Andrew counted!

My husband's grandma passed away recently. She was 93 years old, and this May, she and my husband's grandpa would have been married for 70 years. My husband loves his grandparents very much. His devotion to his grandparents was one of the things that made me fall in love with him. In fact, in the almost five years that we've been together, my husband and I probably visited his grandma and grandpa in the nursing home more than any other relatives combined.

Anyway, my mother-in-law and her sister were responsible for the obituary that ran in the local paper. For some unknown reason, they didn't count my Andrew as a great-grandson. Granted, he's dead, unlike the other great-grandchildren. But when I read the obituary, I was so angry. It was like my MIL said Andrew didn't count.

I have many problems with my MIL. She's insensitive and clueless. She's self-involved. Normally, I tell my husband exactly what I think of her. But I decided not to mention this slight to my husband because he was grieving his grandmother's passing. It seemed like the right thing to do. But my husband later looked at the obituary. Andrew's omission made him cry, which made me even more angry. To my surprise, he called his mother. Normally, he doesn't confront her at all. She asked him if he liked the obituary, and he said no. He told her that there were 12 great-grandchildren, not 11. He said, "I had a son too." She repeatedly apologized and said that she and her sister had asked the funeral director how to handle Andrew's situation, and apparently he had said to not count Andrew. This seeemed like a half-ass explanation to me, like she was trying to shift the blame to a third party. Andrew was her grandson (her only grandchild), not his. Why there was even a question about whether to include Andrew? How long does one have to live to be included in my husband's family? I guarantee you that if one of my MIL's sister's 8 grandchildren, ranging in age from 1 to 10, had died, he or she would have been counted. Apparently living for 65 dies just doesn't meet the cutoff.

This experience just taught me that my MIL will never get me. I'm 24 weeks' pregnant right now with her second grandchild. Assuming that this baby lives (and that's a big assumption at this point), I think she will always view this baby as her only grandchild. But I will always have two sons, Andrew and his little brother. I will always count Andrew! He was my son, and I was his mother.

Reusing a dead baby's name???

Before I lost Andrew, I loved to watch baby shows (e.g., "Baby Story," "Special Delivery," "Bringing Home Baby,"). I tivo'd tons of baby shows and watched them hours at a time, imagining how my birthing experience would be. After Andrew died, I stopped watching these shows because they were too painful. Now that I'm pregnant again, I'm beginning to watch these shows again. It's still painful, but I can't seem to help myself.

It really pisses me off that none of these babies die, even the premature babies often featured on "Special Delivery." (I know this makes me a horrible person, but that's what losing a child did to me--it made me bitter.) No matter how tenuous their premature births seems to be, they always pull through and do well. Just once, I want to see one of these babies die. That's reality. Babies die. Mine did. I saw other babies die in the NICU as well. These reality shows should reflect reality. Otherwise, they give parents a false sense of security. I know that for the longest time, I couldn't accept the possibility that Andrew might die, even when he was the sickest baby in a very full NICU, because I kept thinking that he'd pull through, just like every baby on these baby shows I'd seen.

Earlier this week, I was flipping through the tv guide on my cable system, and I noticed that an upcoming "Baby Story" was about a woman giving birth after losing her twins. I taped it and watched it last night. This lady lost one of her twin boys in utero at 26 weeks. The other one was delivered alive a few days later, but he died in the NICU after only 12 days from a massive infection. The one that died in utero was only mentioned briefly. But they showed a picture of the one that lived for 12 days. His name was Jonathan. He was so cute. He reminded me of Andrew, with the ventilator tube and feeding tube taped to his face.

Well, later in the show, the lady delivered a new healthy baby boy who they named Jonathan as well. This really made me angry. During the show, the parents were talking about how this baby wasn't a replacement for the sons that they lost and that they wanted this baby to know about his older brothers who were in heaven. This makes sense. I've thought these same things about Andrew and the little boy I'm now carrying. But to reuse the same name? I couldn't ever. I have a son named Andrew. He was my first born. Andrew died, but he's still my son. I wouldn't ever use the name Andrew for this new baby. He's not a replacement. He will be Andrew's little brother. If Andrew had lived, I wouldn't name this baby Andrew. I have to believe that if their Jonathan had lived, they wouldn't have reused the name either.

Now I haven't walked in their shoes. And if Andrew's dying taught me anything, it's that people deal with grief in different ways, and one way isn't necessarily better than another. I'm sure they have a reason for reusing the name Jonathan. But for the life of me, I just can't understand their thinking.

Fear

I don't know why I created this blog. I don't expect people to read it. I thought about doing it when Andrew died, but it was too painful. Getting out of bed and getting through the day were about all I could handle back then. The thought of actually putting my pain into words seemed cruel and impossible. Instead I read blogs written by other women with dead babies. For some reason, reading about other mothers' pain made me feel better. I especially liked reading entries where a woman's baby died from pre-e. I know this is sick and yet one more reason to feel bad about myself, but it's true.

But now that I'm pregnant with Andrew's baby brother--we found out it's another boy last week--I have a different feeling about writing a blog. I want an outlet to write about my fears. And fears I do have. Mainly I'm afraid that I'll be burying another baby, and I don't know if I can live through that again.

After Andrew died, I contemplated suicide. I wanted to go to Andrew, wherever he was. I didn't want him to be without me; when he was alive, I know that my holding him brought him comfort. Whenever I held him, the NICU monitors that he was attached to would show an improvement in his vital signs. After he died, the thought of Andrew crying for me was too much. What if he was scared? Alone? Lonely? Sad? Hurt? Sometimes I couldn't get away from these thoughts.

But, for many reasons, I didn't kill myself. One of those reasons was the faint hope that I might be able to have a healthy child that would live and that I could parent. Even at my lowest point, I don't think I ever gave up on having a child. Now that I'm 20 weeks pregnant, all I feel is fear. Fear that this baby will suffer the same fate as my Andrew did. Fear that my body will kill another baby who would have been healthy if not for the fact that I was carrying him. If this happens, I think my husband might have to bury me next to our sons because I don't think I'll live through it again.

Andrew's story...the abbreviated version

Last May, my son Andrew was born by emergency c-section at 27 weeks because of my severe preeclampsia. I was admitted to the hospital a few hours before he was born with high blood pressure. A few hours after being admitted, I was scheduled for an emergency ultrasound because the doctor didn't like what he was seeing during a non-stress test. The ultrasound was horrible. I knew something was wrong by looking at the technician's face. She was so quiet and serious. She said that Andrew was measuring small. She said she needed to page a doctor. Well, when the doctor came in, they started whispering in a corner, as I lay crying on the examination table with my husband trying futilely to comfort me. The doctor then came to speak with me. She said that Andrew was measuring 24 weeks and that I had reverse blood flow in the umbilical cord, which meant Andrew was literally starving to death and being deprived of oxygen. The doctor, who I later learned was a high-risk perinatologist, told me that Andrew needed to be delivered immediately, or else he would die.

After Andrew was born, there was silence in the operating room. He didn't cry. My OB made a comment that Andrew was really small, and she immediately handed Andrew over to the waiting NICU team. Four people from the NICU worked on Andrew in a corner of the OR as my doctor continued to work on me. I remember asking my husband, "Is he dead?" My husband said, "I don't know." I only later learned that Andrew was blue and lifeless. The NICU team intubated Andrew and whisked him away to the NICU. His apgar scores were 1-1-4.

Andrew lived for 65 days in the NICU. I spent almost all of my waking time at the hospital with him. I prayed. I tried to make bargains with God. But nothing worked. On July 9, 2o06, my Andrew died in my arms. Andrew's death shattered me into a million pieces. Even though I'm still alive, it's like I'm dead inside too. I can't explain it, but the person I was before Andrew came into my life no longer exists. She's dead.