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.