In a discussion today about contractions, someone had the nerve to suggest to me that mine maybe weren't as bad as they could have been Given that Patrick was so small. And it got me thinking. About all the things I can say about the whole situation. That I haven't said. Maybe in my head, but not out loud. And here's my well thought out response to that.
Physically, they were the same, if not worse than a natural labor, because of the drugs.
Mentally? Well, let's see. Take a woman, tell her she's going to have a little version of her in, oh, 7 months. Let her listen to the heartbeat, the heartbeat coming from INSIDE OF HER. Then, halfway through, tell her oops, nope, sorry, baby's not ok. Make the choice.
Make the choice to kill your child.
Sure, it was the best choice, given the circumstances. Sure, it's better than going in one day and being told your baby is no longer alive.
Make the choice. Make the choice to end another human being's life. Make the choice to shake up his world, his once cozy home. To surround him by moaning, yelling, tightening. We have no idea how a baby processes pain, Mrs. Oliver. We don't know when, for sure, he'll die, Mrs. Oliver. But make the choice. To sit yourself in a hospital room and wait to deliver your baby. He can't talk. Take whatever drugs you need, Mrs. Oliver. As much as you want, drug yourself, drug the baby. Let random people walk in every hour hours and jam pills so far up your fucking most private of areas, that you've got bruises on the surrounding areas.
Make the choice. It's the right choice. But no one said it was the easy one.
Sit in a hospital bed, staring at your husband, asleep, your husband, who helped you create this life, knowing he'll never understand what you do. Knowing that his heart will hurt as much as it possibly can, and being thankful he won't know how much worse it can get.
Sit at home the night before, feeling little kicks to your bladder, knowing your child is in there, and make the choice to force the baby out.
It's for the baby's own good, they said. What about mine? What about the fact that I have to live with that choice every god damned day of my life, however long that may be?
Take your tiny little son from the nurses, Mrs. Oliver. Only hold him out in front of you, like he's some foreign object, because he's too small to cradle fully in your arms. Feel his body jerk as he desperately tries to gasp for air.
Stare death right in the fucking face, and beg for its mercy, beg that somehow you can give your life for this tiny little baby's. You don't know what pain is until you've truly looked death in the eye and said take me, and meant it with every fucking ounce of your being.
Feel your heart break as you feel life slide right out of you, and know in your heart that it inevitably means death.
Hold something in your hands that was INSIDE YOUR BODY only a few moments ago. Look at beauty in its purest form and have it stolen away from you. Feel its warmth drain away, like a flower wilting, but so fast, too fast.
Watch your husband only look at his son, because he can't hold him. Because it's just too painful. Your father in law break down sobbing worse than a child at the sight of his grandson. Your mother, running from the room because her grandson is dying right in front of her and she can't do anything to save him, or to save the sanity of her daughter. Understand, finally, how much your mother loves you, because it's how much, and more, you love this tiny little man in your hands.
With every tiny jerk and gasp he makes, feel another part of your heart break away, even though moments ago you thought it was already gone.
Pick up your baby, YOUR SON, and feel him so cold, like ice, through two blankets. So cold you could scream, so cold you instinctively hold him closer to warm him. So darkly colored because, guess what? HE'S DEAD. Refuse to leave your dead son laying anywhere but in your hands for as long as you are there, because you hope and pray that every minute you hold him, somewhere, somehow, his soul feels that much more love coming from you. That if you don't put him down, this won't end, you won't have to walk away.
HOLD YOUR DEAD SON IN YOUR HANDS AND THEN TELL ME ABOUT PAIN.
Be a woman giving birth to life, but make her watch it die. Be a woman, having to make a choice to kill her baby before a deformity does.
Be a mother, without a child to hold anymore.
I want to talk about it, so badly, I want to SAY these things, instead of just thinking them, or blogging them. But this is shit that pulls you to a place most people can't understand. Nor do I want them to.
So fuck you, my shit didn't hurt. The pain of contractions hurts, to a degree, but the pain of waiting for your child to die makes the rest 10 times stronger.
And for those of you wanting me to talk about it a bit more, get it out, you say? If you thought you understood an ounce of what I am going through, maybe you'll rethink that now.
I appreciate everyone's concern, but the worst part of this is knowing that no one can really understand where I am at, mentally, even if you've been through this exact same thing, because it's different for everyone.
And I hope that anyone reading this never truly understands anything I've said here, because I wouldn't wish it on anyone.