spend feeling connected to the baby, to laugh with other women about pregnancy symptoms, to stretch and relax and feel like I was doing something positive and healthy for myself and my baby.  Oh, yes.  I was smug about it, too.  I felt like I was already being a good mom, making her a priority.

* Childbirth classes.  Taking the Bradley classes meant that David and I spent an evening a week focused on the pregnancy and the baby and on working as a team.  We read and learned and discussed options and possibilities.  It helped me feel confident that I was a healthy mother.  I had a low-risk pregnancy.  I was worried about the IV (needles!) and I wanted to avoid an epidural.  My "worst case scenario" was a c-section and a premie.  I was certain that there was nothing I couldn't do, as long as I had carefully researched it and read about it first. 

I truly had a joyful pregnancy.

Of course, I can't pretend that it was all sunshine and rainbows.  I was surprised by how heavy and uncomfortable I started to feel, and I was shocked by the unexpected discomfort of carpal tunnel and the grossness of sensitive gums that would sometimes bleed when I brushed my teeth.  And my feet were freaking tired by the end of the day. Not to mention they had just started getting swollen like elephant feet.

Above all, though, I was so excited about having a baby.  No matter how much I wanted to bitch about pregnancy symptoms, I knew it would be worth it.  The one time I got really pissy about having a double chin in every single photo, David reminded me, "It could be worse.  You could be not pregnant," and I got over myself and my chin(s).  We looked forward to every minute with that baby and I would have endured anything to get her here.

She brought us an incredible amount of joy in those eight months.

But then, so much sorrow.

And then, so much sorrow.

The thing is that the sorrow does not cancel out the joy entirely, although it still feels that way most of the time.  It is incredibly difficult to try and figure out how they can exist side by side.  I can't think about any part of my pregnancy without being overwhelmed with sadness.  But I hope that some day I will be able to separate the pain of losing her from the happiness we had while she was still in my belly and every good thing was still possible.