 Her story is not my story…I am alive and she is dead. (Content includes suicidal ideation) . . My baby. I wanted to go and be with her. I no longer wanted to be part of this world. The pain of living when she was dead was unbearable. It came to a head around 2 weeks postpartum (which is a prime time for hormones to whack out, but that doesn't make it ANY LESS real) and I didn't want to go on.
Luckily I had a therapist on speed dial, and she sat with me on the phone until I knew I wasn't actually going to take my life. It took longer and more than just that one phone call, but I made the decision to live, to stay, for my husband, for my other living daughter and most importantly for ME. I remembered, and reminded my logical self over and over again, that we made the decision to #TFMR because her prognosis was so poor, and I was putting my health in danger to continue the pregnancy. We choose life. We choose no more suffering. We choose dignity for her. We choose my life. I was bolstered and held by my family, friends, professionals. And my resolve to keep living. I choose my life. And this is a worthy choice. My brain understood, but my heart remained broken, and a piece of it will always be missing. I continue to write my story; because I am here. I ascended from the realm of the dead, although I wanted to stay there with my baby. I've even bravely gone through a rainbow pregnancy, a pregnancy after loss. From death to creating a whole 'nother life, it's really quite a trip. This quote by @alexismariechute, from her memoir on her own pregnancy after loss, is all about this… we carry these passed on babies lives and deaths with us and somehow continue on with our lives. Their story, our story, my story… we carry them all together. The burden can be so so very heavy. This is our reality as loss parents. I see you all. What is your story with your baby now gone? What a question. The question we live daily.
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