I gave up. I threw in the towel close to a year ago. I had been trying for something like four years to have a rainbow baby. I even prayed about giving up. I gave away everything, all the baby stuff. 13 miscarriages in a row, including a prior miscarriage, 15 baby losses in a row. I knew my body wouldn't carry another baby. I figured if I was trying, truly trying, for a baby for so long, there was no way my rainbow could happen.
A few days ago, I nearly fell down with vertigo. I never get vertigo except when I'm pregnant. Sure enough, we passed the test I'd been working so hard to pass for so long. It's not that we weren't ever getting pregnant ... just that in spite of careful trying, it was getting rarer and rarer to the point that it didn't seem possible anymore. And here we are. I don't know which I'm more scared of...that we lose the pregnancy again, as usual, or that we keep it for longer than usual then go through yet another painful later miscarriage or baby loss [a very real probability with the antibody I have] or that I hold the baby then lose it like I did with Alli. I think it's the last. No, it's definitely the last.
There's nothing I want more than a baby and nothing that terrifies me more. From my experience, there is a very very fine line between a live baby and a dead one. I prayed for this before. Now, with my neatly ordered existence and my thinking moved beyond this possibility, I feel lost, confused. A baby would be a marvelous blessing. A live baby. But I have a hard time hoping, even a little bit, that this double line on the pregnancy test can translate into a live child for me. For most people, pregnancy means you're expecting. I'm only expecting more loss, more pain. More blood. I keep telling myself I'm fine, that whatever happens, I'll be fine. But I'm not fine. I'm terrified. Between my consistent and unexplained pattern of early loss to my antibody that is likely to kill to a fragile baby facing a world full of dangers, I have a hard time seeing the path between me and a child old enough to be less fragile. Even my older kids scare me when they go out into the world because I still envision the many ways I could lose them. I used to see myself as a Disney princess. Now I'm Dory because I can scarcely remember my own name thanks to the symptom of mourning, forgetfulness, and I'm Marlin because everything looks like a danger to the babies I have left. I want to see this through the eyes of faith. But I understand too well "but if not faith." I want this baby to live, but if not, I will know it is for my good. I don't know that I can endure any more loss. Please, Father, help me survive this, however it works out.
