It gets increasingly harder for me to talk to women who haven't ever experienced a loss. I hate that "If I take care of myself everything will obviously be okay," attitude. First off because it makes me feel that they think that I didn't take care of myself, and therefore Cora's death was my fault. But secondly because that expectation that everything will just be okay is something I've never experienced. Like I said in my last post, I always expected to lose my first pregnancy. I was always very surprised that there was a baby there, and that she was healthy. At my first ultrasound I expected them to tell me that there wasn't a baby there, that while my body thought I was pregnant, there wasn't anything there (later I'd learn this was called a blighted ovum). At my big diagnostic ultrasound I expected them to tell me she didn't have any kidneys. Or that there was something wrong with her heart.
It wasn't until the last few days Cora was alive that I started to believe I might actually get a baby out of the whole process. That Sunday, the last day she was alive, I woke up and she had obviously dropped. I could fit my hand flat between my breasts and my belly. I could breathe. Matt commented. Everyone at church commented. But I wasn't having any contractions to speak of. I had to work that evening, and decided that maybe several hours on my feet would help things along.
The last real movement I remember feeling was nearly 11:00pm. We would be closing in an hour, we were already preparing. I was vacuuming the floor, and she stretched. It was so hard that I felt like my skin was splitting. It hurt. I said "Baby girl, please don't hurt mommy like that!"
After the fact, I can't help but wonder, is that when she died?
When I think about it logically, I don't necessarily think so. Cord constriction wouldn't be a violent end, like drowning or strangling. It'd just be a slow drop in blood pressure...like falling asleep. I hope.
Anyway, that night I truly expected to go into labor. I truly expected to have contractions wake me up at 4 am. But I slept like a rock until 11am. I guess not having a baby waking me up by kicking my ribs would do that. And then all my expectations ended. For several hours I hoped I was freaking out. But each moment that passed without movement, that hope waned. And then that fateful ultrasound that obliterated all hope at all.
I spent one day really expecting everything to be okay. Although, not really, because even then I was expecting to need an emergency csection. I don't know why, but I always expected disaster. But never in the form it actually took.