my new reality

So, I had a really good day with my husband on Wednesday. We went out to a nearby town (Mishima) that we’ve always meant to visit but never had the chance to do so while I was pregnant. We've been through Mishima dozens of times before – it’s the largest train station in our area. We changed trains there to get to our hospital, and it’s also a shinkansen (bullet train) station, so we always came through here on our way to Tokyo. We’ve always wanted to be able to linger but never could. Today, we did. We visited Rakujyuen, a big and extremely beautiful park that had imperial connections during and after the Meiji Restoration. In addition to the extensive gardens, they have a small collection of animals and a petting zoo, which Geordie enjoyed. He’s a very hands-on type of guy.

Then, we walked to Mishima Taisha (Mishima Big Shrine), which we knew was large but was much larger than expected. It was getting dark by that time, so there weren’t many people around, but it was obvious that the shrine was preparing for an upcoming celebration – Shichi-Go-San. This means “Seven-Five-Three,” and it’s a traditional festival day that celebrates the growth and maturation of children; specifically, boys aged three or five and girls aged three or seven (hence the name of the festival). The children are dressed up in colorful kimono and taken to their local shrines to be blessed and for families to pray for their continued health and growth. Shichi-Go-San is held on November 15th, but sometimes children visit earlier than that, for various reasons. By the time we got there, it was really too late for anyone to be there for any celebrations, which was good. It’s hard for both of us to be around young children now. It hurt a little bit thinking about how I would’ve liked to bring Lauren to a shrine in a few years for her Shichi-Go-San visit. I used to like to think of how pretty she would look in a kimono, how proud we would be of her.

And I’m so angry now! It was hard to be angry in such a peaceful, beautiful place like Mishima Taisha, but I feel it now. Why did this happen to her - to us? Why is it that we have to let go of our dreams for the future? Why are we the ones who have to mourn our daughter, while others can continue to dream and smile and laugh and LIVE?

In these quiet moments, I find myself taking all these hopes and dreams I had for Lauren and turning them over, and I can almost feel them happening. She's so real to me that I can see her doing all these things that I wanted her to do, I can hear her laughter – I may never have heard her voice, but I can hear it and know that it's her. I can see her in my mind, standing there before the shrine, dressed like a flower, and she looks back at us because she's run ahead – she's just like her father, curious and impatient and needing just to GO and run – and she's so lovely in the sunlight, a free and wild creature, unruly dark curls bouncing around her face, and she smiles like a supernova. And her father hands me the camera, and she squeals as he chases her and catches her up in his arms and swings her around, and I am filled with so much love for them because they're mine and I belong to them. THIS is how things are supposed to be, THIS is what should be the reality, and the cold, gray darkness I'm living now is just a nightmare that will pass into the night.

Except this nightmare never will pass; it is my world now. It is my every waking moment, the pain of which is so great that I often think it shall destroy me. Shatter me into pieces. Again. And again. Every day, I try to put myself together again. Some days I’m more successful than others. Some days, I fool myself into thinking I’m alright again. But the illusion never holds up. I look into the mirror of myself, and I see there the happy, laughing mother and her bright-eyed daughter, and I know it should be me and Lauren.

But it's not. And the anger at how unfair it all is flows out of me, and all it leaves is emptiness. The anger doesn't help; nothing can help. I will always have an empty place inside me, an empty place in my life where Lauren should be but isn't.

waiting for a rainbow

In the vernacular of the pregnancy and baby loss community, a baby born after a loss is called a rainbow baby. The idea is that this child is the rainbow after the storm that was previously endured, the culmination of a hard-fought battle against despair and grief. Some women go on to have two, three, or even more rainbow babies; others struggle to have one. For those still trying, they are living, breathing gifts of hope, a promise that not everything is lost.

Even so, it's a long, difficult road for those hoping for or carrying a rainbow baby. I'm terrifed at the prospect of getting pregnant again, even though it's something that I want very much now. From the first day we went into the hospital, Geordie and I knew that we wanted to try again. Lauren was an unplanned pregnancy, but she brought so much love into our lives, so much hope. As frightened as we were of becoming parents, we also knew that we wanted her. We wanted the family that she made us into. We wanted to love her and each other, and we wanted to raise her together. Nothing felt more natural. And as soon as we knew she was gone, we knew we wanted that for ourselves and for Lauren's memory.

It's not that a rainbow baby is a replacement. Lauren - or any other lost child - cannot simply be replaced. There will never be another baby like Lauren. What there will be is Lauren's younger brother or sister, someone just as unique as Lauren was and just as special. Another baby won't be Lauren, and that's as it should be. People don't have more than child because the first one is faulty, after all. No child is a replacement for another.

I hope it will happen for us. Someday. Not yet. We're not ready for it yet, in so many ways. Some people try again as soon as they get the all-clear from their doctors; we won't be doing that. Our first few months back in the States are not certain ones - we don't know where we'll end up or what we'll be doing or what our living situation will be like. We want to be settled before trying again; we want to avoid the stress of uncertainty and moving that we went through this year. Being pregnant again will be stressful enough; we want to make it as easy on us as possible.

Also, emotionally, we aren't ready, and it will probably be a while. I've read a lot of stories of women who try again two or three months afterwards and have their babies around the due date of their lost child. I don't think that's something I could do. It's not just the closeness to Lauren's due date, even though there are so many reasons why that would make me uncomfortable (I can't bear the thought of sharing Lauren's day with a rainbow baby, who should have a day of his/her own). I don't know that I could be pregnant again as I was pregnant this year, experiencing all the same things as I experienced them with Lauren. My rainbow baby will be a new baby, and I want new experiences. I don't want to relive everything. And three months is not enough time for me. I don't have the strength to try again so soon. I want to, more than anything, but I know it won't be right for me.

And, one more thing - probably the most important thing. I'm scared. Not of being pregnant again; I've found that I can survive that. Likewise, I'm not afraid of labor and delivery, as I know I can also survive that. I'm afraid of what all baby-loss mothers are afraid of: losing another child. The odds of that happening are small. But it can still happen. I won't be fooled by the innocent naivete of the pregnant woman who has never felt a loss. I see life now through the eyes of experience, and I wonder that it might not be possible for me to simply enjoy being pregnant now. I want to enjoy it next time, appreciate it for everything it is. But how can I? From the moment I feel my baby moving, how will I be able to think of anything else? How many minutes - hours - will I spend lying on my side, waiting to feel that life is still nestled within me? I don't want to be scared my entire pregnancy, but I doubt I can trust myself not to be.

It's really for this reason that I will need time before trying for our rainbow. I need to know that I can trust myself and my body to have a healthy pregnancy; I need to have confidence that I can give birth to a live, breathing baby. But I do know this - I'm waiting for the day when I can hold my rainbow baby and look into his or her eyes and know that things are alright. A rainbow baby won't bring Lauren back to me, but it will still bring something wonderful into my life, and I want that. I want to bring another child into our little family, a child I never thought I would want to have, a child I never would have thought to expect. I want more than anything to meet Lauren's younger brother or sister.