It’s time for me to come out of the closet, which is always a scary, difficult thing. And it’s kind of a big deal to do it over the internet. But hopefully it’ll go okay – the few family and friends and members of my “special community” to whom I’ve already come out, much to my relief, have been loving and supportive.
And I prefer to write authentically. And this has become all-consuming, and I need to be able to write about all these life changes as my continued therapy, or I might very well go insane. And, also, I’m a supporter of flying the rainbow flag.
And there’s really no ideal time to come out anyway, especially given all we’ve been through. So I’ll just come out with it in the same way so many who’ve walked this path have done before. (Which kills me, because I’m an independent spirit, damn it.) But this quote makes me cry. Every. Single. Time. Because it’s really perfect…
“It is understood that the beauty of a rainbow does not negate the ravages of the storm. When a rainbow appears, it doesn’t mean the storm never happened or that those affected are not still dealing with its aftermath. What it means is that something beautiful and full of light has appeared in the midst of the darkness and clouds. Storm clouds may still hover, but the rainbow provides a counterbalance of color, energy and hope.”
That’s right – it’s with some cautious optimism, and much trepidation, that we announce we’re expecting our “rainbow” baby, our second child, Matthew’s little brother (it’s a boy), sometime in July or August.
We’re incredibly grateful for this opportunity to hopefully parent a child earth-side. And, though we’re still very much grieving the loss of our precious Matthew (and always will be), this news has brought some light into our lives for which we couldn’t be more thankful.
So far, things have been going well. Doctor appointments have been (mostly) uneventful. And I’ve been feeling well physically.
But all this was true last time too until the moment it wasn’t. So emotionally and mentally, it’s been challenging, to say the least.
I’m pregnant on a similar timeline to last year with Matthew, thus, each appointment, each ultrasound, each test brings back happy memories. But, of course, in this case, all roads lead to devastation, so I repeatedly relive the day our world came crashing down. Nearly everything pregnancy-related elicits some sort of emotional breakdown – I’m certain I’m displaying signs of post-traumatic stress disorder. But such comes with the territory of pregnancy after loss, it seems.
As alluded to above, it’s been difficult to share our news with anyone. I know some will (incorrectly) assume this fixes things. And I now know first-hand that babies can and do die. I also know how quickly it can happen, with no warning signs whatsoever. Everything, especially telling others our news, feels so dangerous – I have this constant, nagging voice in the back of my mind reminding me, “This one could die too.”
It’s so sad. And effed up. And I’m jealous of anyone who doesn’t have to experience it. But today feels like as good of a day as any to share. Because, heaven forbid, if tragedy strikes again, we’d want for this baby to have had enough time to be loved in the same way Matthew was, is, and always will be.
And because, to be clear, there’s also so much hope.
For anyone who’s potentially offended to discover our news here, please don’t be. We’ve told hardly anyone to date. So if you’re reading this, whether you’re a family member or a stranger from half way across the world, you are important. The most important, actually.
We’re touched and honored you’ve supported (and continue to support) us through this harrowing journey. Every page view, like, comment, and email is meaningful to us, gives us some measure of comfort that Matthew isn’t forgotten. By showing your support in this way, you’re one who’s kept me alive through my darkest hours and one who continues to do so even now, because, to be certain, it’s often still so dark.
And to those reading, I have just one small request… Even though I’m announcing this to the entire world, in this very public forum, could you please let our news live right here, in this space only?
Because although by this point my blog’s been made available to most, some might miss this. So we’ll share with them when we see fit – hopefully upon walking out of the hospital with our living, breathing baby.
Because, after experiencing something as horrific as losing a child, the cold, hard truth is that some, no matter how close, don’t want to walk alongside you in your grief. You invite them in, but it’s just too much. Too uncomfortable. Too depressing. It drags them down. And they tell you so.
They tell you they can’t handle your darkness or your blog discussing it.
And it hurts. Because as uncomfortable and depressed as they feel hearing about your new life, you’re living it. Every single day. And, unlike them, you can’t escape it.
I plan to start documenting my pregnancy-after-loss journey here, so stay tuned. And, of course, I’ll keep posting about Matthew’s memory and my grief and all the other unbelievable happenings per usual.
In the wake of this tragedy, I often feel as though I’m an outsider looking in on a life I can’t believe is for real. Like I ask myself dumb questions like, “Would she complain about her living baby in front of me days after I lost mine?” And the answer to said questions is usually a resounding, “Yes.”
So I’ll, of course, keep writing about these things… 🙂
We ask for your continued positive thoughts and prayers – as a baby loss mom friend recently pointed out, Mark and I will need others to believe this child will live, especially during periods when we’re lower on faith. So thank you so much for your love and support.
❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤